Chapter 5: All's Fair in Love and War

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Chapter 5: All's Fair in Love and War

Snape basked in the glow of success, quaffing his brandy while watching embers sputter and fade, bright remnants turning gray and ashen on the grate. The dead would triumph in the Battle of the Hogsmeade Arms Apartments, Building One, Flat One.

His first face-to-face encounter with Miss Granger had gone rather well, in his opinion. Granted, his haunting hadn't sent her running naked into the night, screaming in bloody terror, but he just knew she would be packing her belongings and getting the hell out of Hogsmeade come morning. Tonight, he desired a polite conversation, or threat if need be, a quick debriefing for his benefit – Did you consider my haunting effective, Miss Granger? Were you scared or merely annoyed? – and then goodbye, constant irritation, and hello, peaceful solitude.

His celebration was short lived, however, as Hermione's Reducto shattered the snifter he held to his lips, dousing him in cheap liquor and glass. When had the ever- vigilant spy-cum-Potions master become so lackadaisical, giving his opponent a generous opportunity to attack? Or had the Gryffindor witch finally learned stealth and strategy during her time outside of the walls of Hogwarts?

"That was uncalled for," he drawled as he made a show of wiping glass shards from his robes, although the broken glass had, in reality, passed through him and now was embedded in the sofa.

"You cast the first stone, Professor," she said through clenched teeth.

She stomped across the room; in her wake, her spiked heels left tiny holes in the sensible Berber carpeting. The angry witch cast a silent Vanishing Spell with a dismissive swish and flick of her wand, removing the glass and liquid from the sofa before transforming it into two dissimilar chairs. Snape showed no expression as his cushy seat turned into a wobbly wooden chair resembling the one in his former office. Hermione lowered herself into an over-stuffed reclining chair, staring daggers at him while pulling at the hem of her tasteful, little black dress.

"You seem overdressed for this occasion, Miss Granger." He smirked and stretched out his long legs, comfortable in her discomfiture, convinced he would prevail. Bit by bit, he would chip away at her calm, forcing her to forfeit.

She snorted. "Oh, this old thing? I'm rather fond of it." She paused to smooth imaginary wrinkles from her dress, then continued. "And I don't have much choice in attire since half my clothes have gone missing," she hissed.

"I thought women appreciate when a man spruces up the place," he deadpanned. "But if you don't care for my efforts, I'll make no further attempt to be neat and orderly." Once again the smirk appeared, tugging smugly at the corners of his mouth.

That was the spark that ignited Hermione's fuse. Unable to extinguish the slow burning wrath, her cool control crumbled. She made an earnest attempt to calm down, breathing deeply, unclenching her white-knuckled, tight fists, but all for naught. Her high-pitched screech could be heard by dogs at the opposite end of the village.

"This is my home," she screamed, jumping up and rounding on Snape, her wand poking into his chest, or through it rather. "My name is on the lease. I pay the rent here. You... you are just a... a squatter who... What are you doing here? Why are you tormenting me?" She backed off, trembling, panting short, shallow breaths. Her wand had a mind of its own, vibrating and emitting a low hum, throwing off multicolored sparks even as she withdrew it from Snape's body.

"Don't flatter yourself, Miss Granger. I'm haunting you because you are the only person living here. When you leave, I shall not follow, nor torment you."

Her eyes grew wide, and her humming wand grew louder. "Leave? I'll do nothing of the sort. I'll lose my security deposit if I break the lease. Why don't you leave?"

"I will not," he proclaimed in his most authoritative voice. But will had nothing to do with his inability to leave the Shrieking Shack. He wouldn't let her know that, so he stood his ground, or rather sat his seat, showing no fear of the witch with the twitchy wand.

She advanced on him once more. "Well, neither will I. Why do you want to force me out, anyway?"

