Die, Die, Dye your hair

Die, Die, Dye... Your Hair

"For all intents and purposes, Ms. Granger, you are far too recognizable as you are. Believe me when I tell you that any Death Eater in the country knows your exact description, and quite a few know you by sight. Granted, it's been a few years since any photos of you have graced the front page of the Daily Prophet, and it is my hope that any changes you may have undergone in your... development should mask your features to any casual observer. It is up to you and I to ensure that no one who is looking for you would give you more than a passing glance. Hence, Ms. Granger, the need for you to undergo a complete makeover." Hermione had to admit, it was rather comical how the man could slip into his lecturing voice so very easily. She didn't even attempt to hide her amusement, since he had no way of deducting house points. They were outside of school, the school year hadn't even really begun, and most importantly of all, the Headmaster had assured her that Professor Snape could not retroactively deduct house points based on her behavior before the start of term.

That did not, however, protect her from Severus Snape's wrath, should he choose to exercise it. Somehow, this year, after hearing from Harry about Snape's true intentions toward the downfall of the Dark Lord, his wrath was not nearly as intimidating as it was when she harbored little doubts about where the Potions master's loyalties truly lay. But sometimes, she forgot all about the fact that he was her professor and became intimidated all at once by his startling presence and the danger that lurked beneath his deceptively calm surface. Add to that the fact that the man had managed to live through the snake bite and loss of blood that had led the Golden Trio to leave him for dead, firmly placing him in the column of 'wizards I should not mess with', as far as Hermione was concerned. As it was, he merely pinned her with a quelling glance before he continued.

"I have procured a few items from the drug store down the street that will help us in our endeavor." Without much preamble, he lifted out a box of Clairol hair dye, a few cosmetics, and a straightening iron. Hermione was not surprised or amused to discover that the dye color of choice was black. Just like everything in his wardrobe, it seemed. (And his home furnishings. And his mood, come to think of it.) Her mouth quirked to the side and betrayed her chagrin.

"Yes? Is there something you wished to comment on?"

"I don't see the need for Muggle devices, Professor Snape. Can't we just use glamour charms, or Polyjuice Potion?"

"Ah, yes. Polyjuice Potion. The problem with that particular contrivance is that the potion wears off unless you spend all your time sipping it, and you will be woefully apparent in doing so. Also, it requires a bit of hair from a person who already exists, and I can't see your Gryffindor sensibilities allowing you to force some other girl's life to be put on hold while you traipse about using her image." Hermione attempted to look sufficiently cowed by this, so he continued. "Glamour charms have their uses, but also their downfalls. I am oft wont to teach by example rather than by explanation, so if you would be so kind as to attempt to change your appearance using any spell you like, I will illustrate."

"Err, could you, you know, turn your back or something?"

Snape attempted not to roll his eyes; "There is an empty guest room behind you if you prefer privacy while you... ahem... change."

In all honesty, Hermione hadn't had much luck with disguise or glamour charms. She wanted to be able to survey the changes to make sure she didn't appear as some lop-sided monstrosity and give him more ammunition to chuck about her sense of the aesthetic. It was bad enough that the Headmaster had put HIM in charge of this farce. Somehow, the old twinkly-eyed bastard thought it would be a good idea to have her snarky Potions professor oversee her transformation, as well as act as her personal bodyguard (or babysitter, as He put it) for her final year at Hogwarts.

Though the Dark Lord had been defeated, there were still those among his followers who wished to do Harry and his friends harm. Far from solving all of their problems, the death of Voldemort had provided a martyr for the cause of anti-Muggle sentiments. Hermione, being the 'boy who lived's friend and a Muggle-born to boot was an especially juicy target. Hence the subterfuge. Hermione was to pose as Olivia Prince, Professor Snape's second cousin from the Australia Princes. Naturally, that required an image change, or anyone and everyone would know the truth just by looking.

