Will-Fire

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters found within this story and none of the places. The only thing I own is the writing itself.

Chapter Three: Will-fire

She had chosen her words well, she had known that at the time, but she had not expected the reaction she got from the painting. Rather than the sharp glare or sneer she knew so well, Painted-Snape’s mouth dropped open slightly and his eyes widened. Not sure what to do with a Snape, albeit not the Snape, showing such a human reaction as surprise, Hermione cleared her throat gently, hoping to bring him back to the man he was supposed to represent. The sound seemed much louder than it actually was in the quiet room and did indeed have the effect she was hoping for. Painted-Snape drew himself up slightly, shut his mouth and looked down on her with his infamous sneer.

“Be that as it may, Miss Granger,” he answered, “I fail to see why you think that you have the right to come rummaging about in an office that is not yours without the permission of its currant occupant.” He was trying to challenge her, she could hear it in his voice, but she refused to rise to it. The simple memory of all the embarrassment and taunting he had thrown at her throughout the years kept her mind focused on earning his acceptance rather than humiliating him as she now could. “Revenge will only last for a short time before it is forgotten,” her grandfather had told her many years ago before she had been accepted into Hogwarts, before his sudden death in an accident. He had then winked at her and continued. “Making people change their minds about you will last much longer, especially because you’ve made them take back their own words.”

Hermione smiled now at the memory of him, although she was careful to keep it inside of her heart. Her face showed nothing but a slight humour and a cool, calm and collected friendliness.

“You are entirely correct in that matter, Professor,” she murmured, giving him a slight bow of the head. “It was wrong of me to come into the office of another teacher, regardless of my reasons for doing so, and I beg your forgiveness for my misplaced enthusiasm.” She bobbed her head again, although this time it was more to hide her amusement than to make him feel honoured. “However, I do require some moments of your counterpart’s time, and I would appreciate it very much if you could either tell me where to find him, or let him know when he returns here that I desire speech with him.” She held her gaze firm upon that of the painting, knowing fully well that her patience would last longer than his were he fool enough to initiate any kind of competition. Indeed, she had only moments to wait before he shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

“You may find him in the west wing, Professor Granger, on the third floor. He was headed for the room concealed by the tapestry of Cliodna, last I knew. Now, please remove yourself from these rooms.” The young woman allowed herself a smile at that and turned to leave, only stopping at the door through which she had entered when she remember a question that had been hovering at the back of her mind since she had seen the painting.

“If you would not mind,” she said, drawing Painted-Snape’s attention back to her, “I have one more question that you may be able to answer for me.” When he did not protest immediately, she rushed on. “Why in the name of Merlin does Professor Snape have a portrait of himself hanging in his office?”

The smirk on the face of the painting was so realistic that Hermione might have thought she faced the man had she not known better.

“I suppose you will have to ask him that yourself,” the painting drawled, before turning his face away from her in clear dismissal. She huffed out a short breath in irritation then whirled around and walked out the door.

~@~~@~~@~~@~~@~

Severus Snape was not a kind man, nor did he consider himself a good one. He had never been the sort to over-analyze himself, to pick apart every action and thought to determine his own motives, and so he came across as uncaring and cold to most who knew him. Most who had truly understood him and his nature were now dead, and he cursed the now truly departed Dark Lord for taking them in his insane thirst to rule all. Even so, he counted his blessings, most particularly that of Professor Flitwick.

Flitwick had saved him, Severus knew, from a life of being turned away by every ‘respectable’ witch and wizard, much as Albus had so many years ago. Despite having his role as a spy revealed, the majority of the wizarding world was still distrustful of one Severus Snape, and many still believed him to be a true Death Eater. Regardless of this all, Flitwick had invited him back as the Potions professor and had even apologized for his inability to give him the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. The Potions master could even recall his exact words on that day some five years ago.

“You see, Severus,” the minute wizard had said, standing atop a pile of books placed upon Albus’s old chair in order to see over the desk, “people just wouldn’t accept you as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. I know, as do the rest of the staff, that you were a spy and that your role as a Death Eater was simply a sham, but the rest of the wizarding world is not ready to believe that and so would not be willing to have you teach such a questionable subject. Your unquestionable proficiency in Potions will protect your job there, seeing as it is has a lesser correlation with the Dark Lord. Giving you the position you desire is unfeasible, as much as I would like to do so.”

Even now, Severus could feel the disappointment he had allowed himself to experience for a moment before he had shifted it to the side to deal with what Flitwick was saying. That was a skill he had acquired in his years as a student at Hogwarts; he had often needed to study or do assignments a short time after being humiliated by the elder Potter and his friends. The ability to put aside all emotions was also integral to Occlumency. Exactly why Potter was never any good at it, Severus smirked to himself. So used to having his feelings catered to that he never learned how to ignore them.

“Severus,” a voice whispered from just behind him. He turned to acknowledge the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw hung on the wall behind him. She looked like a nature goddess, her black hair billowing in the wild wind that whipped through the scenery.

“There’s someone looking for you. The new Transfiguration professor.” It took Severus a moment to recall whom Flitwick had appointed to the post, and even as he did so, she walked in.

“Hermione Granger.”