Dreaming in Metaphors

Disclaimer/Author's Note: Thanks to those who are reviewing! Oh, and PS...I'm not JK Rowling.

Chapter Three: Dreaming in Metaphors

-~*~-

A shot of firewhiskey and a nice, long nap sounds good at the moment, Severus Snape thought to himself as his first-year class (and last of the day) filed out of the musty classroom. Although, he showed no sign of his contentment as some brave Ravenclaws risked a glance up at him. He flicked his wand and the last lagging Hufflepuff was shoved out the exit by an invisible force, the heavy cherry door slamming after her.

He retreated into his private office, disposing of his robes and vest as he sunk into his armchair.

"Accio firewhiskey." There was a distinct sound of glass clinking and then a whoosh announcing the arrival of his much needed distraction. Although he no longer needed to deal with Voldemort... and even Albus, his life was still a never-ending stress manufacturer.

The cool liquid burned his throat as it slid down with each swig, followed by an irresistible numbing sensation that he greatly appreciated.

"Cheers," he said to the only picture in the room, one of him and Dumbledore; it was a clipping from the Daily Prophet not long after his first trial as a Death Eater. Funny how that all turned out, in the end.

He finally let up, setting down both his glass and his ebony wand, for he had to be careful not to consume too much of his stores (after all, school was still in session), but had enough to propel him into sleep...

He was standing in the middle of a small expanse of limestone rock; it panned out all around him in a circle. It was devoid of any furniture, windows, or even walls. He looked around him and found that the sky shone with a similar greyish-beige tint to it, which he found rather strange because the skies in Scotland were usually a dull blue when it was not raining. There was a light breeze that brushed his hair about his face and soughed sadly as he walked to the edge of the rocks.

Exasperated and feeling a bit ridiculous, he threw his hands up as he stood again and rounded the same rock for the third time. They say it's a charm, anyway. And there, where he had passed time and time again, was a metal ladder. It looked to be in disrepair, but well enough to brave a climb. He thought he'd go utterly insane if he continued to waltz around in circles for days. Apparently lacking any related phobias to the task at hand, he stepped over and began his perilous descent.

Home, he thought briefly between thoughts of panic and despair. Feelings of warmth and comfort suddenly flooded his being, contrasting greatly with the saltwater filling his lungs and he was pulled up into...

"Professor?"

--

The poor man jumped nearly five feet when she spoke.

"What do you want, Miss Granger?" His voice was dark and daunting, obviously caught off guard, and he was not one who took kindly to surprises. She took back the whole 'poor man' bit after that.

Hermione was a little frightened to speak; seeing him in this way since the battle had startled her. She knew that he was capable of more compassion than he ever let on, but it didn't make the man now standing over her like a cloud of black foreboding any less... foreboding. He smelled as if he had been drinking. A sting of sympathy shot through her heart, but that quickly dissipated.

Well, it's not my fault that he completely forgot I was supposed to be here. The greasy git issues out so many detentions, no wonder he loses track.

"Well?" He sneered at her.

She looked up defiantly after a pause to gather her composure. "I'm here for my detention, sir."

"Oh."

She brushed past him and back into his classroom, looking around as if there was something incredibly interesting about the mould on the dungeon walls.

"What time did I say?" She could hear that he felt uncomfortable; she had knocked him off the pedestal, and it was evident he was trying to scramble back on.

"Eight o'clock, professor." She gazed into his stony visage with another 'I dare you to challenge me again' look on her face.

"Of course, and it is..."

"Eight o'clock... sir."

"Yes. Well, as usual, our resident know-it-all is completely... correct." Hermione could detect a hint of his urge to smack himself in the head.

Nice, Snape. Maybe it's the crude amount of firewhiskey that you inhaled that has made you utterly incapable of your usual scathing demeanour. He looked at her and smirked, but returned to 'the brooding Potions master' quickly enough for Hermione not to notice. He stepped over to the door on the right, which held every ingredient she had ever used in her history at Hogwarts... including those she had stolen.

"I remember that you called me 'Severus' the last time you mocked me," he said with a slight chuckle as he stepped out of her way to allow her entry to the dusty room.

She stopped in her tracks and turned to him with a fiery stare. What!?

"You will be rearranging and reorganizing the stock closet this evening."

Damn, he recovers quickly.

"By proper category," he added, "and in alphabetical order. I'm sure I am not wrong in assuming that you know the alphabet, Miss Granger." She took her wand from the folds of her sleeve to begin. "No magic."

