Understanding

Hermione focused intently on the disarray before her. It had been easy to knock the box of toothpicks from the counter. Manipulating them into some semblance of words was proving far more difficult than she had expected. Her paws were not suited to the task, and the tufts of hair between her toes moved the tiny bits of wood away from the proper trajectory as often as towards it. Claws had proven entirely useless for the task, and her whiskers made it impossible for use her nose to line up the toothpicks. At the moment, she had the beginning of an H, an E that looked like a C (those middle pieces were maddeningly difficult to line up), and an almost serviceable L.

"Help," she said in a rather plaintive mewl. It did nothing to address the troublesome matter of how to create a P that was not twice as tall as the other letters. She doubted penmanship – or stickmanship – would be held against her, but it rankled nonetheless.

"What is going on here?" thundered Snape.

Hermione spun to face him, just as she would have if she'd been caught in the halls after curfew. Her tail lashed from one side to the other, scattering the toothpicks even further. She turned to see that her carefully formed almost-letters had disappeared into the chaos. A toothpick jammed into her left paw, causing her to yowl and back up. Directly into the legs of Professor Snape.

Injury to insult, then.

As if on cue, he swore at her. Then he hauled her up by the scruff of her neck, which was more uncomfortable than she would have imagined, and flipped her over. She hissed and struggled to get away.

"Idiot," he hissed back. "You'll make a bad situation worse."

She could not even begin to conceive of a worse situation than the one she was currently in, upside down in the arms of an angry man who had never had any love for her and might have actually hated her. Not that she wanted him to love her. Not really. Not the way a man... Oh, hell. She did not love Severus Snape, even if she did like the way it felt to rest against his chest while he dug splinters out of her paw.

His touch was tender, despite his anger over the mess she'd made of his house. She would do worse in her quest to explain her situation. She did not dare to hope he would understand, much less forgive her. He never had been the sort to let go of slights, real or perceived. From what she'd known of his history, and learned from the marks on his back, she could hardly blame him for taking solace in revenge. To escape being the target of his wrath – deserved or not – she would have to go very far away.

Probably for the best anyway, since I can't keep my eyes off him. That was bound to become an issue for the remainder of the term. Unless she stayed a cat, in which case she would not only be allowed to watch him as long and often as she liked, she would eventually lose her memories of why it should matter. She simply had to find a way to convince him to help her, consequences be damned. A life spent looking over her shoulder was better than one spent licking it.

He plopped her on the chair and went to sweep the floor. She only peered over the armrest once and was rewarded by the sight of him bending over to dispose of the last toothpicks. Shameless. She realized it was true; she felt no shame at all watching his backside. By the time he returned to stare down his prodigious nose at her, she was curled up and cleaning her aching paw.

"I shall have to teach you some manners," he said ominously.

She chose to respond as any other cat would by paying him no heed.

He flicked her ear. "Ignoring me is never a good idea. I have a thousand ways to make you take notice. At least nine hundred of them are terribly unpleasant."

Cats are unable to blanch, or she might have done so. Instead, she returned his glower with what she hoped was a look of utter boredom. That was how Crookshanks always regarded her when she chastised him.

Her assumed apathy vanished when he produced a cage.

She clambered up the back of the chair, paused briefly to get her balance, and made a desperate leap for the table. Had she been a real cat, she would have made the jump easily. Being new to this body, she misjudged and ended up hanging off the edge, her claws digging furrows in the soft wood as she slowly lost her fight with gravity.

His laughter did the rest. Shaking with anger and a healthy dose of fear, she crashed to the ground.

"You are an absolute disgrace to your kind," he said.

She scrambled to get away from him, only to realize she was out of space to run. She managed a sliding turn around the cabinet, then streaked toward his room, cat instincts blinding her to the fact that she knew of no way out. As she was unable to barricade herself in, she did the only thing she could think of. She wriggled her way under the claw-foot tub, closed her eyes, and pretended to be invisible.

He did not pursue her, which was a relief – until the waiting became unbearable. He had to know where she was, so why was he not extracting her?

Because he knows you have nowhere to go. While she was glad logical function had returned, she did not like the result thereof. Attempting to evade him had never really worked. He only allowed it because he knew he would catch her eventually and without much effort. Resigned, she slunk out of the bathroom and went to face her doom.

He had built a fire and was sitting in the armchair, book on his lap. The cage rested under his feet, as if he'd only ever meant it to be an ottoman. She picked a spot directly in front of him, sat down, and wrapped her tail around her back paws.

