Chapter Five - Intriguing

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Five years, eleven months, four days and sixteen hours left to go on her apprenticeship, and she hadn't Avada'd him yet.

Oh, Master Snape still wasn't all that difficult to get along with, but he was inconsistent – easygoing and approachable one day, quiet and withdrawn the next. She tried to tell herself that, like her temper, it was his way of dealing with the war, but he never displayed this contrasting behaviour to anyone else, only her.

And there was the other factor that she hadn't planned on. Nope. Not in a million years. After the odd git took her on as an apprentice, Hermione noticed something very disturbing about him and even more so about herself. She was starting to find him... intriguing.

This was not in the seven-year plan. Yes, she had crushed over him as a teen, but... intriguing? Oh, Merlin wept.

Snape had ever been a brilliant and demanding taskmaster. Hermione had earned every good grade she'd made in Potions and in his DADA class. It had been obvious that he didn't like her, but he had bullied and snarked her into learning to think for herself. He had been on the other end of the tightrope of fear she'd always walked at Hogwarts, and he was the only professor who hadn't been dazzled enough to help her across. She'd struggled, foundered, fell and crawled across that tightrope every year in his class, and at the end, she was convinced it had been the best journey of her school life.

But, honestly... intriguing? Oh, shite.

The moment occurred thirteen months into her apprenticeship, when she'd been working on a simple Eye Wash Potion to reverse nearsightedness. Every time she had added the carrot root, the potion turned blue and sludgy. Seething, she growled under her breath. "Master Snape? Could you come here for a moment? I seem to have a – a problem." She winced, hating to admit a weakness to him. He was still as gleeful as a Niffler snuffling out treasure when faced with one of his students' failures.

He stalked into the lab, chewing; she had obviously interrupted his lunch. After hearing her explanation of the problem, he perused her notes and, finding nothing obvious, asked her to walk him through her procedure. Seeing nothing untoward, he suddenly performed a cleansing and freshening charm around his mouth and nose. At her puzzled expression, he muttered something about 'cleansing his palate.' Standing behind her, Snape peered over her shoulder as she worked, and Hermione became aware of his scent; warm and woodsy, laced with patchouli and cedar and something male. It was an oddly comforting smell.

He reached around her to inspect the carrot root, holding it to his prodigious nose to test its odour. He sniffed it delicately, his nostrils flaring. Something about the quivering edges of Snape's incredible nose made Hermione suddenly feel warm. Then his long pointed tongue snaked out of his mouth and flicked along the root, and Hermione actually blinked and looked away. She'd never actually seen his tongue before.

She watched his mouth work as he analysed the taste. He smacked his lips softly. Finally he produced a handkerchief and spat into it delicately. "Well, here is our problem," he said, vanishing the handkerchief. "These roots have the beginnings of a fungal rot."

Hermione suppressed a groan. "But they looked fine, sir."

He nodded. "It is often difficult to detect this particular fungus unless you have encountered it before." His voice was not unkind.

She snarled, "Damn it! I've wasted a lot of time and ingredients because of it. And I don't even know how to be on the lookout for it."

"I can help you there," he replied, and held a root up to her nose. "Take a deep breath," he said softly. Hermione did as she was told, suddenly aware that his face was very close to hers. He was inhaling the scent along with her. "Smell that slight liquorice scent?" They breathed together, and Hermione, her face pinched with concentration, shook her head.

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't – "

"Close your eyes, Apprentice," he intoned. Obediently she shut her eyes, startling as she felt his hand on the back of her head, pressing it close to the root. "Deep, slow inhale." His voice warmed her ear. They were literally cheek to cheek. "Pay attention, Apprentice." His voice had an almost playful, teasing note dancing on the edge of it.

"Yes, sir," Hermione had replied, and cringed at the shakiness of her voice.

"Deep breath," he purred, so close she could feel his heartbeat against her shoulder. "Under the notes of the carrot aroma, just at the apogee of your inhalation, you should detect the slightest hint of anise."

