Contemplating the Problem

When Severus awoke, the cat was not in the room. He looked at the closed door, then under the bed. No cat. He should not care. It was merely a cat – and not even his cat – but he found that in a matter of hours, he'd begun to feel as if it had always been there, beneath his notice but somehow comforting in its constancy. He pulled on his robe and went into his tiny bathroom.

The cat perched on the sink, staring at its reflection in the mirror.

"Admiring yourself, Fluff?"

The startled feline jumped straight into the air, realized its mistake, scrambled for purchase where there was none, and landed in a heap on the floor. In the manner of cats everywhere, it attempted to restore dignity by giving him an affronted stare and pretending it had intended the entire ungainly performance. He rewarded it with a slow clap. It stomped out of the room – a thing he'd not thought possible for a feline – tail twitching in agitation. He could not stop his chuckle, though it had the exact effect one would expect. The cat stiffened and turned to regard him with undisguised ire, reminding him the cat was, without a doubt, female.

"Your ego will recover, Fluff." He felt foolish using the cat's name, but Hagrid had always done the same for the monstrous creatures he kept, and despite the oaf's general idiocy, he usually managed to befriend the beasts.

While he dressed, Fluff sat facing the door, refusing to look his way regardless of his cajoling or mockery. She was a pretty cat, her brown tabby fur thicker than most winter coats. He'd thought she resembled a Scottish wildcat, but had changed his mind. Not only were they famously reclusive, but a true wildcat would not have accepted his hospitality. It certainly would not have snuggled up to him and slept on his chest.

The memory of her soft fur and warm breath lingered on his skin. He wondered how he might convince her to stay. Providing, of course, she did not belong to someone else. He did not think any of the current crop of fools was so clueless as to leave his or her familiar in a strange castle during the holidays, but he had seen a remarkable array of stupidity in his lifetime, so it was not beyond imagining.

"You have been patient, not something your kind is known for, so I will hurry." He left his coat where it hung and let her out of the room.

She raced across the library, then turned to regard him.

"Ah, yes. I should have thought of that." He opened the door. "Come back when you're done, and I'll see what can be managed for breakfast."

He hoped the cat would return, which was ludicrous. He did not keep pets.

A scan of the tiny larder proved that his promise to feed her would go unmet. His stomach rumbled in sympathy. A quick trip to the castle kitchen would solve the problem, but he was afraid Fluff would return while he was gone and believe herself abandoned. He tried to convince himself that it would not matter to him if she wandered off.

"Liar," he muttered. While he was astoundingly good at lying to others, he was utter shite at deluding himself. It might hurt to admit he was lonely, but it was the truth.

He sometimes wondered if it might have been wiser to insist upon dying. Not that he had been given a choice. He had been unable to voice his objection to being returned to the world of the living, but he doubted his opinion would have mattered one way or another, not least because he had no idea who was responsible for his untimely rescue.

He pushed a button on the wall, activating an annoyingly useful Muggle device. In seconds there was a tentative knock on his door. The house-elves had learned not to pop into his quarters. He had been told the poor little wretch who'd made that mistake was recovering, albeit slowly. He might have felt more regret had he not been quite clear about his privacy when he had agreed to return to the school to teach one last year. He owed Minerva that – and any number of other things, some of which she remained unaware. Severus smiled grimly. He was a patient man.

The house-elf, on the other hand, was not. The second knock was louder. He flung open the door.

Hurrie stood on the doorstep, saucer-like eyes even wider than usual. She recovered swiftly. "You called for Hurrie, professor sir?"

"I require breakfast and lunch. And before you ask – again – I do not wish to join the others."

She scuffed her feet. "No, sir. Hurrie knows, sir. Is there anything special you wants Hurrie to make?"

"The usual will be fine, but add a plate of kippers."

Hurrie wrinkled her nose but nodded. The cat chose that moment to slip through the door, deftly avoiding the elf before rushing around the corner and out of sight. It was somewhat amusing.

The house-elf looked up with a smile. "You is wanting a litter box for Miss Hermione, as well?"

"What did you say?" he asked softly.

"Hurrie did not mean to be forward, sir. Hurrie could take her back to the castle, if you prefers."

