Unlikely is an Understatement

The rest of the week flew by, and before she knew it, Hermione was seated at the high table, watching as the new first years were sorted. Wren sat to one side of her, industriously reading come research notes underneath the table, while Bill sat to the other, watching idly as the children were sorted. The dynamic had changed greatly in the hall since she'd last sat here, due in no small part she was sure to the final collapse of the Dark forces.

Slytherin table in particular was looking a little gaunt, its ranks of older students thinned by no small amount. The younger set though seemed a little brighter, a little healthier, a little more normal than she had ever remembered. Gryffindor was the same as ever, full to bursting with raucous, cheerful children of all ages. Ravenclaw, quiet and intense, and Hufflepuff cheerful and bright - if slightly vacant, she admitted to herself. The whole hall, though, was lighter. Was warmer. Was more joyous than ever, despite the fact that Headmaster Snape now presided over the hall, and was currently handing out sneers to anyone who caught his eye. Hermione smiled to herself and turned back to whisper to Wren.

Severus Snape, meanwhile, could concentrate on neither smiles nor food. It took all his energy to restrain himself from stalking out of the Great Hall. Sickening gold dishware, sickening loud children, sickening Gryffindor teachers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Minerva smiling smugly at each new Gryffindor as she read the list, Bill Weasley staring vacantly at the ceiling, and rather unfortunately for his eyes, Miss Granger, who was whispering intently with Wreneth Proctor. He sighed in annoyance, cursing all fertility gods he could think of; this year's slew of incoming students had been nearly twice as large as usual. Ah, the sorting was finally finished. Time for the compulsory words of foolishness and wit that so delighted the (literally, in most cases) unwashed masses seated before him. He swore to himself now that, no matter how senile or deranged he might become, he would never, ever begin his speeches with nonsense words. Sighing melodramatically, he stood, and was more than a bit smug when the hall quieted instantly.

"Welcome," he drawled softly, letting it carry out over the dead silent hall. Every eye was fixed on the tall black form at the head table. "Tomorrow another year will begin, and education will be thrust upon you by your professors, as you will thrust headaches upon them. Hopefully," and he rolled it out with an overwhelmingly cynical sneer, "some of you will leave in June with a little more sense, a little more intelligence, than you came in with." The unspoken, sardonic 'though I doubt it' was painfully clear to even the first years. Older students - and not just the Slytherins - were starting to grin predatorily now at the younger ones, who looked as though they might cry. Adolescent class enmity runs deeper than House loyalty.

"Before you tempt indigestion, focus your attention long enough to absorb some of the customary warnings. Do not go into the Forbidden Forest. I am not Dumbledore, and will not wink and ignore juvenile and dangerous exploits. You do not want to test me on this. Furthermore, Mr. Filch would like you to be reminded that magic is not to be used in the halls, though I know for certain this is a vain request. Finally, keep yourselves out of my offices," Snape warned them darkly. He let his glare travel around the Great Hall, over the quaking Hufflepuffs, the bored Ravenclaws, the stony Gryffindors, and - the moment he'd been waiting for, for nearly twenty years - the wary Slytherins. A final flick of the glare towards Miss Granger, whose face hardened instantly, and he almost smirked. "For any other information, contact your head of House. Now I would be pleased to introduce your new Muggle Studies teacher, Miss Wreneth Proctor," Snape said warmly, nodding as she stood and smiled at the students. "The annual new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Mr. William Weasley." He also stood and smiled, and accepted the respectful nod from the headmaster. "And the potions instructor, Hermione Granger," he bit off in a bored tone, and called the food up before she had stood. Hermione smiled forcedly at the students, and dug her nails into her palms, imagining that they were the Headmaster's throat instead. The students didn't notice or care, as plates and plates of delicious smelling fodder had appeared onto the tables before them.

"Don't mind him. Your anger only satisfies him more. Bastard," Wreneth whispered, and squeezed Hermione's shoulder as she reached for the rolls. Hermione chanced a glance down the table at the Snape, startled to find that he was looking at her and, oh yes, most definitely was smirking like the cat who'd eaten the canary. Her face colored swiftly and she tensed, which only seemed to amuse him more. On final condescending sneer and he turned back to his food.