"I want to spend my afterlife alone in tranquility with no hand-waving, over-achieving know-it-all mucking up my well-deserved peace and quiet. Rest assured, if you remain here, you shall have no rest... or sexual congress, for that matter. I'll drive Weasley, or any other unfortunate, potential paramour, screaming from this house. The Shrieking Shack will live up to its name forever more." And the smirk returned, firmly planted upon his frigid face.

Once more, she backed away, her body trembling, but now, shaking with laughter. "I helped destroy one of the most powerful, evil wizards of all time. The ghost of Severus Snape does not intimidate me in the least."

Her mocking mirth disappeared moments later, replaced by stony silence and a fallen face. "Oh, Professor Snape," she cried, retreating to the neutrality of her cushy chair. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I just realized that you're stuck here, physically unable to leave. Why else would you endure my presence when you so clearly despise me? I mean, you couldn't possibly get that much amusement from annoying me."

No, it's only a minor diversion, but I rather like your books. And the occasional glimpse of your tits is an added bonus. Snape didn't give voice to that lascivious thought, but a leer passed over his sharp features before it morphed into a subtle sneer.

"Bravo, Miss Granger. You're finally putting that vaunted intellect to good use. It only took you one second longer than the average Hufflepuff to realize my predicament."

She graced him with a beaming smile, apparently finding the compliment buried beneath his insult. "Thank you, sir. What is it that keeps you here? Why aren't you in... erm..."

"Hell?" he interjected. Better to beat her to the punch than belabor the point, or be forced to endure her incessant questions.

Hermione huffed the sigh of the exasperated, the snort expressed when one has experienced sarcasm overload. "I was going to say the great beyond, but I could see you in hell, too. It's a good fit for you, Professor, on any of the nine levels."

"Thank you, Miss Granger, for the vote of confidence," he replied in droll, yet dulcet tones. He raised a pale, elegant hand to suppress any further response from her. "Allow me to briefly explain my current situation. Please withhold your questions until I'm finished. An earth-bound spirit is confined to the site of his or her death for a duration of ninety-nine years as a means of controlling spirit migration. Outside this containment area are dangerous, constantly changing spatial and temporal anomalies which transport the ghost to a strange, desolate, unpredictable landscape, replete with peril and potential death... or rather a more permanent form of the latter. Now you may ask your questions, limited to five. I don't want to spend all eternity discussing the metaphysical intricacies of the afterlife with you, Miss Granger."

"Accio paper and Biro." A thick yellow legal pad and ball-point pen leapt from her book bag, passing through Snape, who didn't even flinch, before landing softly in her outstretched hands. She spent the next minute composing her questions, breaking mid-scribble just once to stare off into the distance while absent-mindedly chewing on the end of her pen. Finally, she looked at Snape, inhaling deeply as she smiled and announced, "I'm so excited. I've never had the opportunity to interview a ghost before."

"Yes. Proceed," he drawled, annoyed by her eagerness, but resisting the urge to roll his eyes or utter some scathing retort.

"Question number one," she started.

He rolled his eyes at that moment because he just couldn't restrain himself any longer. Insufferable, swotty know-it-all, seething with anger and showering me with glass just minutes ago. Now she can't wait to pepper me with questions.

"How did you learn about your imprisonment and the means by which you are held in check here?"

"A useless guide to the afterlife, a terminally upbeat caseworker, and personal experience."

"That's rather vague, Professor. Expound your answer please," she said politely, her voice struggling to maintain a flat tone, so as to sound more commanding than inquisitive.

"That's all I care to say on the matter. Press any more, and I'll count that as two questions." Despite his irritation, he maintained a cool, aloof demeanor.

"Fine," she huffed. "Question number two is prefaced with an observation. You would never consciously choose to become a ghost, the shadow of a soul lingering between life and death. Why do you remain here, earthbound, as you said?"

Why, indeed. Snape had spent very little time pondering that conundrum since he had become aware of his forced detention. He would remain a prisoner in the Shrieking Shack for ninety-nine years – standard Gregorian calendar years or temporally truncated afterlife years, who could say for certain? – unless he completed the mystery task set by The Powers That Be.

