nine

Summary:Neville, Snape and Hermione return to Hogwarts after the summer. Some things have changed in the post-Voldemort world – how do they cope? (Response to prompt 12 on the Potter Place Fall Challenge Prompt List.)

A/N: Huge, enormous, massive thanks and homage to Subversa for her tireless encouragement and meticulous beta-reading.

Chapter 9

If Hermione and Severus were both pale and silent at breakfast the next morning, it went unremarked. Most people were worn out after the celebrations, wishing only to dive into a vat of coffee and somehow weld their senses to the day before lessons began. If the second-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws emerged from their double Potions lesson at lunchtime thoroughly traumatised, their elders, wiser in the ways of the world, explained that the cause was undoubtedly a world-class hangover. If Professor Sinistra noticed a certain coolness in Hermione's demeanour towards her, she put it down to abstraction over the particularly knotty problem she had set the class.

On Friday, things were easier.

By Saturday, each of them believed they had achieved tolerable mastery over themselves. Which was as well, since they were due to meet that evening. Neither chose to consider how eagerly they were anticipating spending time together.

Severus welcomed Hermione with apparent calm. The tea was waiting. She took her place on the sofa and said, "Well?"

"Well, what, Miss Granger?"

She rolled her eyes. So it was going to be one of those conversations.

"Well, what fallout has there been from Halloween?"

Severus mentally scrolled through the many answers he would have liked to give to that question and dismissed them all.

"While I do not yet appear to be every thinking woman's ideal playmate, I can at least report that the atmosphere in the staff room is somewhat warmer than previously. I have been approached for actual conversation rather than just unavoidable small talk."

"Madam Hooch certainly seemed to have bypassed small talk on Wednesday night," teased Hermione, sticking her neck out and praying inwardly that it wasn't far enough for her head to be bitten off.

He snorted.

"I did say every thinking woman, Miss Granger. Your fortuitous arrival with Mr Weasley provided me with the opportunity to escape, for which you both have my heartfelt thanks." Which got that neatly out of the way, he thought. "Rolanda Hooch and Firewhisky should never be allowed in the same building as each other. Or the same country, for that matter."

Hermione laughed.

"So, what do you want the next step to be?" she asked.

"I think we are now in a position to push matters forward rather faster. The coloured shirts could be brought into play, together with some judiciously chosen moments of informality. It's time I started to encourage these women to start throwing themselves at me, so I can punish them at my leisure."

She was taken aback.

"P-punish?"

"Never make the mistake, Miss Granger, of supposing that I am a nice man. The men here have been mostly fair in their treatment of me – hostile when I was the enemy, neutral when proved otherwise – but the women have treated me acrimoniously. I told you when we started this that I wanted to pay them back, and so I do – in humiliation. I am civilised towards you because you have treated me with an unusual degree of openness and even friendship, but I am sick of rolling over and showing my belly to people who should be at the very least grateful to me for what I have done. You need not fear that I offer them any physical harm..."

He noted her shocked face and felt a pang. But if she wanted to be his friend, then she would have to take the rough with the smooth.

"You wish to withdraw? I will not hold it against you if you do. But I ask you – how would you feel about a man you had helped, who didn't hesitate to insult you, tried to prevent you from gaining employment, gossiped spitefully about you, and then for no better reason than, say, a new dress and a haircut, tried his very best to get into your knickers?" he finished coarsely. "Because that is exactly what I had to deal with from Hooch last night. And that is what, with varying levels of subtlety, I will have to endure from most of the others, if the ball is anything to go by. If they leave me be, they won't have to deal with the consequences, but if they choose the route of hypocrisy then they are fair game."

She considered all the slights he had endured, not just during the course of the recent war, but over the years before, and during his time as a student. This, after all, was why she had had the impulse to help him in the first place. Clearly, turning the other cheek was no longer an option for him.

"You promise no-one will be physically hurt?"

"I do."

"And no-one will lose their livelihood as a result?"

"Not through my actions – though I will not be held accountable for theirs."

"Then I'll stick with it. I'm not entirely comfortable with this, but I will keep my eyes and ears open and let you know what's being said, as far as I am able."

He leaned forward to pick up his cup, letting his hair swing forward and hide the relief and pleasure he was sure he had not been able to keep from his face. He had resolved to lay this out before Hermione, to give her the chance to get out, and yet she remained by his side. A small voice suggested to him that this might not be the best way to gain her admiration, but he ignored it.

Hermione was dubious about her part – she had not thought far enough ahead to what Severus actually meant to do; if anything, she had thought he would be content with turning the tide of opinion in his favour – but she couldn't bear the thought of being excluded from his life, which was clearly the only other option at present. Perhaps she might be able to dissuade him, in time.

"You don't think that they were, perhaps, just mistaken, and were embarrassed to admit it?" she ventured as a last attempt to soften his attitude.

"Do me a favour, Miss Granger," he bit back. "You weren't; Minerva wasn't."