Snape ate as swiftly and sparingly as ever, barely touching the heaping platters of food. Far too quickly he was finished, left brooding in his chair and fondling his goblet, while professors and students alike industriously dug into their dinner. It was, in his opinion, far too long before everyone looked sated. Students were excused, and he was out the door in the back before the first Hufflepuff had made the doors. A few moments more and he was in his office and practically running for his potions closet.

He'd thought he'd reached the limit of his revulsion by students - and might as well add former students into the mix as well. Apparently, he had previously undiscovered depths of hatred that the role of Headmaster would force him to plumb. Sighing, he locked the door of the closet behind him, and dropped again onto the rickety stool. The tiny lab was comforting. Snape wouldn't admit under torture to needing a security blanket, but he did spend an awful lot of time locked in the little closet.

Tonight though, it was necessary. Classes, real classes, started tomorrow. And for the first time in, oh, nearly twenty years (twenty? Had it really been that long?), he would not be teaching. Would not deliver his (classic) first year speech, nor give the seventh year slacking warning, nor deduct house points from Gryffindors for breathing. Instead he would wait patiently in his office for students to be sent there. Wait patiently. Wait. All day. It would be wonderful. The desire to throttle Albus was only overcome by the desire not to die at Minerva's hands. Ah, in addition to the waiting there would be dealing with faculty issues (translation: Lots of grousing Filch) and writing lots of letters (translation: placating annoying parents).

And Hermione Granger was teaching his class. Tomorrow morning she would step out in robes of some annoyingly uplifting color, into a dungeon that would, no doubt, be sunny and smell vaguely of lemons. Smiles were probably in order, which would undoubtedly be followed up by comforting, understanding words, and explosions that mankind had not seen the like of since Pompeii blew. The injuries would be horrific. Irritated, Snape jerked upwards and began to shuffle through his miniatures stores cabinet, throwing things out onto the table petulantly.

If there was anything he'd learned in twenty years of teaching, it was that children between the ages of eleven and seventeen were the clumsiest, most absent-minded beings on earth. Add that to a discipline where things turn deadly at the drop of a hat. It's the equivalent of a truckful of nitroglycerin on a bumpy road. The only way to keep everything in one piece is to make sure the students were deeply afraid of the teacher, because, gods know, they never had the proper fear for the potion. They hated him for it, but it worked. Well, in most cases. He smiled wryly, remembering one of Mr. Longbottom's more spectacular failures, his hands automatically and expertly dicing the ingredients before him.

And now Miss Hermione Warm-and-Fuzzy-Gryffindor Granger would be teaching his class with smiles and lollipops and points doled out wholesale. No doubt grade inflation would follow. Sunshine-and-Daffodils Granger would, tomorrow, single-handedly destroy the Hogwart's potions program he had so carefully built up. Not to mention the sense of atmosphere he'd created in that dungeon. Genius gone to waste, all because he was forced to hire a chit of a girl with no teaching experience and no common sense. Well, her first lesson might blow out part of the castle, but it would give him an excuse to dismiss her. Snape stared angrily at the valerian root that was hanging in shreds and tatters from his knife. An ingredient ruined, effort wasted, and all indirectly her fault. He pulled another from the cabinet and this time took more care when chopping it.

Stirring is one of the most implicitly boring activities in the universe, but also one of the most calming. Naturally, Snape's mind wandered during his hand's employment. Again, it moved to the nagging issue of Miss Granger, and especially her attitude during dinner. He'd quite enjoyed the dig at her, and the look on her face as she tried (disastrously, in his opinion) to control her immediate anger. No matter what Miss Proctor had been whispering to her, she'd still met his eyes, and crumbled under pressure. Most satisfying.