"No." It came out harsher than he'd intended.

Hurrie shrank from him.

He took a breath, then let it out slowly. "That will not be necessary. Bring me food for two days, a collar, and a cat brush." He continued to list items both common and rare.

The house-elf scrunched up her face, which he had noted she did whenever his instructions were the least bit complex. Apparently, it helped her remember, as she had never failed to produce exactly what he requested.

"Miss Granger and I are conducting an experiment. Tell no one she is here. We are not to be disturbed."

"Yes, sir," Hurrie replied meekly, then disappeared with a pop.

Severus closed the door and tried desperately to get a handle on his anger. After all he had sacrificed, the terrible things he had done to keep those horrid children alive – he had died for them – they still thought to play cruel tricks. He smiled, as a cold not born of winter settled into his bones. Revenge was not only familiar, it had been a cherished pastime. Whatever Hermione had thought to gain from this particular prank, he would make certain she paid for it.

The majority of his private library was hidden and would remain so until he was absolutely certain of his personal safety. Some of those volumes should not be allowed out into the world. Trusting the Ministry to round up every Death Eater was the height of folly. Some would hide and others escape. In both cases, they would come for him, in part because of his book collection, but mostly for the cache his death would bring. He relished the idea of that challenge only slightly more than the one at hand.

Not being particularly rare or dangerous, the book he needed was near the top of the floor-to-ceiling shelves. He brought it down with a flick of his wand, then settled in to find the appropriate spell. By the time Hurrie returned with his supplies, he had identified exactly the right lesson to teach a young witch that she was not as clever as she believed.

"Fluff," he crooned. "Come see what I have for you."

The cat – Hermione, he corrected himself – trotted out as if she were entirely innocent. He set down a bowl of water, which she attempted to drink in a catlike manner without much success. She had better luck with the kippers. Considering how little she cared for them when not in her ridiculous disguise, he was surprised by the loud purr that accompanied her otherwise quiet dining. He found his own appetite had fled, so he watched her out of the corner of his eye and waited. A few moments later, she wobbled across the room, then sank down on the rug and promptly fell asleep.

It was unkind and unfair to have drugged her, but it was not unlike him. He was, after all, the best Potions master in an age – possibly two – and an expert at espionage. He was also practical. A cat, even one who was not good at being a cat, rarely accepts a collar without protest. The time spent wearing this particular collar would bother Hermione when he returned her to her natural state. That would be the first part of the lesson. It occurred to him that he might have asked for a leash, then rejected the idea. That would seem odd to anyone who had spent time around cats. They were notoriously resistant to being led.

"I expect the same of you," he murmured to the sleeping witch, "but it will make little difference."

When she awoke, she looked around with unfocused eyes, then froze. He sat in his chair, enjoying her reaction to the collar. First, she shook her head, as if the silver band would magically fly off. Rubbing it against the edge of a cabinet yielded no better result. He smiled when she tried to push at it – first one paw, then both – obviously frustrated by her lack of opposable thumbs.

"Leave it be, Fluff. It's for your own good. I would hate for someone to think you were all alone in this world. You are mine, now and always." He did not imagine the panicked look in her eyes before she fled the room.

He brought her back with a flick of his wand. Her attempts at resistance left several impressive gouges in the wood. What followed was a series of meows, punctuated by hissing and a long growl. It had the tone of a lengthy stream of profanity. She had managed to keep a lid on her anger during most of her tenure at Hogwarts, so perhaps her cat-self was more honest about her reaction to being collared. Of course, had she not come to him in disguise, she would have no reason to protest her treatment at his hands.

She should have considered that before deciding to play this game. He had not yet figured out what she hoped to gain.

"I intend to domesticate you, though I can see you are less than pleased by the idea. You will come to appreciate all I can do for you." He leaned over and stroked her from head to tail.

She took a swipe at his hand.

He hauled her onto his lap. "Is that any way to behave, when all I've done is shown you a kindness? You ought to be more grateful."

She dug her claws into his leg. He ignored the pain and picked up the brush. Several minutes later, a purr forced its way through her strangled protests, and he knew he had won. She could not stop the rumble of satisfaction once it began. The brushstrokes brought her feline nature to the forefront. She stopped struggling and slumped across his knees.