"Of course," she bit out, shoving the coveted ivy vine wand back into the sheath around her wrist. "Would you like the categories to be in alphabetical order as well?"

"Just do it, Granger." He rolled his eyes and turned around to sit at his desk.

She began, starting by tying back her curls and rolling up her sleeves. The hair band wasn't necessary, but she found that she needn't have distracting curls swishing around while she could potentially lose her concentration and spill Doxy bile all over herself. She took the dusty, moulding phials and jars of ominous substances off the shelves by twos, marching out into the classroom each time to slam them down on the nearest desk (in categories), each time giving the professor a look that could've frightened a Hippogriff. However, he seemed entirely too occupied with grading essays to care.

He doesn't even move, save his frantically swivelling wrist, she thought, smirking. Never would want to appear as startled as he did ten minutes ago.

"Please refrain from gaping at me, Miss Granger. I would much prefer retiring to my quarters before twelve." She was surprised at first, but no one can keep Hermione down for long.

Oh, sod off, she thought as she turned to venture into the closet for what felt like the hundredth time...

What was originally tedious and borderline irritating became a bearable process, a time to sooth her mind and theorize all the potential potions she would love to make in her spare time. Although the absence of chatter was nearly excruciating, her professor's continual scratching of his quill and she soon forgot that she was angry, the act of restoring order to something that she could control allowed her thoughts to wander. After a while it became a rhythm, and she soon grew pensive and resolved to ponder why the bloody fool bent over the desk in such a manner. He looked like he was attacking the parchment. She may have been forcing her eyes away from his form whilst organizing, but it couldn't hurt to make a quick glance... every now and then.

It's all a defence mechanism, really. I wish I didn't react so violently to his cheeky remarks... although, he'd think it strange, and very un-Hermione-like, to just take it instead of fighting back. Merlin, I wish he didn't enjoy cutting me down. It would've made for a better overall experience in the damned subject. In Portugal I found I hardly knew nearly as much as I should've...probably because I never really wanted to learn the art, just wanted the grades...

She paused in organizing to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

Well, that changed. After a year or two of his cruelty I stopped trying, I suppose... to live up to his standards, to succeed, to get recognition, to impress him...

She moved on to the next category, beginning with 'powdered root of Asphodel' then 'raw Asphodel'.

It would stun him senseless if he found out I want to pursue the subject as a career. Hell, he'd probably have a seizure. She chuckled to herself and continued on as 'eyes of Streeler' and 'Tebo hairs' concluded her fourth out of ten categories.

--

It had been one hour, and the girl had finally cooled. There was no longer a persistent (and most likely purposeful) clinking of glass against hard material as there had been after his last jab. It had been rather uncomfortable, to concentrate under her intense gaze. But, after a while, he found that the observing might possibly be reciprocated.

It was almost comical the way she furrowed her brow in concentration and worried her bottom lip. She would often blow a puff of air into the brown wisps that came undone from her tie, but to no avail; the curls always fell back into her face. She seemed in her element, relaxed and comfortable, and Severus realized that her calm was rubbing off on him. He was entranced as she flitted her delicate hands over the jars as if each was a most prized possession, occasionally cooing over a particularly rare ingredient, as if she herself put all her life energy into the assignment. How could he have assumed otherwise? That she would not put every inch of effort into the task, to prove herself? She wanted... needed recognition, though...encouragement, validation...and Snape wasn't sure how to give it to her.

He quickly reverted to the abysmal third-year essays that he was supposed to be grading as Hermione gave a satisfied sigh and turned with two jars in her hands to restore them in the closet. She continued shuffling back and forth in front of him, a faint yet intriguing scent reaching his exaggerated nostrils each time and hitting him like a bludger to the stomach. He was having so much trouble concentrating that he let out a glad breath when she stepped out to dust off her robes. She waited patiently for his permission to leave while he finished his thorough thrashing of a Ravenclaw essay. She soon became irritated, but did not confront him, which was surprising indeed.

"Miss Granger..." he began as he wrote his last sentence.

"Yes?" she asked, testily.

"What, may I ask, were you doing that kept you from enjoying your last, first meal at Hogwarts?" He put down his quill and rested his fingertips against their mirror, forcing himself to look at her. What he saw was a bit of discomfort, a very strange thing in someone so usually confident. He held back a smile, making students squirm always gave him a satisfying feeling.

"Honestly?"

