Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Unless wishes come true, I don't own anything other than the plot and even that is influenced in some way by just about everything I've ever read.

"Bad day?"

"Hermione!"

Opening my eyes, a mixture between a groan and a sob escaped me as I awoke from my dream. My very vivid dream, judging by the sticky mess clinging to my hand and bedding. I glowered down at the guilty appendage before snatching up my wand to cast a cleansing charm.

I can count on one hand (and that's a hand missing a finger or two) the number of times Hermione practised fellatio on me. She would never have gained the position of Head Girl on those abilities, but the end result was the same. However unpractised the attempts, the simple fact that it was the girl I loved doing the deed was enough.

Stumbling out of bed after catching sight of the time, (a Muggle clock; I loathed wizarding versions for their vagueness) I was dressed in my teaching robes before I remembered that it was impossible for me to be late. I was still sequestered away in Albus bloody Dumbledore's home in Wales. Glaring at my surroundings, I cast Sectumsempra on the clock in a fit of temper. Several gears spilled out of the resulting gashes, before the clock abruptly changed back to its original wizarding version, although also broken. A strangled growl escaped me before I attempted to repair it and Transfigure it back into a less annoying timepiece. The resulting explosion was satisfying, although the fact that it took my eyebrows with it was not.

I snapped my fingers, summoning a house-elf. The tea towel clad creature instantaneously appeared before me, leaving me to wonder if it hadn't been there unseen all the while. Best not to think of it.

"Move my belongings to another room, although leave the sheaf of letters alone. I also want this... crater left here until the owner of this prison has the opportunity to admire it. After all, it is where one of his sock drawers was."

The elf flinched at the unnatural order, but mumbled an affirmative. It vanished, taking my possessions with it. I would have to summon it again to lead me to my new room, but I was ready to settle in for a morning rereading my precious letters. There were benefits to having no responsibility for overseeing a rowdy bunch of hormone over-laden adolescents attempting to brew delicate concoctions with their ham-fisted hands. I could now be distracted in peace, with no danger of an untimely explosion...

Dear Severus,

Hermione

Hermione,

Severus

Dear Severus,

The thought of Umbridge flirting is sufficient to give me nightmares. I hope for your sake that your dark past enables you to escape her attentions.

I'm not about to argue with you about the quality of Professor Lupin's teachings, but he was the best of them. The fake Moody was creepy, the feeling that his eye was looking where it shouldn't was a distraction, to say the least.

For someone who never wanted to teach, you are a good teacher, judging by the records of previous exam results, even if your methods terrify some people into incompetence; Neville being the prime example. I'm sure that you remember the tales of who his Boggart turned into.

While I will do what I can with Harry, I think you overestimate my control over him. You also underestimate Umbridge. The Headmaster's hands are tied tighter than you know.

Yours,

Hermione

Hermione,

Severus

Hermione's explanation was not on paper, so I utilised the formerly hidden Pensieve to revisit the memory, withdrawing the relevant gossamer strand of memory from my mind to float down to the liquid silver surface within the stone receptacle. Touching the bare skin of my fingers to the activated memory launched me inside to the familiar dungeon classroom to the hell of a Slytherin/Gryffindor double potions lesson with both Potter and Longbottom attending.

Observing yourself as if from another persons eyes is always a strange experience, particularly when interacting with those now dead. Seeing Hermione alive yet being fully aware that it was only a memory was a wrench. I tried to touch her only for my hand to pass straight through her. Why did I torment myself like that? I knew very well that an observer in memories could not physically or mentally affect the memory.

I observed my past self watching Hermione like a hawk, pouncing on the opportunity to give her a detention when she helped Longbottom explicitly against orders. When the lesson ended, she stayed behind to arrange when the detention would be. She looked resigned when I warded the classroom to prevent anyone from overhearing. I was vaguely aware from this new perspective that I held my wand a fraction too tightly, putting strain on both wood and wrist when I performed the spell, something to rectify if I remembered.

I watched as the memory of me suddenly grabbed hold of Hermione's right hand, shifting his grip to hold her wrist securely as he pushed her robe down exposing the bandage wrapped around her hand. I envied him for being able to touch her, something completely irrational because it was my memory of the incident. It must be a mark of insanity to be jealous of oneself, particularly from a time when relations between Hermione and I were strictly platonic.

"What's this? It's unlike you to be clumsy." As could be expected, my voice sounded different when heard from outside my body. It was still bizarre, though. Was my voice really that drawling?

"You gave me my first detention with you just to..."

"This is your O.W.L. year. Longbottom won't have your 'help' in exams. Can't you see that your help is more of a hindrance?"

"If I didn't help Neville he'd likely blow up a cauldron every lesson. Call it self defence; I'm stuck sitting next to him. You could try not to be so..."

"So what, Miss Granger?"

"You scare poor Neville silly."

"Then he needs to grow a backbone, while you would be so much less trouble for me if you lost yours. Might I suggest you swap somehow?"

"Let go!" Hermione tugged fruitlessly in her attempt to escape. "I thought that we had moved past such pettiness."

