Quatre

'No, Miss Granger, you are doing it all wrong.'

I stomp my foot petulantly in frustration, fully aware that it makes me look like a two-year old, but I don't care. 'Well, if you're such a smart cookie, Professor, why don't you come and do it yourself? Oh, wait,' I remind myself snidely. 'You can't.'

Snape, or rather, Portrait-Snape, rolls his eyes, unimpressed. 'Petty insults aside, if you plan on making unhappy werewolves around the world, or at least Britain, howl for an entirely different reason, I suggest you put the fluxweed in after the Edelweiss.'

'That doesn't make any sense! The fluxweed is the catalyst for change. Putting the Edelweiss petal in straight after the aconite renders it completely useless because it can't withstand heat, and there has to be strong heat for the aconite to work. It's an equilibrium reaction; either the temperature is high, which will increase the rate of the reaction, or I keep the heat down and put the catalyst in, which allows the Edelweiss to then work its magic. Pun intended,' I add as an afterthought.

He glares at me for a while, but after a week of this I'm quite indifferent to it. I get the feeling he still thinks that if he concentrates enough of his desire to be rid of me completely into his glare, he'll actually be able to create a laser beam with his eyes that will reduce me to a pile of ash.

How he'll sweep them out, of course, is a different kettle of fish entirely. Ash tends to leave a mark on the carpets, and these are rather fine Persian ones.

And anyway, I don't really relish the idea of being reduced into my constituent elements any time soon.

'Miss Granger,' Snape begins in an almost kindly voice, which makes me almost slice my thumb open with my cutting knife in shock, 'there is a rather large difference between Muggle Chemistry and Potions,' he continues, with the air of explaining that the Tooth Fairy doesn't exist to a disillusioned six-year-old. Still shocking, but this time, I'm more inclined to fling my knife at him.

Instead, I settle for slicing the aconite more violently still. Of course I know there's a difference. That's the reason why I'm working with Muggle chemistry theory. After all, it doesn't make sense to me that greater wizards, Nicholas Flamel included, have tried and failed to make a cure for this. Even the Wolfsbane Potion is a recent thing, and as far as I know, Professor Snape was one of maybe three or four Potions masters that could brew it. It's bloody difficult, and this is coming from someone who brewed Polyjuice Potion as an 'ickle second-year'.

The thing is, where my heritage would normally have been considered a weakness in most wizarding societies, particularly Britain, here it's an advantage. I know the basics of Muggle chemistry, and then I looked up what I didn't know. Then I applied that to Potions, and that's what I'm banking on. I know they're different, but there has to be something that some great wizard must have missed. What if it was just a refusal to consider what Muggles have up their sleeves?

While stirring the cauldron gently clockwise, I slowly scatter the sliced aconite into the thick grey concoction that my potion currently is. It hisses for a while, spitting and bubbling, before the potion turns silvery, gaining a mercurial quality. I stand at my makeshift lab here in the study of Professor McGonagall's Paris apartment, stirring it a few times before leaving it with a satisfied smile. According to my notes, I'll have to leave it to settle for about three days before I can start work on it again.

I stretch my limbs like a cat, straightening out kinks and circulating blood back into the rest of my body. It's bad for the soul, really, to be cooped up doing Potions for hours on end. I mean, look at Snape. That's concrete evidence if there ever was any.

I walk over to the window and open it, letting in a cool rush of autumn air. From the study, there's a wonderful view of the Seine, and the morning light makes everything much prettier than it already is. Leaning on the window frame, I let the soft breeze tousle my hair as I watch the water flow lazily away. I am seriously considering tendering my resignation with immediate effect if I can get a job at the French Ministry. Paris is like London with fairy dust sprinkled on it: modern, but nicer; busy, but calmer; pretty, yet more beautiful. Paris seems straightforward at first glance, but once you get into the banlieues, there's so much more to it. London is a melting pot of cultures, but Paris is kind of more segregated. I'm not saying that's necessarily a good thing, but when you're walking from quartier to quartier, it's like stepping into different worlds entirely.