"That was not so difficult." He slid his finger under her chin and stroked down her neck, tilting her head up every time she tried to look away from him. "I suspect you enjoy the fight. It helps you justify surrender." He saw clearly the witch inside the cat's stricken look.

He dumped her off his lap before sympathy could set in. She curled up and buried her face in the rug.

"I wonder what you would say to me, if you could form words," he said over his shoulder. "Some idiot must have created such a spell, though I've never seen it."

He put together a plate of food he had no intention of eating. "Should I give you a voice? You could beg for the next treat. Or perhaps tell me your secret cat desires in the hope that I will fulfill them."

She crept closer, cautious yet unable to resist the chance he might let her speak for herself. At least that was the motivation he presumed for her. Reading women had never been easy, and cats were practically impossible.

"I doubt you could tell me anything I wished to hear." He moved away from her, partly to watch her crawl toward him again.

It would be more satisfying were she in her true form. That was most decidedly not an acceptable line of thinking, but he had the devil of a time pushing it down. He left the plate on the table, went into his room, and closed the door.

The bed was still rumpled from the night before. He clenched his fist. She had invaded his bed without invitation. Not true. He had asked her to join him. Granted, he had thought her nothing more than a cat. She had waited until he slept – or appeared to – before she came to him. If it had been for warmth alone, she would have been satisfied to sleep at the foot of the bed.

"She was curious," he whispered. "Why?" He had no delusions about his appeal. Mostly, his flawed face had ceased to bother him. It went well with his cynicism and pain. There was no logical reason that a young woman would find him even marginally attractive, and it did not matter if she did, because he was in no way drawn to her.

"Desperate lies are still lies." He could at least acknowledge her allure. She was young, sharp, and not unpleasant to look upon, if not conventionally pretty. None of that had mattered to him before. He paced the room, trying to figure out what had changed.

She was of age now, which meant little. He had done many terrible things in his time, but taking advantage of a student had always been off-limits. Age was not the factor; power was, and he was not so base as to assert his over children, except in the classroom. Or when compelled to do so by wizards more cruel than he had ever managed to be.

Five or ten years might make a difference in how he viewed Hermione, but he could not be sure. She would always be a student of some sort. She could no more give up learning than she could decide not to breathe. That was part of her appeal. Her curious mind had followed interesting paths. He had no reason to think she would not continue on them, whether he witnessed the journeys or not. If nothing else, her excursions would not bore him.

"Nor would she ask me to share them." He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He had once thought mirrors should fracture rather than reflect his image. Then he had discovered that revealing his damaged soul was much the same.

And there it was.

He found her more intriguing now because she, too, was damaged. He did not know if she was aware of it, but the cracks were there if one knew where to look. She might hold them together, mend and soldier on, but she could just as easily shatter. He did not want to be the one to break her.

Not in that way. The thought did not quite rise to the level of lie, so he chose to ignore it and focus on the problem at hand.

Hermione had never been the one to initiate pranks. In fact, she had rarely taken part in them, being far too serious far too young. It was one of the reasons he had both enjoyed and reviled her in his classes. His initial reaction had been based on her association with Potter and Weasley, though she had been more accessory than instigator. That sort of foolishness would never be her forte. Hence, a childish joke was not her reason for showing up outside his window.

If she had come to spy on him, she'd been terribly sloppy. He had let her in, though. More puzzling, he'd thought to keep her. If Hurrie had not let slip his new pet's true identity, how long would Hermione have continued the charade? That brought up another point he could not reconcile with Hermione's careful nature. Considering her experiences during the war, she was unlikely to be so cavalier as to leave the secret of her identity with a juvenile house-elf.

The question of her motivation could be answered by transforming her back into a witch, providing he could determine how she was maintaining her current shape. Since she was not an Animagus, registered or otherwise, it was simply more expedient to cause her enough discomfort that she would attempt to reverse the spell herself. Her efforts would give him the information necessary to undo her foolish disguise.

That he would enjoy immensely an afternoon devoted to her minor torment was a given.