"Unfinished business, according to my caseworker." His hand automatically shot up to prevent her potential interruption. "No, I will not expound on that either, but I will comment about your thoughtful observation," he said, his velvet voice tinged with contempt. "Some consider you, Miss Granger, the brightest witch of your age, but on the subject of Severus Snape, you are completely ignorant. What you think you know of me – or my previous incarnation – was a carefully crafted veneer honed to deceive and placate two of the greatest wizards of all time... and the general public, yourself included. Do not presume to know what I would or would not do."

She gasped and shook her head. "No, Professor, you misunderstand me. I meant... well, Sir Nicholas said he chose to remain behind because he was afraid of death."

"How ironic that the patron ghost of Gryffindor – home of the brave and reckless – should be a fraidy-cat, a coward." That last word rolled off his tongue with an ease he'd never experienced while alive. In the old days, when he did manage to say it, the word would stick in his throat, then leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. "I was not afraid of death," he hissed, his jaws clenched.

"Of that, I'm certain," she said quietly. "I watched you die, Professor." She turned away from him to stare at the graying cinders in the hearth, as though they were the most interesting thing she had ever seen. "You barely flinched when that vile snake ripped into your neck and tore..."

"I do not require a blow-by-blow description," he interrupted in icy, clipped tones. "I remember it in excruciatingly vivid detail. However, we wouldn't be here right now having this inane conversation if you had made some attempt to save me rather than watch as my life's blood drained from two humongous holes in my throat." His outward calm belied the burning rage building inside him, but even his famous self-control had its limits.

Now Hermione couldn't help but watch – eyes wide and mouth agape – as his pale skin turned an unlovely shade of green and tendrils of black smoke wafted from his ears. Anger overruled shock as she leapt up, looming over the odious ghost.

"Save you? Save you!" she shrieked, vocal histrionics accompanied by her bobbing head, heaving chest, and waving arms, like an adult-sized Blast-Ended Skrewt accidentally dosed with Pepperup Potion. "Sorry, but I was a bit distracted, you know, keeping Harry alive and helping him defeat Voldemort and his homicidal gang. And why should I have cared about you? Voldemort's right-hand man. Dumbledore's killer. You were the enemy. If only I had known then what I know now. And you played the role of duplicitous spy so well; you deserved a BAFTA."

She paused to repeatedly poke an angry, emphatic finger through his chest before continuing her full-body tirade. "No, the blame rests entirely on you, Professor. Completely unprepared for the eventuality of fatal snakebite or other mortal danger. Did you think Voldemort kept that bloody snake because he was lonely? Did it ever occur to you to keep a stash of antivenin on your person? Or dittany? Or Blood-Replenishing Potion? And you called yourself a Potions master," she said, laughing with a scorn that would have made Snape proud if it weren't directed at him. "If I didn't know better, I would say that you were looking forward to death."

He refused to respond to her accusations on the grounds that he might incriminate himself. How ironic that the man who relished exploiting weakness in his enemies was himself fatally flawed: in facing death, his self-preservation gene had petered out when he had needed it most. Slumping in the rickety chair, he assumed a sulky stance of crossed arms and pouty lips: broody, brood, brood. His skin returned to its normal pallor, and the smoke from his ears evaporated. "Next question."

Emotions and breathing seemingly under control, Hermione retreated to her comfortable chair, adjusting the hem of her dress, yet ignoring her list of prepared questions. "The Shrieking Shack proper was renovated into four flats, Professor. If you really want to spend your afterlife alone, as you claim, why didn't you move into one of the unoccupied flats after I arrived?"

Why, indeed. "I wanted access to your library, Miss Granger. My one joy in life was reading for pleasure and knowledge, something you would appreciate. When I had a quiet moment to myself, I would escape to a remote tropical island inhabited by natives, shipwrecked captives, and mutineers; or search for buried pirate treasure; or travel the Mississippi River by raft – anything to help me forget the real world and those two rat-bastards who controlled my every move."