"And I thought that you trusted me, yet you're changing the subject. What's wrong with your hand?"

"It's not that I don't trust you. Please, just let me go."

When I (or was it he?) refused, she tried again to squirm free, only to fail as he (I? This is so confusing!) wrenched her around, pinning her to his desk. I'd be lying if I claimed not to have noticed the suggestive position she was trapped in at the time. I certainly noticed it now. If anyone could have entered the room then, charges of an inappropriate student/teacher relationship would have been raised. That or an outcry of rape, as I was in an unquestionably dominant position with Hermione still struggling to escape. I watched myself press a hand against her back, gently but firmly pushing her down onto the desktop, scattering marked and unmarked essays around. I swallowed, feeling guilty that I should find myself attracted to her before she passed her sixteenth birthday. I was no paedophile, yet how could I claim that when I found an underage girl attractive?

I continued watching as her bandage was unwrapped, her arm twisted behind her in order to do so. I moved closer to observe the wound revealed on the back of her wand hand, hearing the hiss of air as he inhaled sharply at the sight of the words carved into the back of her hand in her own handwriting.

"'I must observe the library opening hours and curfew.'" He read aloud, before loosening his grip on her arm. I could tell that I had been too shocked to properly release Hermione, something that hadn't occurred to me then: she was still pinned down. "Who did this? It can't have been Madam Pince; even she isn't this sadistic. Well, unless you damaged a book, but you would never do that." I blinked at her guilty twitch, something that I had also missed back then.

Hermione mumbled something against the stack of parchment her face was buried in. He let her up, turning her to face him with his grip on her wrist.

"Who?" he repeated, voice cold and controlled. Inside, I knew he was fuming, something also betrayed by the tic below his left eye and white knuckled fingers. How I managed to keep from crushing Hermione's wrist then I don't know.

"Umbridge."

He released her wrist as he spun away, allowing me to appreciate the accompanying movement of my habitual black teaching robes as he marched into my office. Hermione jumped at the crash originating from there and followed to see what had happened. He was rifling through a formerly warded trunk full of potions vials. Mostly poisons, but some other dubious substances.

"However tempting it is to kill the insipid toad with an untraceable poison," he gestured at the deadly array, "the Ministry will only send someone worse. An untraceable diuretic will exact some vengeance." He retrieved the correct potion, before striding over to his storage cupboard, yanking out a jar and offering it to Hermione. "Murtlap essence should alleviate the pain and aid swift healing."

"Thank you," Hermione murmured as she took the jar, her gaze averted, inadvertently meeting mine. I knew she couldn't see me, but I was familiar with the spark in her eyes. She'd desired me even then. I was ambivalent about whether I was relieved or disappointed that she had originally planned to make advances to me after she graduated. It hardly mattered as nothing could change the past. Well, nothing save meddling with a Time Turner and that risked more than just my death. I had thought of using one, but the thought of inadvertently causing Hermione's death myself stayed my hand.

"Just don't break any more rules. Especially not when Umbridge is around. You may go; you'll be late for lunch."

"What about my detention?"

"Come here after dinner today. If you promise never to bring Longbottom and my teaching methods up again, I may conveniently forget to add your detention with me to your student record."

The memory faded, depositing me outside the Pensieve with a jerk. Despite the fresh heartache running through me, I couldn't regret tearing the gaping void of Hermione's absence open further. Not when it let me see her again and revealed more than I had previously known. Perhaps I was becoming some sort of masochist, albeit not in the conventional term referring to sexual tastes.

I stared bleakly around the room, idly counting the number of empty bottles, the majority of which had contained Firewhisky. What would Hermione think if she could see me now? Sighing, I scooped up my memory from the Pensieve bowl and returned it to my mind.

"At least I'm not cutting myself off from my emotions," I muttered, recalling that Hermione had considered that to be trapping oneself inside a self-made prison. Unfortunately for me, it seemed that it was also possible to imprison oneself in a cage constructed by your own emotions; a far cry from a gilded cage with my prevalent feelings.

I reached for a new bottle to deaden the pain, only to think again as her ring slipped out of my shirt, dangling on the chain fastened around my neck. During my time with her, I had been a virtual teetotaller. As a spy, I'd had to be. I didn't know what she had thought of drinking, but it was highly dubious that she would have approved of doing so to excess, as I had of late. I could almost hear Hermione's voice, reciting what she had read of the evils of alcohol; something that made me wonder exactly how effective my Sober-Up potion had been the night before. After all, she'd never lectured me on that topic. Eyeing what was left of Albus's Firewhisky regretfully, I Banished the lot, feeling some glee at this further act of petty vengeance. At least it silenced the voice in my head. However much I wanted Hermione back, I didn't want it to be as an Ogden's induced hallucination. Or as a conscience picked up much like viral infection, whichever it was. I loved her deeply, but her voice and lecturing habits were not her most attractive traits to put it mildly.

AN: Betaed by LadySunflower, for which I am eternally grateful.