Except for her uncanny camaraderie with Miss Proctor. After having been told that he had - no ifs, ands, or buts, about it - had to hire Miss Granger for the potions position, he had spent three months in devious scheming about the best way to infuriate her to the point of resignation. One would think that a Slytherin woman better endowed both physically and mentally would be enough to raise the bile in the girl's throat. And hopefully send her fleeing back to the ministry universe, where she would have no contest for the title of Intelligence Queen.

But, no. They were friends. In fact close friends. In fact he hadn't seen closer, if you discounted the two male members of The Gryffindor Disaster. One week and they were inseparable; working together, socializing together, giggling indiscreetly together, acting girly together. It was absolutely insufferable. Antagonistic females plan backfired tremendously: instead of a catfight he got a bloody coven.

Grimacing, he removed the cauldron form the flame, setting it aside to cool before bottling. Wren would spite him so, even if she did only do it unconsciously (not bloody likely). She was wondrously Slytherin, in the noble, traditional sense. He'd remembered it with a proud nostalgia during the years of shepherding the Death Eater Youth Corps. Now that he was living with it, it no longer seemed quite so wonderful.

"Severus!"

Well, speak of the devil. Snape left the cauldron cooling on the counter and collected himself before striding out smartly into his main office with his best Impressive Professor walk. It was entirely a wasted effort. Wreneth had already seated herself in one of the squashy chairs by the fire, and was currently serving tea. He sat in the opposite chair, slightly deflated, and silently accepted the cup she offered.

"I know I haven't been to a welcoming feast in about nine years, but Dumbledore never did try so hard to scare the kids and antagonize the staff," she began merrily, biting the head off a gingerbread cookie. She never had been what he would call a quiet person.

"I hardly antagonized my staff, Miss Proctor - "

"Wreneth," she interrupted. "I was Miss Proctor for six years and hated it every second. Now I don't have to put up with that formality, and I won't."

"Fine. Wreneth. As I was saying I have not antagonized my staff. They are quite well used to my manner and mood having worked with me for a number of years, or," and at this he threw her a dark look, "been taught by me," he finished, sipping at his own tea and returning his gaze to the fire. Tonight was no night to be having a manners debate with the girl.

"Ok, so most of the staff was amused by your speech. I'll give you that one. But don't say you weren't trying to actively annoy Hermione," Wren responded lightly, flicking her fingers idly at the fire, watching the flames color and spark in response.

"You really shouldn't flaunt that so, Mi - Wreneth. As for Hermione the girl is inexperienced and immature, completely unprepared to teach potions here. And no, I was not trying to actively annoy her. I am forty, not fourteen," Snape snapped irritably, banishing the colors from the fire with a wave. He leaned further into his seat, allowing one hand to come up and massage aching temples. The headache brew couldn't cool soon enough.

"Pfft! Please. You're a master of subtle taunting, of goading people into anger. True she's young, and never taught before, but don't try and fed me that bullshit about immaturity and ill-preparation," Wreneth replied, smiling at the headmaster's obvious discomfort. "Have you read her thesis?" she asked lightly.

A long pause ensued.

"Yes." It was grumbled low and petulantly. Wreneth smiled into her tea; he could sound so much like a toddler when he was defensive.

"And?"

"And what?" snarled Snape.

"What did you think of it, obviously?" Wreneth pressed, waving her hand to emphasize the question.

Another long pause began, this one lasting for several long minutes as Snape stared broodingly at the fire.

"It was brilliant."

"What? I didn't quite catch that."

"I said, it was a brilliant work. Well-researched, well tested, well documented. She covered all possible angles, cited all the correct studies and procedures, not to mention some of the purely astounding leaps and connections she made. Inspired work. She's put potion-chemical research ahead ten years with one paper," he ground out angrily, clenching the cup so tightly in his fingers that the knuckles were whitening. Sighing heavily he began to take a sip of tea. "Wreneth, was it absolutely necessary to turn my tea green?" he asked, trying valiantly to grimace at both the offending cup, and the girl beside him who was doubled up in giggles.

"Well, you wouldn't let me play with the fire." Snape gave another long-suffering sigh.