With all that running through her mind, convincing her that all this was necessary, she decided to have a bit of fun with it. She cast a hair-color charm and attempted to tame her locks while rouging her lips and enlarging her bosom. She then transfigured a dress that hugged her curves and attempted to heighten her heels. Gazing back at herself in the floor-length mirror, she regarded a flesh-and-blood version of Jessica Rabbit. Adding abnormally long lashes and opera length gloves, she went to face the music, so to speak.

She attempted a little breezy humor as she opened the door a smidge. Her leg went out first, and she pressed her front to the doorframe, humming the first few bars of Jessica's musical number. Snape merely smirked, all the blood being held in his brain by sheer force of will, and muttered, "Cute. Now get in here."

She began to pout like a teenage girl putting on her very first slutty Halloween costume. "Don't you know who I am?"

"You're not bad, you're just drawn that way. Finite Incantatum," He waved his wand lazily in her general direction. Where before stood Jessica Rabbit in the flesh (quite a bit of flesh), now was Hermione "Plain Jane" Granger in a jumper and jeans.

"Oh, bullocks," she sighed, raising her hands in defeat. "I get it. And if I were to walk through one of those charmed portals like at the Ministry, it'd amount to the same thing. You're right, give me the box."

"Oh, no. Your hair, by the looks of it, and if memory serves, has never seen a product harsher than shampoo. You've never dyed your hair before, and I'm sure you'd make a right mess of it. This is why I am here. Come into the kitchen; the light's better."

"But..."

"No buts, Miss Granger. I hate repeating myself, and I'd hate even more repeating this whole process because you cannot be bothered to follow instructions."

"Was that what you were doing?" she retorted.

"What?" He just stared.

"When you changed those potions in your textbook. Were you just following instructions then?"

For a moment, he really was quite speechless. "Do you want my help or not?" he finally asked, looking fully prepared to walk right out and leave her to it.

"Is it really complicated?" she asked in a meek, doubtful little voice.

"I've seen you brew more complicated potions, but it helps to have eyes and hands where yours don't reach," he finally answered. Outside of the classroom, he was actually kind of... approachable. She didn't know what was worse. That he was approachable or that she was tempted to do just that, despite years of emotional conditioning (at his hands) telling her to flee as far and as fast as she could away, lest he find something to taunt her about.

The chair made a scraping sound as he pulled it across the cheap beige linoleum tile. It was little more than a stool, really. She shored up the last of her courage, walked in despite her better judgment, and sat; he swept a long black smock around her shoulders. It wasn't until he lifted her hair from beneath her collar that she realized just what a mistake this really was. The tingles started low and quickly sped upward in a sweep from tailbone to the top of her head and then made their progress down to her toes. The next twenty minutes were like heaven entwined with hell. She couldn't believe that the man who had caused her so much grief in her childhood was making putty of her now just with his hands on her hair. It would be even worse did he know it. And there were probably many more humiliations to come.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Severus tried to concentrate as the waves of her pheromones hit him one after another. The silly chit had been toying with him all night, and it absolutely had to stop. The hair dye could only mask so much, and he was human! Did she think him a bloody saint? And that stunt she pulled with Jessica Rabbit! Honestly! What heterosexual male hadn't seen that film and put that cartoon character on the list of "fictional characters I would love to shag"?

"Did it have to be black?" She finally spoke, breaking him out of his angry inner tirade.

"If you are to pose as any relative of mine, it is best you looked the part," he explained shortly.

"I'm just sure it'll wash my skin tone out. And it'll take forever to dye it back," she complained.

"Once you go black, you can't go back," he quipped, smirking a little. "Until it grows back out, that is."

Hermione managed to suppress a groan, but not the giggle that followed. "I didn't know you were a poet."

His silence spoke volumes.

"Okay, shutting up now," she murmured half under her breath.

They retreated to the uncomfortable silence she was desperately trying to get out of. Without talking or any meaningful intellectual stimulation, she was left to ponder the physical sensations that had left her so uneasy in the first place. As the sensations took her over once again, her pheromones rippled out in time with the tingles, and this time, it was Sev who was engaging in any small talk to lighten the tension.

