Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Hermione's head was on fire. It itched and burned so terribly, it was a wonder she wasn't already being hosed down by some intrepid fire fighter. She became convinced that if she were to put a piece of parchment on it, she'd instantly catch the thing alight. She was, in her own mind, a walking fire hazard.

Hermione was a hazard for Snape, as well, for a very different reason. Ever since she had set foot in number twelve, Grimmauld Place as a fully legal adult, he couldn't stop himself from being attracted to this battle-hardened, witty, curvaceous minx. That Dumbledore had the ulterior motive of torturing him mercilessly, Snape had no doubt. As a severely private person, Severus never showed the slightest interest in any female to his colleagues' recollections. It also helped that Snape valued intelligence more than physical beauty. He felt it only right that he look for the spark within, instead of holding up the fairer sex to a standard which he himself could not meet. His interest in her went far beyond the physical; Dumbledore, who never missed a thing, was probably aware of it and intended to force Severus to come to some sort of acceptance of the thing. His first knee-jerk reaction was avoidance. He was not allowed the luxury, not with the meddlesome old man in charge.

Hermione spent her half hour in the library looking at books (but not daring to touch, in case of an incendiary incident) and desperately trying to ignore the intense discomfort radiating from her previously virginal scalp. Severus spent his taking a good long look in the mirror and thinking about things he hadn't allowed himself to consider since that fateful night in the Headmaster's office: Lily. He had done it. He had played his part in avenging the death of the only person who had ever truly mattered in the whole of his existence. He had served the grand purpose he set up for himself, had accomplished the one thing that kept him alive through Cruciatus after Cruciatus, kept him sane through revel after twisted revel, and kept him focused through raid after bloody raid. His purpose made being a double agent almost bearable; his revenge provided the steel behind his resolve.

Where did that leave him now?

Death seemed almost like a blessing, once his raison d'être ceased to be. But his heart kept pumping, his lungs continued to draw in air and expel breath after breath while he lay cold and helpless on the floor of the old shack. As he felt the darkness enfolding him, a voice, Her voice came to him as if in a dream. "Not yet, Severus. There is still more for you to do."

He would have liked to believe his hallucination, but it was merely shock from the trauma he received. Lily was no ghost and only ghosts could speak with the living. She was in whatever afterlife was reserved for the best, the purest, those who made the world a better place just by existing. He would never see her there. There was a darker place awaiting him. But he would have gone. It was no more or less than he deserved. It was no worse than the aimless quality his continued existence possessed. Sometimes he cursed the Auror who found and saved him, usually in the dead of night with quite a few firewhiskys in him.

The Headmaster endeavored to provide him with a new purpose in looking after 'the brightest witch of her age.' The moniker used to make him snort in disbelief at the very best or made the bile rise in his throat at the very worst. After teaching the insufferable little know-it-all for six years, it made little difference to him whether or not she was all that those sentimental fools believed her to be. She annoyed him with her constant fishing for empty praise. She galled him to knock her down a peg or two with her smugness at being able to spout word for word what she'd read in a text. Memorization was easy, but knowing the proper application for said knowledge made one truly great. He would have loved to hate her for this and this alone, only she'd proven him time and time again that she had the capacity to apply all that she learned when the occasion presented itself. There was not a bit of luck in Hermione's success up to this point. Despite all that she achieved, she had no one to do it for. Her family died in the raids and left her alone for the world.

A lucky Gryffindor would still have her family.

She hadn't even hesitated when he'd told her that the honor she'd been working toward all of her student career was not to be hers, because of bad luck. She could have taken her honorary NEWTs and had everything handed to her. She declined and opted to go back and earn her place in graduating from Hogwarts, unlike her dunderheaded friends.

A lazy Gryffindor would have accepted the silver spoon on the silver platter and been assured that it was owed to her. An entitled Gryffindor would have railed against having to give up being Head Girl. The child-Hermione would have done all these things, had he pegged her correctly. Just who was this intelligent, noble, strong young woman who kept company with two of the laziest idiots he'd had the displeasure of teaching?

He could say he'd found a new respect for her, although he would have been wrong. He respected very few. At the very least, though, he didn't despise her, and that was enough to behave civilly toward her until she did something to prove him correct in his original assessment. She was elevated above them, that anonymous, faceless mass that made up the bulk of people in the world. Severus hated people. Severus hated them. She was now in that middle category of 'people I can benefit from' and 'people I can stand to be in the same room with.' It was the best that any Gryffindor could have hoped for from him.