"I think, Wreneth, that it's about time you went off to your rooms. Classes start tomorrow, and you'll need to be fresh in order to bail Miss Granger out of trouble," he began, trying to force her exit.

"Now just wait a second, Severus. Bed can wait. You've just admitted that she's a more the competent potions scholar, and you're still acting like she's a fifth-year student. Why are you being such a bastard to her?" she asked smartly, her patience wearing thin and showing in her voice. Still glaring at the headmaster, Wreneth stood and shook herself out, waiting her ground until she got an acceptable answer.

"Alright, she's and intelligent potions student, probably over-qualified for the position. But she's never been a teacher, she's never taught potions to children, and she's going to get herself into a lot of trouble with her brazenly Gryffindor attitude of 'help now, think later'. Not only that but she is defiant of my authority, and still regards me as the teacher she once had. We conflict on a fundamental personality level. That's sufficient explanations for you. Tomorrow is the first day of classes, I have much work to be done still, and a raging headache that you have only served to worsen. Now, go!" he roared the last, rising from his chair in a migraine-induced rage. Wreneth regarded him coolly, towering over her black and foreboding, trembling slightly in exhaustion and anger.

"There's more to this than you're telling me, and I'm going to find out what it is. Poor girl doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. We'll be having another, longer chat. Soon," she snapped, and whirled on her heel, stalking out the door, a tiny bombshell of righteous anger and annoyance.

After the door slammed behind her, Snape fell back, exhausted, into his chair.

The next morning dawned, ominously bright and cheerful. Hermione woke at six charged with nervous energy. The morning was spent pacing her chambers, fixing her robes (navy blue), changing her robes (basic black), and cleaning and re-organizing her desk, three times. Breakfast passed without her even realizing.

It was far too soon when the first class filed in silently, obviously not taking any chances with the new potions teacher. Fourth year Gryffindor and Slytherin combined. Hermione mastered her nerves and stood, unconsciously trying to project some Snape-like grace.

"Welcome. I am Professor Granger." She paused, drawing upon her inner McGonagall. The speech she'd prepared would be nowhere near Snape Eloquence Standards, but hopefully they'd still listen. "For three years in potions you have been drilled in the basics of brewing, the foundation potions, the multifarious bases. This year you will begin to learn the more useful, and therefore more complex potions. All of these require the utmost care, for while their results can be beneficial, the brewing is often dangerous. It will require complete attention and utter seriousness. From the moment you enter class, until the moment you leave you must be aware of everything your doing. This is no place for fun and silliness," she finished sternly. "Now we'll begin today's lesson with an Anesthesia Potion. Please turn to page 12 of your books." And she turned and began to list ingredients and properties on the board, while behind her the class silently took notes.

Twenty minutes later the students were working over their cauldrons, their talk creating a dull hum in the background.

Five minutes later the air began to hum.

"What's happening? What did you add? Silence!!"

Three cauldrons erupted in purple columns of flame.

Six children were doused in boiling, slimy, liquid.

Four of them began to scream, and were cut off as their vocal cords deadened.

Two of them tried to run, only to find they could not feel their legs.

Fourteen children stampeded for the door.

One distraught professor flooed the hospital wing.

At the end of the last class, Hermione slumped into her chair, utterly exhausted. It had been an utterly horrendous day. Casualties had increased throughout the day, though not to the extent or seriousness of the first class. She herself was frazzled, and her robes reeked of smoke and dead fish, courtesy of the Hufflepuff third years. All she wanted was a warm dinner. Preferably in her rooms, as she didn't think she could stand to see the sneer of self-satisfaction on Snape's face at having been right again. Oh, and she hoped Wren would come by for a good chat. Hermione needed to vent, in a big way. Sighing heavily, she ran a hand through her hair, rubbing at the tension that had built in her neck. Eyes closed, she moved down to her shoulders, both hands now working on the knots.