I strongly suspect that I am just very bored with London, however. Don't get me wrong; I have a great job, and I miss my friends and family like anything. But the wizarding society here is so much more accepting and adventurous. Wizarding Britain seems to have one foot firmly stuck in the Regency period and doesn't look like it's stepping out anytime soon. If I didn't think Lucius Malfoy would kill a Muggle before blinking, I would swear that he thinks stepping into Muggle areas will result in being burnt at the stake.

That, and I'm pretty sure he carries a snuff-box.

From the lounge, I can hear a faint, bell-like sound, which must be Professor McGonagall's grandfather clock telling me it's breakfast time. I glance at my watch–it's just turned ten. Accordingly, my stomach growls for food, so I sweep past the study into my bedroom next door. Shrugging on a white coat, I attempt to braid my hair into some semblance of normality before wandering back into the study for my purse and keys.

Snape raises one eyebrow at me from his perch. 'Going somewhere?'

'Why? Will you miss me?' I ask cheekily.

'Hardly,' he informs me in a lazy tone. 'Far be it from me to enjoy the company of bushy-haired, buck-toothed, irritant know-it-alls.'

This sets me off somewhat, but I hold the flare of rage in check and raise an eyebrow instead. 'Care to run that by me again, Professor?' I ask sweetly, but I can feel the flash of anger in my eyes.

Far from being intimidated, however, he merely smirks back. 'Certainly, Miss Granger,' he sneers, getting up from his chair to raise himself to full height. 'You are a disrespectful, unattractive, textbook-reciting dunderhead, just like the rest of the dimwits I was forced to teach at Hogwarts. You are stubborn, dull, and will always be nothing but an overachieving know-it-all.'

I don't care what a stupid portrait thinks of me.

I don't, I don't.

But despite what I tell myself, I can see every image from school coming back to me: sitting in the toilet, crying, in first year; Ron glaring at me, refusing to speak to me when Scabbers disappeared; Lavender and Parvati looking at me and giggling; Harry shouting at me; Cormac McLaggen in sixth year, roughly pushing me away; and finally, inevitably: 'I see no difference.'

I can feel the tear slipping down from my cheek, and I'm mortified. Angrily wiping it away, I fiercely button my coat up and snatch my wand from the desk, shoving it in my purse before turning furiously.

'You foul, hateful man. You always were, and always will be, an ungrateful, vile, greasy git! I hope you rot in that portrait. I hate you!' I shriek and slam the door on my way out.

Outside the room, I lean against the door, breathing heavily and sniffling silently. How could I ever have respected him? Found his company bearable? Wished, hoped, prayed that he was alive, even after all these years?

I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

After a croissant with honey and a glass of orange juice, I not only feel better, but I have been silently formulating a plan to get revenge on that tosser in my study. I think I have an evil sort of grin on my face, though, because lots of tourists seem to be pointedly glancing at me and whispering.

Oh well. It's all for the greater good, after all.

Well, I have a couple of options. I don't know how receptive portraits are to charms, but I have to say, tickling charms are a remarkably effective form of torture. One negative peep out of him, and zap! Instant easy torture.

Still, I'd have to test that theory on some poor, unsuspecting portrait to see if it works after all. Sighing, I jab my second croissant into the honey in frustration. I can't really think of anyone who deserves that kind of treatment, except maybe Dumbledore, and he'd probably enjoy it. Sir Cadogan, perhaps? But that would mean actually going back to Scotland, and that seems like far too much effort to be wasted on the portrait in question.

Option two: move the portrait into another room. I have to admit, though, when he's not being the git that he is, he can be very amusing. I just wish he hadn't done that to me. I thought we were sort of getting along, but I guess not. Plus, his advice has been helpful more than once during the calculations process.

Damnit.