Which reminded him: he needed to stop thinking of her as a Gryffindor and start identifying her with his house. It wouldn't do for him to start docking points from a house she wasn't supposed to belong to at all. Her behavior was his responsibility, and he'd have to start taking that into account. He smiled a little. That also meant that her achievements would reflect on him as well. Based on the amount of points he could award her in his own class alone, Slytherin might in fact be winning the house cup, this year. Finally, said the sibilant whisper in his soul.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione was just about at her wits' end. The itching had finally subsided, and now she felt the cold trickling of black dye down the back of her neck. It collected in the bottom of the shower cap and robbed her of most of the body heat she had been able to hoard in the drafty, old house. What was it about wizards that they couldn't seem to keep their houses warm? Spinner's End was just as cold and creepy as number twelve. Remembering the Burrow, she had to amend her thought. Dark wizards couldn't keep their homes warm. Even the Malfoys, the wealthiest of wizards, couldn't seem to burn enough to keep out the perpetual chill that accompanied dark magic. It bit into her flesh through the smock and her jumper. She thought it was a good chance that her bum, encased in tight-fitting stretch denim, would never be warm again. Just as that depressing thought passed her mind, she heard the sound of rushing water from somewhere on the second floor. Images of a hot, steaming bath had her ascending the stairs to investigate.

As she reached the first landing, the air seemed to grow noticeably warmer. With the promise of more heat, she quickened her pace, until she stood staring through an open doorway into a room that seemingly held more light than the rest of the entire house combined. It had a great deal more of that compelling warmth, too. What held her at bay was the steaming Muggle appliance of plumbing that took up half of the far wall of the room. In a house like this one, the massive, glass-door shower was as out-of-place as a vegetarian in a steak house. It just wouldn't want to be there. What further made her hesitate was her Potions master in a Muggle bathing suit, looking ill at ease under her scrutiny.

"This will go a lot faster if you cease ogling me and get yourself properly attired. Unless you want to keep that shower cap on your head for the rest of your life, that is." He smirked.

"Oh, no. I'm not getting in there with you like that." She shook her head vehemently. She instantly regretted the movement as it caused a cascade of damp locks to tumble down around the nape of her neck, chilling her further. "I am perfectly capable of washing my own hair, thank you."

He smirked even more, momentarily surprising her that it was even possible. Then he sneered, "No, Miss Granger, you are not. Let me tell you why your hair acts up the way that it does. You do not care for it properly, and I refuse to allow you to mangle it further."

She snorted. "I suppose you would apply the same care to my hair as you do your own? I apologize, but I don't relish the thought of a curtain of utter grease framing my face. I am unappealing enough as it is, physically. You yourself have said so on numerous occasions."

His mocking sneer faltered and he became quite serious. "Come here," he commanded. She hesitated for a moment before he sighed and moved with all the speed and grace due a jungle cat. In an instant, he was before her, the chill air of the hallway pimpled his pale skin with gooseflesh and hardened his nipples in a way that fascinated her horrifyingly. He gripped her firmly but gently by the wrist and raised her hand to the black glossy curtain others assumed to be greasy.

"It's like silk!" she murmured, awestruck.

"So are we agreed that I should show you how to tame that," he searched for an adequate word, "mane of yours?"

"I'm still a little uncomfortable about the concept," she admitted, "but you appear to have discovered some secret about proper hair care."

"Good, because it's freezing standing here with the bloody door open." He released her wrist and retreated deeper into the steam. "Shall I turn my back and give you time to transfigure yourself a proper bathing suit, or can you trust me in this, as well?" he quirked an eyebrow. His professionalism and courtesy went miles towards making her feel better about getting into the shower with him. He was purely her cosmetology consult in this. He wouldn't jump on her like some randy schoolboys she knew at the first hint of cleavage.

With a few well-practiced flicks of her wand, she had herself a passable bikini. Ginny taught her the trick after her first summer at the Burrow when the boys decided a bit of swimming was in order. Conveniently, nobody had thought to bring a swimsuit. Also conveniently, Ginny had seen her brothers pull this stunt before and was prepared, for Hermione's sake.

Snape kept it together enough to let no emotion whatsoever show on his impassive face. Years of spying for the Order had taught him well. As it was, the man was deserving of an Oscar and an Order of Merlin for his restraint. He also did not allow his eyes to do the thorough inspection of her form that he desired to do. He was left with the impression of sensuous curves barely concealed by the skimpy strings and bits of fabric that passed for a swimsuit. He held open the door and gestured for her to enter the cubicle.

He stepped in mere seconds after she did and immediately took the hand-held sprayer off the wall. "Kneel down and get your head as close to the drain as you can," he said. "Keep your eyes closed. Pinch your nostrils closed, too. It will be a lot more comfortable for you that way."