Concentrating hard, Hermione breathed deeply – there! "I smelled it," she said triumphantly, then turned to affirm it, and they bumped noses. For a moment, neither moved, then Snape stepped back.

"We'll acquire another batch of carrot roots tomorrow, Apprentice. You may discard these as a bad lot." He turned on his heel and abruptly left.

"Y-yes sir," she said, watching him sweep from the room. When he was gone, Hermione sat down heavily on her stool. "What was that all about?" she whispered to herself, and was not surprised to find no answer forthcoming.

Things grew even more intriguing later that year. By then, they followed a well-established routine every morning. They would meet for breakfast in his study, to stare at the wall and drink coffee until they were capable of lucid speech. Neither was particularly a morning person, and breakfast in the Great Hall was asking a bit much of both of them. The injury inflicted by Nagini still left Master Snape feeling stiff and sore in the mornings, and although he never actually admitted it, Hermione knew he didn't like to be seen that way by his students. She thought it might have more to do with the confidence he wanted to instill in his students than any real sign of weakness, and she found herself protecting his privacy as jealousy as she guarded her own.

He preferred to break his fast in the sacrosanct calm of their rooms, and Minerva didn't push him on the matter as long as he and Hermione showed up for lunch and dinner with the students in the Great Hall. Hermione was just as happy not to have to face a huge room of loudly chattering children first thing in the morning. It had been hard enough as a student; it was nigh unbearable as an adult.

On this particular morning, she had shuffled in, tired, cranky, having slept badly, still in footie pajamas and feeling vile.

"Good morning, Apprentice," Snape said, pouring his coffee.

"If you say so, Master Snape." she muttered at the coffee. She pushed the word Master from her lips as if it were an epithet, before tossing back her first cup without cream or sugar.

He glanced at her, then returned to buttering his toast. A moment's silence, then he murmured, "Cramps?"

"Fucking awful ones. I was up half the night on the toilet," she spat, then froze, looking up at him in horror. He was spreading a thin layer of Marmite on his toast, paying close attention to the corners. She'd just sworn in front of her Master, and talked about period cramps. Brilliant. He seemed to be suppressing a smile, she was sure of it! She felt her face grow warm, and made a production of pouring a second cup of coffee in order to give herself an excuse not to look at him.

He let her sweat for a moment before drawling, "You know, as your Master, your welfare is paramount to me. I wouldn't want it to be said that Master Snape did not take care of his apprentice's needs."

"No, I suppose we can't have that, can we?" she grumbled, sheepishly accepting a plate of toast and the jar of Marmite from his hands.

"When you feel you are able, come to me and I will help you with your menstrual cramps."

She grimaced. "I can brew my own Pain Potions, Master Snape," she sniped, refusing to look at him.

"I'm sure you can, Apprentice," he replied, his voice as glossy as polished mahogany. "But there are massage techniques that are also very beneficial for the relief of the spasms in the uterus. I will be available to administer this massage for you when you feel comfortable enough to request it."

Hermione risked a glance at him, hoping like hell the shock she felt didn't show on her face. If he was uncomfortable with his offer, he didn't show it. Meanwhile, Hermione felt as if the axis of the world had just tilted. Snape, like the rest of her male professors, had seemed asexual when she was a student. To hear him mention menstrual cramps in such a casual manner was enough to send her off the deep end; to offer a pelvic massage was tantamount to asking her to meet in the Astronomy Tower for a snog. It felt strangely forbidden and decadent, and not a little erotic, and she wasn't about to go there.

She squared her shoulders. It had been an adult request; she would respond in a like manner, even if she had to bite a hole in her tongue. "Thank you, Master Snape. I will."

He nodded to her plate of toast and added briskly, "Very well. Now eat up. Professor Sprout is expecting us in Greenhouse Twelve this morning before her classes start, and I don't want to make her late."

And off they launched into a conversation of the best times of day to graft hellebore, and the new mandrake cuttings Professor Sprout wanted to show them. By the time they finished breakfast, Hermione's cramps and talk of pelvic massage had thankfully been forgotten.

Until they reached the greenhouses.