This heartfelt confession must have appealed to her bleeding-heart sensibilities just a bit. A slight smile lit her face, and her eyes sparkled. "I understand completely. Books were my means of escape as well before I attended Hogwarts. I would travel to Arabia to listen to a queen spin tales of magic genies, murderous thieves, and brave sailors on fantastic voyages; or accompany a stowaway bear from Darkest Peru on his adventures; or spend a quiet afternoon with the Bennett sisters of Meryton. Anything to help me cope with the endless taunts of my insensitive peers and the interference of my well-meaning, but fearful parents."

Snape nodded and allowed the smile of solidarity to grace his face for a fleeting millisecond. "While you while away the days as indentured servant to Filius Flitwick – all in the name of higher education, of course – I immerse myself in your library, reading everything, magical and Muggle, reference and pleasure. While you sleep at night," no doubt dreaming of being ravaged by a certain red-haired idiot, he thought, "I read the textbooks and professional journals kept in your book bag, trying to stay abreast of recent developments in the field of Charms. It's not really my cup of tea, what with all that foolish wand-waving." His hands fluttered in an elaborate parody of the swish and flick motion, the basis of many a charm and spell. "Anyway," he continued, "I spend my nights on the sofa – excellent Transfiguration, that – reading and drinking brandy in front of a roaring fire."

"How is that even possible? Your magic is... different," she said softly, grimacing a bit with the last word.

"The magic I had for over thirty-eight years is gone, but something... different – to use your elegant word – has replaced it. I can manipulate objects to a certain extent, as you have experienced first hand." He indulged in a smirk, hoping it wouldn't ignite her ire once more. "But the brandy and the fire come from the afterlife's concierge service. I would compare it to the Room of Requirement: ask and ye shall receive if deemed necessary."

"Brandy, you say? I thought you more of a Firewhisky man." She paused for a thoughtful moment. "That's a coincidence. A few weeks back, Ron left a secret message, asking me to buy brandy when next I go to market."

"Secret message?" he asked, eyebrow raised in emphasis. "I thought the days of stealth and coded communication had passed for you."

"Pah, nothing so complicated as that. Haven't you ever drawn a picture on a foggy bathroom mirror, one that can only be seen after the next steamy shower?"

Snape's Cheshire cat grin did all the talking without him uttering a word.

A moment of clarity must have passed as her eyes grew big as tennis balls, and she gasped. "That wasn't Ron! That was you!"

"Yes, that was me. And I thought your incoherent babbling in the shower more convincing than anything I heard emanating from your bedroom tonight."

"Wait... you've eavesdropped on me in the bath?"

He smirked in a most lascivious manner. "I've done more than listen, Miss Granger."

"You... you've seen me naked?" She made an unnecessary attempt to cover herself before realizing she was fully clothed. Her skin burned a brilliant red from hairline to bosom, perhaps even beyond.

"One is usually in a state of undress when in the shower. Besides, have you forgotten what transpired in your bedroom not an hour ago?"

Her intense blush flared; any further embarrassment might have resulted in her spontaneous combustion. "Professor, how could you violate my privacy like that? I'm offended."

"Miss Granger, how can you begrudge a dead man a peek at those fabulous tits? I used to pay dearly for such an honor."

She stammered a bit before a tiny, reluctant smile twitched upon her lips. "Fab...fab... you think I have nice tits? Ronald said they were a bit too small for his liking."

"Tsk, tsk. Fishing for compliments? I was – and still am – an unmitigated bastard, but there's a grain of truth in my words, even in ridicule."

"Good to know, sir, because... well, I've always been self-conscious about my bottom half; my hips and thighs are too big," she said wistfully.

He huffed an exasperated sigh, but obliged her nonetheless. "You look exactly like a woman should, Miss Granger, with curves and padding in all the right places. You have no idea how frustrating it is to search in vain for some purchase point whilst pounding into skin and bones. I made that mistake once with Trelawney, but I learned my lesson after that... encounter." He shuddered in repulsion. "Never again."