She gave up and, seeking a change of topic, rose to look at the crammed bookshelves that lined the room. He wouldn't let her near the shelves of Dark Arts texts behind the desk, but otherwise she was free to browse and had taken advantage of the privilege over the past few weeks. Bending to look at a low shelf, she said, "What's this? Poetry!"

"All work and no play makes Severus a dull villain," he quipped. "Of course I read stuff other than work-related books. There are other ways to 'bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses' than those brewed in a cauldron. Do you read poetry, Miss Granger?"

"Not much, no," she admitted.

"You should. The great poets have ways of saying so much more than is obvious. Here – " he handed her a slim volume, "I've been re-reading this Irishman lately: some good visionary poems, some political pieces, some mythological or what he thought of as magical, some absolute tripe. But what I chiefly appreciate at the moment is his habit of using masks."

"What do you mean?"

"He adopted simplified personae to do his speaking for him, to express ideas more clearly than he could with his direct authorial voice. Of course, the trope is deceptive because it permits great subtlety."

"I see why it would fascinate you, sir. Read me something," she prompted.

Later, she would regret her impulsive request. Her dreams were haunted by his voice caressing the verse, caressing her.

The following day, Hermione held in her hands proof positive of Professor Snape's success. She was strangely reluctant to show him, but as she had promised to do so, she made her way back down to the dungeons. No butting in when she wasn't expected – she Disillusioned the door, then knocked and waited.

"What do you mean by this?" he snarled, flinging the door open.

Hermione was upset by his aggressive tone.

"But I – "

"You're not even supposed to know this door is here, let alone be visiting me. Merlin's beard – I might have had company!"

As this hadn't even occurred to her, she was shaken. But of course, she shouldn't be surprised. 'Company' was the aim of the game after all.

"Sorry, sir," her voice came out very small. "I'll just... go. Sorry."

But as she moved away, he reached out for her arm and pulled her inside the room.

"You might as well tell me what's so important as to make you come barging down here uninvited." He sounded exasperated. She felt gauche – just the sort of silly little girl he wouldn't want hanging round him.

"Here, look." She thrust an envelope at him.

He opened it and drew out a photo of Longbottom and himself. Neville had come to him on Friday to discuss testing the potency of his experimental herbs and had evidently been tailed by the enterprising Creevey. Neville was as beautiful as ever, but Severus was surprised to see that, in the objective eye of the camera, he himself came out looking, well, aristocratic – as Hermione had once told him he did.

"The girl I borrowed this from thought I was confiscating it, at first. She offered to let me have the half with Neville on if she could keep the picture of you. I thought you'd like to know. I should take it back to her now." Hermione held out her hand, not looking him in the eye. She wasn't to know he was fighting the urge to soothe away her hurt expression.

"Miss Granger... Miss Granger. I am simply concerned for your reputation, as well as my own. Take the photograph back. Thank you for letting me know," he dismissed her.

"I shouldn't have come charging down here. Sorry," she said again. "See you on Wednesday evening." And she was gone.

Severus sat down at his desk and looked at the pile of essays waiting there for his attention. He'd been mean to her, and she had looked crushed. He felt like shit. All he wanted to do was find her and say something to bring back her smile, but he couldn't. She probably didn't even want him to. If he'd just been a little more temperate, not allowed himself to be surprised into being harsh, he could have had an unexpected hour of her company, but now all he was left with was a pile of inane scribblings to mark and the stupid bloody game he was engaged upon and which now held no interest for him whatsoever. She hadn't even noticed that he was wearing the red shirt she'd bullied him into buying.

Hermione had noticed. She noticed he was still wearing it when he came into the Great Hall with Professor Sinistra that evening, his robe flung casually over the top of shirt and trousers. She listened to the gossip this occasioned, but kept her eyes on her plate. She supposed she should be pleased for him, but it was hard. What she really felt was upset and angry. Upset that she'd been stupid and he had been unkind; angry with him for wanting to be with other women, and angry with herself for getting into this irrational state. So much for behaving just as usual. Oh, well, she could always revert to type and bury herself in her books.

But even in the library, gossip reached her ears. Rival fan clubs were forming amongst the students: those who remained loyal to Neville, and those who preferred the "Dark Hero". She snorted pumpkin juice the morning she heard that one, and had to admit (to herself at least) that she enjoyed his discomfort when she told him about it. Fortunately for all concerned, Professor Snape's manner remained sufficiently chilling to keep the girls from chasing him down corridors, but Hermione knew that there were now more than a few photos of him being kept under pillows. It was disgusting, really, and made her ashamed for her sex. On the one hand there was Neville, a nice boy, honest and straightforward as the day is long, being idolised as some kind of sex god; on the other, her grouchy, sarcastic, intelligent, splenetic professor, now the subject of untold hormone-injected fantasies. And it was her own fault. Gryffindor Brain indeed – it was a bitter irony. Her mood soured by the day, particularly as she now regularly saw him walking and talking with the female teachers. She supposed she should be grateful that as yet there were no rumours of broken hearts in the staff room. By mutual unspoken agreement, Severus and Hermione stayed clear of the whole topic when they met as usual in his rooms. There were better, and safer, things to talk about, whole areas where they could both pretend that they were just good friends.