Chapter Three - Beginnings

Thank you for all the lovely comments! I'm really glad you are enjoying the fic!

The usual disclaimer still applies. I still don't own these characters. Darn it! :)

The first six months were exhausting. We were together almost twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Both of us were grimly on our best behaviour, gingerly trekking through the sticky and uncomfortable path of trying to get to know one another without resorting to hexing. Gradually, the edges smoothed, and we stopped trying to be proper around one another and merely got on with it. Meal times stopped being the tense, indigestion-inducing ordeals of walking on eggshells around certain subjects, and became the focal point for heated debates, refreshing conversations, and occasional laughter. I do laugh, you know. It has to be pretty fucking funny, but I do laugh.

As Apprentice Granger focused on her studies and the projects she wanted to implement, her mind grew sharper, less brittle, and she started expounding on theories that impressed and challenged (and occasionally terrified) me. We started talking to one another, instead of toward one another. When she stopped trying to impress me or placate me, she started to intrigue me.

It was during those fervent exchanges, those passionate debates, those heartfelt confessions of self-doubt we both experienced that I found myself truly relaxing into the role of Master. More than that, I found I could do the right thing. I could guide her into the tricky waters of becoming a certified Potions Master herself – one the Consortium would kill to get their hands on. I could mold her into a better, more personable version of me – if I gave Hermione Granger what I had contracted to give. All of me.

It has been said by those whose opinions I respect that, while the gods did not bother to smile on me in regards to physical beauty, I was gifted with a lovely voice. I have learned to use it; I have trained it to be beautiful for me. Even as a student Hermione exhibited a tendency to respond to it almost unconsciously. She was one of those students (usually female - I'm not stupid) whom I found literally 'hanging on my every word.' With a little practice, I discovered now that the merest deviation in tone or volume could steer her in the direction of my choosing in an almost Pavlovian fashion. And while that gave me a sense of confidence, I never sought to use it for any deliberate coercion on my part. I was simply entertained by the thought that I could train Hermione with my voice alone.

By now, my foolish heart is surely as transparent as glass to the most obtuse of observers. Of course I was falling in love with her. Hearing her call me 'Master' made my heart stutter in my chest. I gazed at her when she was unaware. I wrote idiotic notes on my texts: Hermione, you are as beautiful, as perfect as the sun to me. You look at me with eyes as clean as fresh as the dawn, and I am reborn in your gaze.

Gods, the mere thought of the woman turned me into some mooning swain, scribbling cringe-worthy poetry about her like a deranged fifth-year Ravenclaw. The closet Romantic within craved to do something utterly foolish every time she entered the room, like battle a dragon or defend her honour or kiss the tops of her grubby trainers. How did people survive, I thought, allowing the heart full sway?

The overwhelming realisation of my own feelings both exhilarated and terrified me, so I did what I always do when I'm afraid: I hid. As time passed, I stopped overseeing her, and left her alone, even though my heart would swell each morning when she walked into the lab. I yearned to tell her how I felt, but how could I? Have you not seen me? I know what I look like. No one has to tell me, but I've heard it all – the nicknames, the jokes. Once they enraged and hurt me. Now they just bore me. No, that is a lie. They still hurt. It hurt even more to realise Hermione still saw me as the man I was, not the man I wanted to be - the Master I should be to her. I didn't know how to tell her, to show her the man, the Master I aspired to be. And instead of acting like one, I held back, afraid.

My own self-doubt raised its ugly head, and I pulled away, frightened of being hurt again. I was reverting to the old Severus, the one afraid to risk anything on love. I did not know what could be worse: not allowing myself to love, or loving and not having it reciprocated. I didn't think my heart was up to surviving either of them.

I was skittering around like a Thestral on a skating rink, trying to keep my increasingly amorous thoughts from spilling over into reality. I truly feared saying or doing something so stupidly moronic would be so cataclysmic my credibility would never recover from it. I became a strict censor of my own words and deeds to the point I was rendered practically mute, and started answering Hermione's questions with a series of nods, grunts and glowers.

I saw her eyes grow confused, then uncertain, then accusatory, as I gradually pulled away from my daily support, and withdrew back into my own insecurities. I left her on her own, telling her that she should be grateful that I was generous enough to give her the freedom to make mistakes. My lack of self-esteem has always been my worst fault, and my greatest failing. All my lofty ambitions of being the perfect Master went out the window. I was too close. I wanted too much - more, in fact, than someone like her would ever be willing to give me.

"Labour of love, labour of love, labour of love," Hermione chanted under her breath, as she chopped her fifth batch of gurdyroots. It was approaching noon, and she had been at it for three hours. Four times she'd chopped gurdyroots into precise, quarter-inch pieces for Master Snape's delectation. Four times! And each time, no matter how cleanly severed, how equally measured, how perfect the pungent aroma which was the hallmark of a properly prepared gurdyroot, Master Snape had looked at the batch rather regretfully, without his usual disdain, and shook his head. With a flick of his wand, the undesirable leavings disappeared, to be replaced with a fresh new batch.

In an irony-laced voice Hermione remembered from her school days, Master Snape drawled, "I'm beginning to think this is a willfully deliberate act, Apprentice. Are you sure you didn't develop a masochistic streak during your year on the run?"

Hermione looked at her Master and set her jaw. Anything to keep from losing the temper she held firmly with both hands. "No, sir," she replied tightly. She could feel the familiar bubbling within; a wellspring of anger that was fathomless and rising in urgency with every passing day, like flood waters.

With an exasperated huff, she said, "Master Snape, I have chopped these gurdys to textbook standard. I have followed your written instruction, I have watched your demonstration and I have performed the task while you hovered over my shoulder watching." She could hear her voice rising in pitch and volume, and tried to tamp it down. "I have done everything you've asked, and I have yet to meet your standard." She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of desperation. Through clenched teeth, she added, "Will you please tell me exactly how you want me to do this?"

He looked at her for a moment, then squared his shoulders and gave her a look so level it was almost sympathetic. Hermione watched him intently. If she didn't know better, she would think he looked rather hurt by her comments.

Then, in a tone so clipped it could have chopped the roots for her, he replied, "I merely want you to do. It. Better."

He swept from the room as she sighed and picked up her fifth batch of gurdyroots. She mumbled a hasty healing charm on the blisters and nicks on her palms and fingers. She did not see his remorseful look as he turned to observe her from the door.

One day, I vowed, I would tell her that she'd been perfect from the first batch. I wasn't about to do it anytime soon. Aside from my voice, I do possess very attractive genitals; I'd like to keep them for a while longer. I still felt like a bastard.

In reality, I was failing her spectacularly. I was trying to gain back control over her apprenticeship by asserting my old role as authoritarian. I was going about it the wrong way, of course. I was still learning. There is no book on how to be a good Master. There are if you are into whips and chains, but I'd had enough of those games during Riddle's reign to last a lifetime. I didn't want to hurt her; I wanted to help her. I wanted us to find a ground on which we both could stand and forge this relationship further. But I had only succeeded in throwing our past back into harsh reality, and therefore back to the original ground of the bullying Potions Master and the lowly student.

What had been meant as a light-hearted quip had come out a ham-fisted jibe about her lost year running from Voldemort. One day, I will learn to keep my mouth shut. I hate saying the wrong thing. It makes me feel stupid. I also hate not knowing how to do something. My intentions were there, but we all know what is paved with the best of those.