I could always convince Harry to pay a visit. That would definitely shut him up; he still loathes Harry, even after everything.

However, I am fully enjoying the isolation from everyone I know right now, so having Harry around would probably ruin that. Plus, Harry is a little trigger-happy when it comes to Snape; I don't know how receptive he'll be to a portrait of him, no matter how 'defenceless' (ha!) Snape is.

What about levitating several candles perilously close to his picture? Hmm. That sounds wonderfully vile, but I have to say, there would be some disadvantages to that one. And people would probably wonder why there's a massive hole in the ozone layer directly above the apartment.

Ooh, what about getting a Parisian boyfriend and bringing him over? That would definitely rile him up, not to mention that he'd probably be really jealous. Not because he likes me (like hell), but because he is two dimensional and therefore cannot indulge in the pleasures of physical activities.

Ha! That is a definite possibility.

Only, he'd have to be a wizard. I don't know if I could play up the 'giant hologram painting... thing' excuse too well. That can be solved, though; I know Neville goes to a lot of Parisian wizarding functions. He could always drag me along as well.

Flinging him into the Seine sounds tempting at this point, but those paintings cost quite a bit, and I don't think Minerva would be overly thrilled with me. I don't want to spend the rest of my days being thwacked over the head with a kilt.

No, wait. I've got it.

Time to visit that art shop across the river.

'Say hello to my new friend,' I tell Snape the next morning with a sweet smile on my face, not unlike Umbridge's.

The smile turns into a malicious grin as I haul up a green bottle that looks like wine, except it says 'Térébenthine' in really big white letters across the middle. I plonk it down onto the table with a satisfying thud so that even Snape can't pretend indifference. I flick my wand at my bag, and a clean white cloth zooms into my outstretched hand. With another swish and flick, I let the bottle tip itself over, soaking the cloth. Still dripping, I direct the cloth with my wand, letting it settle just a few inches away from the portrait.

'Do you know what this is, Professor?' I ask, still in that sickeningly sweet tone that even makes me want to retch. He attempts to kill me by force of death-glare for a few moments, but even portraits can't summon that kind of latent magic. 'No? Shall I give you a hint? It's starts with 'T' and rhymes with 'serpentine'. Oh yes, and it can wipe that little sneer off of your painted face, if you'll pardon the pun.'

Judging by the way he's cranked up his death-glare by a couple of notches, I suspect he doesn't feel like forgiving me for that one.

'So, Professor. One word, one insult from you, and you shall find that my wand might just slip a little too far,' I say sweetly, tipping my wand over very slightly so that the turpentine-soaked cloth I'm levitating lurches dangerously close to the portrait. Against his will, Snape flinches very slightly. Then he stands up, turns on his heel and exits the portrait in a billowing swirl of black robes.

Oh well, ho-hum. No skin off my nose, after all, but definitely some off of his. Good Lord, I crack myself up. I'm so punny that I should be punished by, er, joking to death.

Snickering to myself, I get back to work on the base, humming in happily in the absence of the recalcitrant professor.

A/N: I am terribly sorry about the wait; I've been very ill, almost for two months now, plus schoolwork has gotten in the way because I have exams now. Summer starts soon though, so expect more regular updates soon! Thank you to everyone who has given me support despite the absence; it's so appreciated. I'm glad the silly humour has made so many people laugh. May it continue to do so for as long as I keep writing!

Translations for this chapter:

les banlieues -- suburbs.

quartier -- quarter (e.g. Latin Quarter, Arab Quarter, etc.)

Térébenthine -- turpentine, of course!

At the moment I am beta-less due to the disappearance of my previous beta. I would ask Southern_Witch, but she is terribly busy as it is with my other fic and her huge amounts of work. If you're interested, please email me at bellarossii@gmail.com and I would be thrilled to have your help. Also, if you catch any mistakes, feel free to email me. Alert readers are the most wonderful.

Lastly, thank you for all the wonderful reviews. Keep them coming! ;]