The Second Problem

"Holy fuck!" shrieked Hermione. "You're supposed to be dead!" The part of her that would always be the hand-waving sort, concerned with washing behind her ears and whether or not she had spinach in her teeth and her elbows off the table, tutted at her for her shocking choice of language.

"It takes one to know one, Granger," retorted Snape, finally looking up from his copy of the Prophet to glare at her. "As it happens, I'm not exactly dead."

"An inferi?"

"Inferius. There's only one of me. And no, if I was, do you think I'd really be hanging about here?"

"Erm… That is…"

"How is it that you have so little Latin? Don't you know, girl, that it's the basis for all our magic? Shocking. But then, oh, that's right – the hand-waving Granger only learned what was of interest to her – mostly facts useful for saving Potter or getting into mischief. Well, I hope you're happy; you've managed to keep his worthless carcass alive and successful."

He hadn't changed one bit. Except he was dead. Or not.

"So what are you, Snape?" Hermione asked.

"That's not the question you should be asking, Granger."

"Oh, really?"

"Indeed. You really haven't changed, except for the language and the un-dead bit – still missing the subtle in favor of the blindingly irrelevant. The question is not 'Why is Snape not dead? Or is he?'" Snape's voice took on a querulous falsetto. "The question, Granger, you should be asking is 'How much does the Department of Mysteries know about my extra-curricular activities, why are they worried about them now, and why did they send Professor Snape to deal with me?' Those are the questions you should be worrying your still-bushy head over."

"You're dead – you can't be anyone's professor." Hermione snapped out the first thing that came to her mind.

"Granger, you've gone thick on me," Snape mourned. "I'm not exactly dead, number one; number two, I am a professor – just not yours anymore, and thank Merlin for that. I'm a Professor of Applied Infernal Arts, adjunct to the Odd Sod's Subsection of the Department of Mysteries – otherwise known as the Ghouls, Ghosts, and Weird Shite Brigade. And you, Hermione Granger, serial remover of Ministry of Magic Incompetents and general pain-in-the-arse, are now my pain-in-the-arse to deal with. Thank you very much."

"What?" Hermione boggled. "Let me get this straight. One – you're sort of dead, two – you are employed by the Department of Mysteries, three – you're a professor still, and four – I'm a 'pain in your arse'?"

"Brilliantly summarized, Granger – as if it had been copied from a textbook." Snape sprang up and began to circle her.

"Back off, Snape, I still have fangs!" Hermione hissed, spinning to face him and grasping her wand.

"Oh, please you stupid girl, after being attacked by that snake, do your really think that you and your ickle little fangs can really frighten me?"

"Fine, then." Hermione folded her wand away and stuck out her chin – keeping her fangs extended just in case. "What do you want?"

"It's not a question of what I want," Snape said, spinning away and flouncing back to the black basalt block he'd been sitting on. He took up his newspaper with an angry snap. "It's what the GGGWSB wants."

"And what is that?" Hermione asked with exaggerated patience. "And why, incidentally do I not know about them? I run this place, remember."

"No, you run Potter's side of the Ministry of Magic. If you weren't so blinded by your own hubris, you'd realize that there's a great deal more to the Department of Mysteries than just reports out of there saying all the prophecies are hunky dory and the veil's still flapping. As it is, people – mostly the GGGWSB – have been watching your little extracurricular activities for years now and have decided that – oh, God, this is the part that really irks me, Granger – they want you to join our team. I'm supposed to be your trainer."

"You're joking."

"No."

"But… I have a job."

"No. You have a hobby. A hobby that, frankly, Granger, is getting in our way. The best way, the GGGWSB figures, to get you out of our way is to make you an offer to join the team."

It was late, and Hermione was tired (and peckish), so perhaps she could be forgiven for bursting out laughing at Snape's announcement, coupled as it was with his look of dismay.

"Oh, it's not exactly a fucking picnic for me, Granger," Snape shouted. "Do you know what the best part about being bitten was? Next to getting rid of all those damned memories regarding Evans and Potter?

"The best thing about being bitten was that you were no longer my fucking responsibility. Well, guess what, Granger, you are again, and believe me, I'd rather have tea and sex with Sirius Black and James Potter and Remus Lupin before I'd want to be your instructor again. But we can't always get what we want, so stop gargling and come with me."

Hermione sobered.

"And if I say no?" she asked.

Snape leered at her, his yellow, snaggly teeth glinting repulsively in the torchlight.

"You're not going to say no, Granger," he said. "Because you're already on fire with curiosity."

And without another word, Snape launched himself off the block, tossed the newspaper into the air, where it burst into bright orange flame, and set off down a passageway that seemed to melt out of the stonework.

Hermione looked back to the door to the Ministry and then to the flare of torches that showed the path Snape had taken. Her vampire side reminded her that at some point that evening, she needed to eat. Her Gryffindor side told the vampire side to get stuffed.

Gryffindor won, and Hermione hurried after Snape.

Her vampire side sighed and subsided with a grumble – making her Gryffindor side promise that she'd get a nice, juicy bureaucrat before all this was over.