Chapter 5 - Early Suspicions

Instructing the Professor

Chapter 5 – Early Suspicions

Hermione could not feel easy at being in Hogwarts in 1977. She had been there for the past two and a half months, and there were no further developments on the methods to get her home. Nicolas Flamel had been actively corresponding with her on probable potions and spells, which she tried without any success. Anger and frustration had finally given way to despair. She wondered whether she would get home. Contrary to her personal sentiments, the situation was not all that bleak. She had an active occupation with which she kept her mind suitably animated. The students in the 1970s were more conscientious than they were in her time. At least more students bothered reading up before class; assignments appeared on her desk before the deadline and students seemed to be more aware of school rules. To her surprise, the Slytherins were rather tasteful in their tricks and contrivances. During her time, they lacked the subtle and debonair style displayed by young Nott, Avery and Lucius Malfoy. Even the Goyle and Crabbe she taught seemed less insipid than their dense sons. These Slytherins seemed less wayward than their sons. Hermione smiled wryly – perhaps Quidditch practice was useful in channelling their nervous energies away from tomfoolery.

She looked up from her marking and shook her head resolutely so as to clear her thoughts. It was unfair to compare her former schoolmates and their fathers when they were completely different individuals. How foolish she was to expect the same behaviour from their fathers! She continued her grading and realised that she was going through James Potter's parchment. She rolled her eyes in displeasure at its untidy blotches and inaccurate observations. Harry seemed to take after his father in lacking the aptitude and predisposition for the fine art and exact science of potion brewing. She laughed lightly – Professor Snape had been right after all in their first year. The man ought to know; he did have first-hand experience. Remus Lupin, at least, seemed to know what he was doing. His handwriting was neat and his potions were always acceptable. Though he was not amongst the best students, he could certainly be labelled the best of her Gryffindor students. Peter Pettigrew's script was next and she groaned aloud. It was already bad enough that Sirius copied his answers off Remus; Peter Pettigrew incensed her because he wrote in such a small hand that she had to use a magnifying charm to read his words. His friends must be imbeciles if they did not notice how nervous he was around Malfoy and his group. She quickly gave Peter a nominal pass grade and moved on to her next parchment in a furious temper.

Deciding that it would be more impartial to her students if she rested a while by the fire, Hermione extracted her papers and tea things to her sofa. Picking the first parchment she laid her hands on, she wearily read its contents. Her ire grew as she was hard pressed to find any flaws in it. Its spidery handwriting was easy to read; it was detailed and meticulously researched. "Wait!" she exclaimed with sudden realisation.

The hand had been familiar; she could recognise the spiky letter 'F' anywhere. She glanced to the top of the parchment and confirmed her speculations. It was indeed Severus's script. He was her star pupil, if such a vulgar phrase could be used. "Ah, dear Severus," she muttered, reading his essay with much satisfaction. He was a good student with an active mind and was extremely resourceful. He was the same in his seventh year as he had been in her time. She could tell from his demeanour that he suffered from a natural gloominess of temper and had faced many injuries and disappointments. She liked him, in spite of his reserve and gravity; as such, she beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were mild and his reserve suited him. Although she took pains to separate him from Lucius and his crowd, she could not be seen doing so in an open manner. She did not wish to excite undue student speculation. She was relieved not to see the dark mark on his left forearm yet, but it was little comfort to her. She knew that the moment he left Hogwarts, he would turn to Voldemort. Hermione gave him the highest grade she could think of and replaced his papers with the rest. She felt mentally drained. She was stuck in the past and had to remain there without effecting any major alterations even though she was sorely tempted to do so.

She rose and paced around the office, looking very much like a shadow in her long grey walking dress. She scratched her hair in irritation without really knowing why. Her students feared her as far as she knew. They shied away whenever she strode past them. Her silent gliding movements and billowing grey robes had earned her the moniker 'shadow ghost'. She smirked at the thought of how they would cower when she so much as gave them a reproving look. Even the Gryffindors disliked her. She laughed at that thought. It was indeed a neatly contrived irony. James Potter and Sirius Black had dubbed her the Potions Bitch among other things and she had merely bowed at that appellation. They no longer dared called her names to her face after she threatened to inform the Headmaster of her new titles. Pity – she was growing to enjoy the attention. Severus, Hermione mused with a smile, had valiantly risen to her defence during the name-calling and not even Lucius could restrain him. "So, that's where he gets his respect for teachers," she chuckled as she kicked off her shoes and peeled off her knee-high stockings.

