Small Discoveries

Hermione raced around the room, cataloging potential means of communication and discarding each one in turn. A lack of opposable thumbs meant writing was beyond her capability. She'd already proven that she was unable to cast spells while in this form. She jumped up on the tale holding the flattened scroll and perused it anyway. Her tail knocked off one of the corner weights. It landed with a crash.

Looking at his impressive array of books – some she'd been told were no longer in existence – she decided knocking them off the shelf in an attempt to find a solution would be both wrong and dangerous. Besides, once she was returned to her true form, he would exact some sort of vengeance for the destruction.

She found herself rubbing her face against the side of the chair, simply because it smelled like him. The chill that racked her had nothing to do with the snow piling up against the windows. If she stayed in this form too long, she would cease to be Hermione. The idea of spending the rest of her life as a wildcat named Fluff was more than she could bear. She had to find a way to tell him who she was.

Having exhausted her options in the library, she went to see what else the suite could offer. There was no hall to speak of, just another small room dominated by a bed that should have been too large for the space but wasn't. A battered armoire stood in the corner, one door slightly ajar. There was no table or nightstand. She wondered if he slept with his wand in his hand.

The door on the opposite side of the room began to open, steam escaping into the small space. Hermione panicked and dove for the armoire, only too late realizing that finding a cat in his room would be of no concern to him. Still, he would someday know it had been her, and she shuddered to think what he'd make of that. She pressed herself into the corner behind his coat. It smelled of wood smoke, herbs, and a few noxious chemicals that made her sensitive cat nose twitch.

She heard him moving around the room and froze when his footsteps drew near. Of course he would need the armoire. She ought to have hidden under the bed. Or, better yet, left the room entirely. Why could she not think properly? She tried to make herself even smaller and prayed he would not need his coat.

The rattle of hangers on the bar frayed her nerves. The stress was too much. If she was going to be discovered, she'd prefer to see it coming. She inched sideways and peered through the tiny space between the coat and the back of the armoire.

It took everything she had to remain still. She could do nothing about how wide her eyes opened when she saw his naked torso. At least he still wore a towel wrapped around his waist. That was a relief. Or so she told herself. His skin was pale, which was no surprise at all. He eschewed the sun even when he was covered neck to toes. His throat was still red and a bit lumpy from the snakebite, though not at all as awful as it should be. Because what he should be is dead. She was glad he wasn't, though she would never tell him so, and he likely wouldn't care if she ever did.

His neck was the worst, but hardly the only scar. Burn marks were probably from potions gone awry. Every discipline had its price. She wondered why he hadn't had them healed, then thought of the evidence of early mistakes that dotted her hands, too. Sometimes, it was good to have a reminder. He had several long, straight scars, only slightly visible, most likely from the first war. Death Eaters were not keen on healing, even one of their own.

He pulled something off a hook, then turned his back, leaving the armoire open. She leaned out to watch him walk away. Candlelight fell across his shoulders, and she hissed softly. A network of thin, silver lines ran over his back, far older than all the others. They whispered of regular abuse. She felt queasy looking at them, as if she'd read his private journal. She buried her head in the fold of his coat, glad she could not cry.

Unfortunately, she was still able to sneeze and, after a few moments with her nose pressed up against acrid wool, she did so. Several times. Loudly.

She waited for him to haul her out of the armoire. When nothing happened, she extracted herself. The room was empty, but not for long. As his footsteps drew nearer, she launched herself across the room, landed badly, and slid beneath the bed seconds before he appeared in the doorway. She was too far under the bed to see more than his bare feet.

His hand fastened around her neck, but instead of dragging her out, he lifted a finger to stroke behind her ear. "You may wish to avoid dusty corners, Fluff. They play havoc with your ability to breathe properly."

She let him draw her out, which he did far more gently than she deserved. To her relief, he was wearing a thick robe. He removed the dust from her back and whiskers, then left her to her own devices. Had she been a real cat, the gesture would have been a fine way to build trust. Of course, if she'd been a real Scottish wildcat, she never would have come near him on her own and would be utterly impossible to tame. Luckily, he didn't know that. She left the room, sure there was nothing in it that would allow her to communicate with him.

As he banked the coals for the night, Hermione explored the tiny space that passed for a kitchenette. Snape never dined with the students. Considering how pained he'd seemed during meals at Hogwarts, she could not blame him for wanting to avoid them. He had only one of each dish, which meant he did not eat with the staff, either, at least not here. For some reason, that pleased her. Not that it was any of her business what he did in his rooms or with whom, of course. It was simply that few visitors meant less chance of her being discovered before she could convince him to help her.

"I do not think you should be here," Snape said.

You have no idea how true that is. She squeaked as he picked her up.

"Your curiosity has already done some damage, though the statue was of little value. To be safe, however, you'll have to sleep with me tonight. There is nothing in my room for you to destroy."