He shrugged. "I would know if you were lying."

"I was... theorizing a potion, sir." She had been looking down at her feet previous to this declaration, but she lifted her head, and Severus saw a fiery glow in those amber eyes of hers.

"You jest." He had thought something much more suitable to the Golden Trio, like library hunting for some new prank, or more adventures to get themselves killed. The lot of them were adrenaline junkies, more worried about bravery and honour than their own skins... Bloody Gryffindors.

"I assure you, I do not jest about such things." She threw the word back in his face.

"...Why?"

"I enjoy it."

He egged her on then, hoping for more of an explanation. She had never expressed interest in the subject before.

"Er, well... After the last battle, I decided to escape for a while... to Portugal, to be exact."

"You studied at Peniche." He could not believe what he was hearing.

"Yes, sir. I... I want to be a Potions mistress."

"I see." He frowned. Actually, he really did not see. Why in the name of Merlin's..."May I ask again, why? Many believe that you and your inseparable counterparts were to be Aurors come next September. Why such a sudden change of heart?"

"I think I've had enough of hunting evil to fill a lifetime, wouldn't you agree?" she stated solemnly. More like three lifetimes. "Besides, Defence Against the Dark Arts was never my forte. And I always loved Potions. It was just..."

"I made it seem less appealing."

"Well, er, yes..."

"I tend to have that effect on people, at times."

"Yes, but... But I think it was also you who made me want to learn more about it." She smirked at the surprise for once plainly written across his face. "All the other teachers always praised me for my 'innate talent', whereas you... you made me prove it. You showed me that I couldn't just learn something from the text and do it, flawlessly. Or be praised for having a photographic memory." He now looked away, guilt filling his insides like a caustic substance. But she continued, "Potions is an art form. And I want to be an artist."

He was at a loss for words. "As always, well said, Miss Granger. Although... you may have been mistaken... about my reasons for ignoring you. I'm afraid it was just a complete lack of acknowledgment."

"And I forgive you, Professor." She smiled again, a wide, laughing smile that showed off her perfect teeth. For a moment he felt very self-conscious about his own dental hygiene, running his tongue over his incisors, briefly. But it was overpowered by that same feeling he had felt just days ago in her presence...doubled by the ambiguity of her words. He figured she had meant it to be so. It was an unfamiliar feeling that he felt when she smiled at him... what was it? Fulfilment? No, it could not be. The Potions master never felt these things. In fact, it was widely known among his students and colleagues that he felt nothing at all...that he was just about as sensitive as a pile of rock.

The only one in existence that knew of his trials and tribulations was none other than Potter, who had surprisingly kept those memories from Voldemort's last night to himself. If Miss Granger knew, no doubt she would try and heal him, typical Gryffindor...try and save the day... But he needed to be healed, didn't he? It was made very clear from the dream he had just hours ago. He was drowning in his past, and he needed to be saved.

What's all this Divination rubbish?!

He shook his head of the thoughts when she turned on her heel, obviously satisfied with having left him completely speechless, and walked to the door. Opening it she said, "Oh, and Professor Snape?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Please stay out of my thoughts the next time we speak. I believe you, above all people, understand the importance of a guarded mind, and I would appreciate it, since I am not permitted access to your thoughts, if you could stay out of mine. I would much rather keep them to myself. Thank you."

Very well, he thought.

Severus waited for her to leave the room, the smile still burning into his mind's eye. She had left the door ajar, and it drove him mad that he could not simply magic the door closed, for his wand lay in his study where he had fallen asleep. He swiftly made for the door and was about to slam it shut in frustration, but a soft melodic voice stopped him in his tracks. It was a vaguely familiar song that reminded him of happy times...few and far between...in his childhood. And it was coming from none other than 'Bloody Granger', the words echoing around the halls with a pleasantly eerie result. He crept up to the doorway, leaned on the jamb and watched her tiny figure fade into the darkness.

Turning in to look at the newly organized shelves of the ingredients closet, he noticed something very different about the place. Every jar, every phial, every container...was spotless.

MORE A/N: If anyone gets their panties in a bunch cos Snape's using Legilimency on Hermione without permission, I will tell you one thing: It's SNAPE. But he's also a man of his word, so, Hermione's innermost thoughts are no longer in danger! Huzzah! Oh yeah, and dreams... they're crap to write about, but these are rather pathetic/prophetic, heh. On another note... pleasant reading? Reviews! I love reviews!