"Accord me the respect that is due, he says," she muttered in a light laugh, scratching her hair again in frustration. Getting quite fed up of it, she released it from its coiled prison and tossed her head to free the unruly locks. "And he thinks he gives me respect! The way the poor boy looks at me, one would think that he augurs nothing but misery in his life. Then again, the Severus I know also feels this way. The poor silly puppy," she mumbled with a sigh as she ran her fingers through her bushy hair to disentangle any knots in it.

Hermione realised that she would have to change her tactics vis-à-vis the young Severus. If she could not threaten him or bully him into maintaining a distance between them, she could ignore him. It would likely mean that she would be disobliging her profession, but in a circumstance such as this, decorum preceded kindness. Yes, she could ignore him. But how could she do so? All his circumstances pointed towards a want of proper attention. In fact, she pitied and esteemed him all the more because his peers slighted him and his so-called Death Eater friends exploited him. He deserved some compassion and respect for his mind. Yet, she had to discourage the boy; he was not the Potions Master she knew in her time – he was, at present, her student. Why did he constantly seek her out then? He came by her office almost every other day, ostensibly to work on his potions project, but Hermione could sense that there must be an ulterior motive for these unsolicited visits. She knew he had always been comforted by the dank dungeons; and she observed that her presence did nothing to ease the tumult in his mind.

Perhaps she should be plain with him and tell him off. "No!" she declared aloud, pacing with her arms akimbo. He had faced rejection so many times she did not want to add to the psychological chips on his shoulders. In all likelihood, it was repeated rejections from his parents, society, his peers and so on that led Severus to turn to Voldemort's grandiose lies of power and acceptance. She flung her hands up in annoyance and placed them on her head – there was no good polite way about it without hurting his feelings. "He is not your Potions Master!" she reminded herself.

The fire hissed and crackled violently at that comment as if approving her intended course of action. She spun around to return to her desk and found herself staring at Dumbledore's face in the flames. "My dear, I have news," began Dumbledore with a bright smile. "There is an obscure time travelling spell written by Copernicus. Nicolas will see if he can find a complete version."

Hermione frowned at the information. "What do you mean by complete version?" she asked cautiously. She had learnt in the past few months not to put too much stock in one plan. Her numerous failed attempts have evinced her of the improprieties of such forward and confident sentiments.

"The Edinburgh astrological conservatory houses a draft copy of it. I've seen it today," offered the Headmaster kindly. "I have copied it down. I'll send you a copy and you can make what you will of it."

Hermione bit her lower lip in anxious thought as she sank into her sofa. "Was it ever published? Has it been successfully attempted? Was it just one of those scrawls found amongst his papers at his death?" she questioned in one breath, feeling suddenly tired.

Dumbledore smiled weakly at her, fully comprehending her scepticism. "I don't know any more than you do. Nicolas will look through the matter for us. He does have a lot more time on his hands now," chuckled the Headmaster. He laughed merrily at his inane joke. However, he abruptly stopped and looked sombrely at his Potions Mistress. "There is someone at your door, my dear. I'll come by later."

As soon as he disappeared from the flames, Hermione carefully listened for any sound. Hearing nothing but her heart beating frantically with irrational paranoia, she briskly strode to the doors and forcefully swung them open. Albus Dumbledore's all-seeing vision had been right; she did indeed have an eavesdropper lurking in the shadows.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Snape," she said in her calm low French accent, beckoning him to enter her office. "Do you use your liberty so frivolously? What brings you to my hermitage?"

The young man bounded forward, his eyes glinting with unspoken suspicion. He followed her to her desk and sat where she placed him. After he carefully scanned the office, he fixed his eyes steadily at hers. "Who are you?" he asked quietly.

She merely smiled and mildly said in her thick French drawl, "Your Potions Mistress."

Hermione collapsed gracefully into her chair and carelessly swung her feet up to rest on the desk. Severus gaped in amazement. She had the most perfect little feet he had ever seen; they were soft and supple looking, and were appropriately white and pink in places. They looked almost smooth to the touch.

He swallowed hard and tore his eyes from them. "I've heard your English; I can discern your accent; you sound like an Englishwoman," he accused lowly in that dangerous tone she knew so well.