This is not good! She struggled to get away. For one thing, her current system ought to be mostly nocturnal, though she'd hardly slept at all in the past three days. For another, she had thought to spend the evening hours perusing his shelves in hopes of finding a volume that might help her cause. Surely he would forgive one or two books out of place, once he understood why it had been necessary. Most of all, she did not want to be trapped in his bedchamber while he disrobed, as she was entirely certain she would not have the sense to look away, and she'd already seen more of him than was proper. The idea of sleeping next to him was dreadful.

She was getting more adept at lying to herself but was not quite up to denial yet. With time, she might be able to pretend the entire experience had never happened, providing she found a way to stop dreaming. Her subconscious would take this out and bat it around like a ball, unless she begged him to remove her memories. Explaining why that should be necessary would be worse than remembering, so she resigned herself to a life of minor torment.

"I will not harm you," he said, exasperated.

She took comfort in the tone. A compassionate Snape did not surprise her as much as it once would have, but her worldview would be forever shattered if he actually turned agreeable. Of course, he thought her a cat, which surely helped. When he found out what – and more importantly who – she truly was, there would be nothing pleasant about him.

In the meantime, she had no option but to obey. She stalked past him, tail stiff, and entered his room with an air of affront. Crookshanks had been a fine teacher on the disdain of cats. She sat in the corner, her back to the bed, and methodically began cleaning her paws. It was such an engrossing task that she did not jump at all when he closed the door.

"Sleep where you will," he said to the accompanying rustle of covers, "but the floor becomes ice-cold overnight." He blew out the candle and said no more.

Hermione explored the bathroom. It smelled of spruce and moss and something ancient she could not name. The combination might well have been a signature. She had never noticed it before, but it smelled exactly as Severus Snape ought to. Of course, she had never been a cat before, save for that unfortunate incident with the polyjuice. Even then, she had not been so close to him, much less in a situation that merited cataloging his scents. Such things as the distinct smell of him or the powerful grace of his movements had made no impression when she was a child. Only his voice, which had always resonated in her dreams – nightmares, mostly.

She was no longer a child. Unfortunately, at the moment, she was also not a woman. Had she been, she'd have had no call to hang about in his rooms wondering where she might purchase that same soap once she'd left school. It would hardly do to go around smelling like him while she finished her studies. His senses had always been sharp, and she would not like to be grilled about her new grooming routine. He might simply smirk at her, which would be no more enjoyable and likely would last far longer than an interrogation. No, the search for that particular soap would have to wait. She did not think she would forget its scent.

He had told the truth about the floor. Even her padded feet stung with the chill of it. She wondered how he could stand it, then remembered that he'd endured far worse than cold feet. She looked up at the bed and huffed – the cat equivalent of a sigh. There could be no harm in curling up at the foot of the bed. His breath was even, save for an occasional snore, so he would not know she'd accepted his invitation. Several more minutes of convincing herself that it would be entirely safe to lie at the feet of Severus Snape – and considering her past, several minutes was fairly swift – and she had curled up as tight as her cat body would allow.

This is my only chance. The thought snapped her out of near-sleep. Only chance to what? She knew the answer. Stupid cat brain. It was easier to blame the form than accept her own curiosity.

She inched up the bed with extreme care. One wrong move, and he'd awaken. Since she was not a normal part of his world, he might hex her without thinking. She could only handle one curse at a time, especially when she had no way to defend herself. She stopped when her head drew even with his chest. The hand not clutching his wand rested on the pillow above his head. She inched a bit farther up, then settled in to watch him sleep.

Nothing creepy about this at all. The thought passed quickly.

The romances were wrong; sleeping did not automatically make someone more beautiful. The lack of tension did nothing to soften the hard angles of his face. She was not disappointed. He'd always had the most interesting features. She had avoided staring at him out of sheer terror, not because she'd found him unattractive, though she supposed he probably was. Everyone said so. Even he thought it. She did not give a fig for what others thought. She could happily look on his face forever and never get bored. As he was unlikely to allow her to gaze at him endlessly, she decided to make the most of what time she had.

So intent was she on drinking in the sight and scent of him, she relaxed against his side without realizing it. His arm snaked around her. As she waited for him to open his eyes, to realize who and what she was, to bring an end to what might have been a perfect night – save for that whole being stuck as a cat bit – she fought down panic while simultaneously preparing to flee.

"Hush, kitten," he mumbled. "S'alright." Then he promptly returned to snoring. His arm went slack, though his fingers continued to play in her fur. It felt just good enough to be disconcerting.

She gave up, gave in, let herself enjoy his touch. At least he would not remember this part in the morning. She rubbed her cheek against his ribs, then rested her head on his chest. There was no longer any reason to deny herself the full experience – or as full as she could get as a cat. As herself, this sort of intimacy with him was not in the realm of possibilities.

She had always seen him as her professor first, so this new way of thinking was not exactly comfortable. Unfortunately, she was having the damnedest time contemplating anything else. The thought of being stretched out next to him in her true form made her wriggle.

He stroked her in time with his breathing. It might have been more soothing if she'd been a woman. Or perhaps soothing was not the right word. She began to purr, an ability she was sure to miss when things were set to rights. He pulled her onto his chest, still sleeping, and continued to pet her.

Oh, why not? She tucked her head into the curve where his neck met his shoulder, and promptly fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart.