Part I, chapter 6

AN: Thanks again to Southern, for being a wonderful beta!

“Granger.”

She jumped at Snape's bark; she hadn't noticed him move. He'd been in his ratty chair ever since breakfast and hadn't even looked her way since.

She almost responded, “Yes, sir?” but caught herself in time. Instead she simply looked up to see his face.

“I expect dinner to be ready in an hour. You might want to get started now.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

She then got up and made her way to the kitchen, very aware of Wormtail's eyes following her every move. She didn't allow herself to react until the kitchen door closed behind her, when she started shaking. She forgot Snape's third decree until he said, “You didn't seem to have a phobia of kitchens earlier today.”

She whirled around to find him leaning on the door frame, watching her with a sardonic grin. She wanted nothing more than to slap the expression off his face, but knew that might be a bad idea.

“No, sir.”

“Then why the theatrics now?” Snape asked. Hermione had the suspicion that he knew exactly what was going on.

“My blood sugar seems to be a little low, sir. That's all.”

He raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but didn't say anything. Instead, he sauntered over to the table and sat down, watching her the entire time. After a few moments under his stare, Hermione remembered what she was supposed to be doing and made her way over to the stove, looking around for the larder.

It took fifteen minutes just to find all the utensils she needed, and another ten to figure out what to make from the ingredients she could find. By the time she'd put the pasta on, about thirty minutes later, she was getting rather panicky. She didn't know if she would be able to have dinner ready in time.

Meanwhile, Snape was still watching her; she could feel his black eyes on her, weighing her down and depriving her of air. She tried to shake off the dread his stare evoked, planning all the finishing steps of the meal in her head while she collected the plates and moved to set the small table. She'd set the last fork in front of Snape and was about to turn back to the stove when Snape grabbed her wrist and twisted her around to look at him.

“Have you made your decision yet?” he asked, his voice and face unreadable.

She looked down at his hand on her and was surprised when he immediately released her.

Looking back up at his face, she straightened her spine, raised her chin and cleared her throat.

“I choose to sleep in my own bed, sir.”

She thought she saw his lips twitch, but the next instant he was sneering once more.

“Is that so,” he said, his lip curling up. “And what makes you think that is a choice?”

“You said I could choose whose bed to sleep in, sir. You didn't narrow down the choices to only your bed or Wormtail's, and given your predilection for details, I highly doubt that was an oversight on your part. Sir.”

That time she was sure she saw his lip twitch.

“You are basing your choice on an assumption of how I operate.”

A hiss from the stove reminded Hermione of the pasta, which was probably overcooked now. She rushed to the stove, grabbed a sieve and a large bowl, and drained the pasta water into the bowl. As soon as that was finished, she attended the simple sauce she'd made up and looked for serving ware.

By the time she turned around to face Snape again, the finished meal was in her hands. She walked over to the table and gently placed the dishes before Snape and then, reflexively, looked up at the clock. She had just barely made it.

Looking at Snape triumphantly, she said, “The assumption of how you operate is based upon observing you for the last six years, sir. In that time I have determined that you are indeed detail oriented, and only once have I observed you to speak without knowing exactly what you are saying, and even that one time was questionable.”

Snape's lips didn't twitch, and he didn't nod or give her any indication, but she felt she had won her point and was proved correct when he said, “Your bed will be in my room.”

She nodded gravely, although she was quite happy to have won that battle, even though she knew she was unlikely to win the war.

She sat down across from Snape and observed him surreptitiously. He was lounging in the small straight-backed chair, which was an action she wouldn't have thought Snape capable of doing. She'd never seen him before when he didn't look like he had a broom handle for a spine.

He was filling his plate with a generous helping of pasta, and she was pleased to see his nose twitching in what seemed to be approval. She hoped it was approval. It smelled good to her anyway.

“Why did you save the pasta water?” he asked unexpectedly, right after calling Wormtail to dinner.

“Because you said you don't tolerate waste, sir. Pasta water is excellent as a soup base and saves salt,” she said eagerly, glad she could prove that she could follow instructions.

“What a pity there isn't a NEWT for being held hostage,” he jeered.

Hermione hid her disappointment by serving herself some food.

“What do you think you're doing, Granger?” Snape snarled.

Hermione looked up, confused by his tone. “Helping myself, sir.”

He took her plate away from her and exchanged it with Wormtail's empty plate, just as Wormtail himself entered the kitchen.

“What makes you think you have any privilege here, Granger? You get what's left only after we've both had our fill.”

Hermione's gaze immediately went to the rapidly shrinking pile of food as Wormtail shoveled more and more onto his plate. She bit her lip; she hadn't made enough. She wasn't going to get to eat.

“Is that understood?” Snape barked.

She bowed her head in a defeated nod. “Yes, sir.”

She watched the two men eat their way through the entire bowl of food, the wonderful smell torturing her empty stomach. The final insult came when Snape licked his lips after the last morsel was gone, looked her directly in the eye and said, “That was adequate. Next time you might want to make enough for yourself as well.”

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She still hasn't quite reached full understanding of the situation. Perhaps hunger is making her dimwitted?