She leaned back into the chair so as to better rotate her ankles and flex her feet. She noticed him staring unblinkingly at her wriggling toes. As she did so, her long grey skirt slid down her outstretched legs. She earnestly hoped that her poor manners would put the boy right. Unfortunately, for the besotted Severus, her legs captivated him. The voluminous skirt hid far too much, he thought nervously. The skirt stopped some centimetres above her ankles and he could discern how finely turned her calves were.

Mistaking his intent stare for revulsion, Hermione scratched her shins and said in her thick French drawl, "One of these days, your curiosity will kill you, Monsieur Snape. You followed Monsieur Lupin once and look what almost happened?"

He paled violently before roaring, "BLACK TRIED TO KILL ME!"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Oui, oui, c'est un crétin. I know he is an arrogant bastard."

"How did you know?" he asked in a slow and deliberately quiet manner, his eyes narrowing.

She curled her lips into a contemptuous smirk. "See, Monsieur Snape, that is a better way of inspiring fear and respect. Self-control is everything – remember that."

"How did you know?" he repeated in a quieter voice.

"Ah," laughed Hermione before adding in a dangerous purr, "Do you imagine me ignorant of your consequence in the greater schema of things? I have my ways."

He glowered at her, his eyes glinting intelligibly at hers. "How do you know so much about us?"

"I just do," she answered lazily in her lilting accent as she stretched in her chair.

He focused on her legs and noted with interest that she was not one to shave them. They seemed beautiful and perfect to him. She had left the legs as they were as nature had intended. The hairs looked dark, but he had no doubt that they were fine and soft. Here was a truly modern witch who cared little for the opinions of the world. If only he could learn to be like her in that respect. She appeared self-sufficient, independent and intelligent. Severus noticed her observing him closely as if greatly intrigued. He put down his left hand, whose fingers had been engaged in tracing his lips. "Where are you really from?" he enquired as politely as he could.

"Impertinent boy!" she hissed, making him shudder at her accent. She bit her lip and decided to tell him a half-truth. "Somewhere very far from here," she answered sharply, rising abruptly from her chair.

Pique was written all over her face and she pounced on his chair so quickly that he was unable to escape. She held on firmly to the armrests and stared straight into his obsidian eyes. "What do you mean by interrogating me, Monsieur Snape? You will find yourself in a lot of trouble one day in the not so distant future due to it. Pourquoi? Because of your other activities like eavesdropping and spying. I answer to no one but myself and I advise you to do the same. You and your nonsense of always wanting to prove yourself to others! Do you realise you only do so because you despise yourself?"

He glared at her penetrating eyes and whispered, "I don't like myself."

This admission was so softly uttered that she had to strain her ears to hear it. Hermione released him from the prison of his chair and sighed, "How do you expect me to like you as a person if you do not like yourself? Do you really want to grow up bitter and cynical?"

"You're a fine one to talk, Professor Grenarm, if that is your name?" he rejoined, threatening her with his full height.

She only laughed hollowly to show that she was both unimpressed and not the least intimidated. "Tell me, mon petit, what is your real business?"

"Come to the Quidditch match tomorrow," he said suddenly before realising that he could not retract the offer. He mentally kicked himself for his effrontery.

"Impulsiveness will not bode well for you, Monsieur Snape," she quietly replied with a smirk. "I know you are taller than I, no need to make a show of it," she added, drawing a faint colour to his cheeks as he drew back. "You know I do not attend the matches."

"I am... We are playing against Gryffindor tomorrow, if you could come..." he muttered in a low hiss, flicking a lank greasy lock from his face.

"If I grace this occasion, you will stop your questioning and leave me alone?" she asked quietly, twisting her handkerchief.

"Yes," he lied, speaking through his clenched teeth.

"Alors, Monsieur Snape," she said much deliberation, drawing a curled upper lip from him. "I will humour you – just this once." Having pacified her student, Hermione sought to push the tall young wizard out of her office. Once that was accomplished, she collapsed onto her sofa, feeling quite sorry for the poor lad.

Footnotes:

"Oui, oui, c'est un crétin" is "Yes, yes, he is an idiot." My French beta informs me that it is not "Il est un crétin". Apparently, it's idiomatic. If you do not like "crétin", there's "abruti" or "nigaud" as well.

"Mon petit" can be loosely translated as "my dear". It should be noted that "petit/petite" is a form of affection address which can mean "dearie" or "sweetheart". Depending on context, terms of endearment can also be used condescendingly in French. Make what you will of this phrase.

A few have asked me how I derived at the name "Herigone Grenarm"; it's easy - look at the name carefully. If you can't, it matters not; i shall reveal it in Chapter 8.