When she next opened her eyes, she was greeted with the sight of a small black owl sitting statuesquely on her desk. Hermione groaned. That owl, with his disdainful expression, but really more his beak, looked exactly like his owner. She unrolled the parchment with ill-disguised irritation.

Miss Granger,

I expect to see you promptly in my office following dinner.

Groaning she threw herself against the back of her chair. The owl glared.

Dinner was spent eating mechanically and staring at her food. She would not, she promised herself, raise her eyes to look at Snape. Would not. Would not give him the pleasure of smirking cruelly at her for any extra time than she would already have to suffer through. Hateful, cruel, snarky, man. She hoped he choked on the chicken.

Bill and Wren, meanwhile, were exchanging worried glances over her head. Both had tried communicating with her, and had been met with a monosyllabic wall. The story of her disastrous first class had reached the ears of all, and they both felt keenly for the girl, especially since Snape was grinning fit to split his head in two. Bill put a hand on her shoulder, just for a moment, warm and heavy to remind her that he was there. Wren satisfied herself by glaring daggers at the headmaster. And covertly vivifying his mashed potatoes.

It was far too soon when Snape stood and stalked out, and the students stood and milled around the tables. Hermione rose to her feet grudgingly, and for the first time in the night looked Wren in the eye.

"Later, I'll be by your rooms. You look in need of girl talk," she said comfortingly, cupping Hermione's face in her hands. She smiled reassuringly, and watched the girl as she headed off for her meeting, each footstep weighted.

Snape was standing beside his fireplace and staring at the flames, tall and black and forbidding, when she entered. As soon as she'd crossed the threshold he'd turned and pinned her with an inquiring glance, leaving her as nervous as she'd been in her first year. Silently he moved to behind his desk and motioned for her to enter and sit, waiting until she was settled before taking his own seat. For several moments they sat, she staring at her lap, he watching her curiously over his enlaced hands.

"So, Miss Granger, congratulations on your first day of teaching. You have sent an unprecedented twelve students to the infirmary in one day of classes. I would applaud you, but my position as headmaster depends upon me having a school to run," he said silkily, watching as the girl - most definitely still a girl - tensed and flushed. She was twisting her robes and not meeting his eyes. So dispirited. Shame.

"Sir - "

"Please, wait. There's more to come before you can try to scrabble together an excuse and an apology and call them justification. Now, Miss Granger, when a teacher sends twelve students to see Poppy in one day, notice is taken. Especially if she is a new teacher. Now, I know you consider yourself to be frightfully well qualified. However, the truth is, you have never taught before. Not even as an assistant. Now, I hired you as a promise made and fulfilled. I did not believe you capable then, and I certainly do not believe you capable now.

"Minerva would be highly displeased were I to dismiss you after this, despite your resounding failure. However, Miss Granger, there are certain guidelines that must be followed in a school - the most important of these being protecting the students." He quirked an eyebrow at her, and continued. Hermione had lost her nervousness; it had been burned away in anger. Now she was watching him, eyes blazing, sitting up straight and tall and righteous in her chair. But that was not what had caught his eye. She seemed to be...laughing? He filed it away in the back of his mind, and continued.

"Now, as you know, we have no other teacher who can assist you, and hiring someone else would take time. The best short-term solution is for you to begin teaching these." At this he handed her a folder full of papers. "I believe you have a copy of this. It's my old curriculums. You may teach from them, until you have gained some experience. They are planned day for day, for all years, and for all houses," he finished softly, his voice as smooth and professional as ever. Hermione was still watching him, obviously itching to tell him off. Good. He'd rather disliked the act of the shy, trodden-upon Granger.

"Thank...you...sir. I'm sure the curriculums will be very...useful," she bit out, standing sharply. Snape almost grinned. Almost. Instead he nodded at her, a clear sign of dismissal. Hermione understood, and left in huff, not neglecting to slam the door behind her.

With Hermione safely gone, Snape allowed the smirk to fully grace his face. Granger always had been a bit of a spitfire. For the first time all week, his headache was...well, not gone but reduced. The headache potion cooling on his counter wouldn't be used tonight.