"It won't wash you out, you know. You'll never look pale; you're too naturally tan."

"That's the Greek in me."

"Lucky for you, the nose was left out of qualities you inherited. Believe me, a nose like this is no easy thing to live with." Which brought him back to the reason behind the whole attempt at verbal escapism.

"I didn't know you had Greek in you."

"No, my dear. Roman."

"Mother or father's side?"

"Mother. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious about what your Roman forefather's surname could have been."

"Ancient history is best left to the historians, and I am sure there is none alive that could uncover the surname of a poor dirt farmer in Hellene times."

"Maybe it was Princeps," she mused, "and he was no dirt farmer at all."

Once again, he was astounded that she had squirreled away another seemingly inane bit of knowledge about him as his mother's maiden name. He knew she was a walking brain and all, but this was just disturbing. Unnerved, he let the subject drop, which was felicitous as it was time for phase two.

He slapped the shower cap down over her riotous curls, now liberally doused in black dye. She began to fidget in her seat as he washed his gloves and the dye applicator in the kitchen sink. After a while, she then started to make little grunting noises, which he found it in his best interest to put a stop to. She was a seventeen-year-old girl, and anything remotely approaching a sexual noise from her was like a punch in the gut. It was only natural.

"What is it now?" he demanded, irritated beyond all belief.

"It itches..." her whine was petulant and in better keeping with the child he thought he knew.

He made an "tsk" sound, and then his hands were once again on her head, digging lightly into her scalp, scratching tiny little circles. She let out a full, heart-felt moan as the burning fire that had taken up residence was quelled with each passing stroke. His fingers stilled, and she heard him suck in a noisy breath from between clenched teeth.

"Professor?"

"You have another half an hour. I suggest you find something to occupy your time," he bit out tersely. She knew a dismissal when she heard one. So without preamble, she got up and found her way to the library to peruse the books that had been the focus of some (More than quite a few, if she was perfectly honest with herself) of her fantasies at school.

With her removed to another room, he found it easier to think. Also more room in his pants. "You're going to have to be placed in my House," he called from the kitchen, wanting to prepare her for any shock she may receive along with her new identity.

"I know. The Headmaster told me so. No Prince has ever been a Gryffindor, and I'm not about to start making waves," she replied, only half-listening in on the conversation while she scanned the titles before her.

"You won't be able to be head girl, this year either."

"I know that too, Severus. Trust me, I'm up to speed," she called in her otherwise fully absorbed voice. In a flash, he was there before her, startling her out of her deep concentration.

"What did you just say?" He loomed menacingly.

"I'm up to speed?"

"Before that," he coaxed.

"I know?"

"After that," he purred, which had the startling effect of being even more menacing.

"Trust me?"

"Wrong, again, Miss Granger."

"Severus," she said in a breathy kind of voice, laced with the understanding of what line she just crossed with perhaps the scariest professor ever, and also the pleasure of being able to do so without recourse. (Well, mostly without recourse, anyway.) Add a healthy dollop of fear, just in case any one ever accused her of being completely without a sense of self-preservation, and you had a cocktail of jumbled nerves and emotions that had her taking a step back and pressing forward simultaneously. To the outside observer, she merely stood still, swaying almost imperceptibly on the balls of her feet.

Her breathy utterance had quite a different effect on him than he was expecting, and his reaction to that effect had him quickly retreating back in to the kitchen, away from her smell and womanly curves. That he desired her, he wouldn't deny. That he would give into his body's demands and possibly deflower a witch under his protection, he would do his damndest to avoid. Damn her, but she'd won that round with nothing more than the utterance of his given name. He couldn't even put his usual snarky command behind "Professor Snape, to you" from his defeated spot in the next room.

"I think I'll call you Cousin Sev," she chortled in her victorious mirth.

"You will not!" he barked from out of sight.

"Come in here and tell me otherwise, then," she grinned, knowing he would not, but not exactly knowing why he would not. That part still confused her. All she knew was that she had some strange power over the man, and she fully intended to exploit it.