She did as he commanded, feeling eerily like she was kowtowing to some pale sultan from the South. The spray instantly hit her hair and the dye-slicked locks fell forward toward the shower floor. He'd sweep the spray beside her and behind her every few moments, then continue rinsing her until he was satisfied with the result. "You can stand up now," he murmured. He replaced the hand-held in its holster on the wall. She rose carefully from her kneeling position, afraid that her legs might have gone to sleep. They had.

He reached out and steadied her without a word. Gratefully, she smiled at him and raised her face to the shower's spray. She scrubbed the skin of her hairline and eyebrows until the itching went away. When she came up for air, he guided her back out of the reach of the water and began lathering her curls with a sweet-smelling shampoo. He rinsed his hands once he was done and gently pushed her back under. She closed her eyes hard, afraid of the sting of the shampoo in her eyes.

"Don't scrunch your brows like that. Your eyes will make a better seal against the water if you relax," he admonished. She complied, but it was hard to fight the instinct not to.

After the water ran clear, he repeated the process. This time, she did better at doing as he told her, instead of doing as she had always done. Once again, the spray of the water seemed deafening against their silence as he slicked her hair completely with an oily, thick conditioner. She felt the tingles start again and cursed them. Again, he rinsed his hands, then immediately turned off the water. She looked at him with a puzzled frown. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"No. That conditioner needs time to soak into your hair."

"How much time?" she asked, the cold air already seeping in and chilling her flesh. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, beginning to shiver just a little.

He made an impatient sound in the back of his throat and pushed open one of the shower doors. The draft made her shrink back and cringe but he quickly shut the door, his prize in hand. He wrapped the fluffy bath towel around her shaking shoulders and rubbed her arms vigorously for warmth. "About a minute or two," he told her gruffly, not adding what he thought of her delicacy against the cold.

When her shivering did not abate, he made another one of those impatient sounds and exited the cubicle. When he returned with his wand in hand, he did a drying spell on his own skin and a warming spell for her.

"Thank you, Professor Snape." Her teeth chattered slightly.

"Don't mention it. Really."

"I won't," she promised.

"Good," with that he whisked the towel off of her and tossed it over the glass and metal wall. The shower went on again, full blast. Hermione could have wept with relief. He rinsed her more thoroughly then the two times previously, taking the showerhead in hand and changing the setting to 'pulse'. She felt it smack against her tender scalp in a relentless focused beam. The dichotomy between the pleasure of the itch being scratched and the pain of it being scratched too hard felt strangely right to Hermione. It troubled her that she couldn't figure out why.

"From your earlier reaction to cold, I can tell that you won't like this next part much, but it has to be done," he informed her, as he adjusted the setting again.

"What part?" Her voice held a worried edge.

"The cold rinse," he replied and doused her head in the coldest water Hermione had ever felt. Gasping and spluttering, she cursed him and everyone who had anything to do with his birth as he kept torturing her with the spray. He took her verbal abuse stoically, no apology in his manner when it was done. He wrapped her once again in the towel, dried her with the steady backdrop of her teeth chattering, and used the same towel to wrap her hair up in a twist down her back. It was at this moment that his eyes chanced to slip his hold and gaze on the pert little nipples poking at him beneath her bikini top. He felt his pulse kick up a notch, but he betrayed little with his breathing or any flare of his nostrils.

His body betrayed him just the same. He had wondered why she was so quiet the next few moments. Now he knew. Her eyes were glued in horrified fascination to the tent at the front of his swim trunks. The massive erection was something he could never deny. He silently wished for her to say something, anything, instead of staring at the evidence of her body's effect on his. He also wished for his flowing black robes, very much. Well, that part, he could control. He transfigured them back out of the damned revealing scrap of cloth he wore previously. Finally her eyes snapped back up to his, wide and round with so many nameless emotions. The foremost one was shock, he decided. She broke eye contact first, blushed and shivered and looked anywhere but at him.

"It doesn't have to mean anything, Hermione." His voice was low and comforting. "It's just a natural response. I wasn't planning on ravishing you or paying you unwanted attention. You need not fear me."

"I don't fear you," she murmured, still staring pointedly at the tiles of the wall. The blush still stained her cheeks. "So does that mean you find me... attractive?"

He grit his teeth and bit back a hasty retort. In calmer tones he said, "I am a man, Hermione. You are a seventeen-year-old witch. What do you think?"

She mocked herself with her smile. "I think that it doesn't have to mean anything," she murmured and let herself out of the cubicle. Her Muggle jeans and jumper flowed back around her when she reached her wand. Once she was beyond his hearing, she whispered to herself, "But I wish that it did!"