"You are an interesting creature." He placed the book face-down on the table. "You lack discipline while secretly longing for it. You fear confinement but not conflict. You are desperate for attention, even affection, while at the same time filled with mistrust. And the things that amuse you are a mystery to everyone around you. Perhaps I was wrong in my initial assessment. You are, in fact, a very good cat."

She did not move. Had she a voice, she would yet have remained speechless. Because he was absolutely right about all of it.

"Come to me." It was more request than command.

She approached him cautiously. He could put her in the cage, if he chose. Left long enough, she would stop fighting to reveal her true nature. By the time she reached his outstretched hand, she was crawling on her belly, head down. He brushed the top of her head with his long fingers.

"Poor, confused Hermione," he murmured.

She froze, twin urges to flee and vomit warring with a desperate desire to pretend she had not heard him use her real name.

"What has been done to you?"

She looked up, desperate to tell him anything, everything, if only he would fix her.

"Cat got your tongue?" He chuckled.

She narrowed her eyes, ears laid flat against her skull.

"You cursed yourself to this silence, and I have no idea how you managed it."

She blinked several times, trying to figure out how to explain. She stared pointedly at him, walked toward the bedroom, then returned to his side.

He frowned and said nothing.

She repeated the action, then made a clumsy attempt to point to herself. Cats, as a rule, cannot point, that being the purview of dogs, primates, and people. She pitched sideways, barely managing to keep her feet.

"If you cast the spell or triggered an object whilst drunk, then you have earned your suffering."

Had she been able, she would have screamed at his failure to understand her attempt at charades. She tried once more, but this time she ended her trajectory with a leap into his lap. Paws on his chest, she stared him in the eye. Then she stalked into the bedroom and waited for him to follow.

Oddly enough, he did. "You were in your chamber."

She flopped down on his bed with relief.

"So, that is where I will find the clue to this madness you've perpetrated."

She waved her tail lazily in assent.

"Perfect. I have no idea where you sleep." He paused for a moment. "With the exception of last night. I could hardly miss the weight of you on top of me nor the way you purred us both to slumber."

She buried her head in the covers, then realized they were still mussed from the night before. She backed up so quickly she fell right off the bed.

"We can discuss your penance for that intrusion another time." He removed his coat from the armoire.

She watched him fasten every button, mesmerized by his own transformation. When he was done, the man who had alternately comforted and harried her for amusement was gone, replaced by the implacable Professor Snape.

He scooped her up and tucked her under his arm. "Since I must assume you do not wish anyone to know about your spectacular failure, I will follow you home and see what can be done to salvage it." Even his voice had hardened.

When she did not struggle to liberate herself, he relaxed his grip. "You'll have your freedom once we reach the castle proper – for just as long as it takes you to show me your folly. After that, you will tell me absolutely everything I wish to know, or I will turn you right back into a cat and drop you in the middle of the forest to fend for yourself."

She did not want to believe he would be so cruel, but she had yet to hear him utter an idle threat.

His coat was far softer than it looked, but she supposed that would be part of the illusion he maintained. The cat in her desperately wanted to rub against the fine wool. So did the witch, but she would never admit it aloud. She was in enough trouble without compounding it.

He deftly avoided notice as they made their way through the main rooms of the castle, though she'd be hard pressed to explain how a large man with a large cat could manage to go unseen without resorting to skulking. She'd expected him to set her down once inside, but he held onto her until they arrived in the wing that housed the students. He showed a flash of surprise when she turned at the end of the hall and made her way up a narrow flight of stairs to what had once been the servants' quarters.

She had not been able to lock her room when she left, so there was no need for spells. Professor Snape opened the door and waited. Hermione jumped up on her bed and dug under the pillow for the slim French tome that had ruined her life. She was convinced that the ramifications of performing that spell would haunt her for years to come.

He reached over her, read the title, and burst out laughing – not the usual derisive snarl of dark humor, but a full-throated, chest-deep laugh. It went on for far too long. When he managed to bring himself under control, there were tears in his eyes and his breathing was labored.

"You are a complete idiot." He pronounced every word, his amusement making it impossible for vitriol to surface.

She hissed at him while she still could.

"Settle down, Fluff," he chided. "I am here to save you from your own stupidity. That was, after all, the reason you came to me, was it not?"

She gave the barest nod.

"Very well. I shall study this work of unparalleled genius and devise a way to undo what you've managed to accomplish."

She kneaded the pillow a few times and curled up on it.

He gave her the look that had always indicated she was being particularly daft. "Were I willing to be seen reading this poor excuse for a manual, I would hardly do so in a female student's chambers." He swept out of the room, expecting her to follow.

She gave her closet a longing glance, then trotted after him.