Her eyes grew wide upon hearing that shocking revelation. "Erm, I d-don't... No, Professor, never again."

Their little chat had veered far off course, touching on some very odd topics. He only wanted an honest critique of his scare tactics, so why were they discussing a shared love of books? And why had he revealed his one-off with Sybill? Did he think that tawdry bit of gossip would pull on Hermione's heartstrings? And would preying on her sympathetic bleeding heart earn him his precious solitude? Could a ghost's head explode if filled with too many rhetorical questions?

Despite his confident appearance, Snape felt a twinge of unease creep into his gut. For the first time since he began his month-long campaign of haunting, he thought victory might not be so certain. Hermione showed no fear of ghosts, but how much annoyance would she tolerate before leaving or – perish the thought – banishing him from the flat? She would never back down from a challenge, but he would not concede defeat... yet.

The lull in the conversation stretched on and on; the tension ebbed and flowed with each second of silence. They both focused on the dead ashes in the grate rather than look at each other. It was like playing a low stakes game of Chicken without the risk of a fatal car collision. Whoever flinched first – or spoke, really – would lose the Battle of the Hogsmeade Arms Apartments, Building One, Flat One.

"Let me make this perfectly clear..."

"Ha!"

"I'm not leaving, Professor. And while I did not appreciate any of your childish pranks, I'll allow you to stay here if you promise to behave. You'll have full access to my books. But no more sneaking peeks in the shower, and no more nicking knickers or any other annoying trick of yours, understand?" Ah, she had adopted a policy of zero tolerance. At least one of his questions had been answered.

When it came to stubborn behavior, Snape had twenty years on Hermione, but he displayed all the petulance of a child denied his after-dinner sweet: pouty, pout, pout and slouchy, slouch, slouch. "No, I'll not acquiesce to your demands."

The malevolent glint in her eyes looked foreign on the face of a Gryffindor. "You don't have a choice in this matter, Professor," she retorted ever so sweetly. "May I remind you the Ministry has authority over ghosts, and they would bend over backwards to appease a war heroine; but I would prefer to keep them out of my business. I can easily handle setting adequate anti-ghost wards. After all, charms are my speciality. So, I'll give you one more chance to play nice. What say you?" Her wand hand jerked an impatient tap dance of anticipation, as though she already knew his response.

"No."

With that simple, single word declaration, Snape found himself flung into oblivion – quite a feat considering his non-corporeal status – tossed aside unceremoniously into the adjacent, empty flat, the victim of Hermione's fury and expert spell technique. Hell hath nothing on an angry, frustrated virgin looking to lose it.

The witch in the lounge took great pleasure in her victory, so it seemed, reveling in a triumphant waltz with the reluctant and skittish Crookshanks held tightly in her arms. Hermione sang a loud, off-key version of a popular Muggle rock ballad as they whirled and twirled about the room, her black dress fluttering around her legs, her humidity-tamed tendrils joyously bouncing with each step.

"Weee are the champ-ions, my fri-ends... Isn't it wonderful, Crookshanks? Peace and quiet once again." She paused to release the struggling half-Kneazle onto the hearthrug. "And yet, he was so quiet and discreet, I never suspected a ghost to be lurking here... before tonight, that is. His little annoyances were so subtle and clever; they could be explained as mechanical failures or house-elf errors... well, except for the curry fiasco. Anyway, I think he's learned his lesson: if you mess with the Gryffindor, you get the claws, or the pointy end of the wand."

She yawned and stretched, her body apparently realizing the full effects of the evening's tumultuous activities. "Goodnight, sweet Crookshanks," she said, bending down to pet her familiar before removing her killer pumps. Slow and weary legs carried her upstairs to the material comfort of her empty bedroom where she would have slept the sleep of the righteous, if only that bloody ghost in the neighboring flat would have stopped banging on the walls.

A/N: A shared love of books? How surprising!

Next up: Snape in exile and Hermione enlists help.