The Birds and the Bees

Snape tried very hard to concentrate as he held his quill over another stack of soulless essays, yet his eyes seemed to wander of their own accord; invariably to fix on the workbench where the Granger girl worked. He cast an expert eye over the ingredients she had laid out before her, mentally calculating how they would react to each other. He frowned in concentration, and before he was properly aware of his own movements he was out of his chair and halfway over to the workbench. The potion's siren-call pulled him in as it always did.

The girl was stirring firmly, eyes fixed on the brew, quiet and still...yet there was a wisp of a sound in the air. It sounded almost as if she were humming to herself, yet still fainter than that...but then it was gone and he knew he must have imagined it. He settled his attention on the greyish liquid in the cauldron instead, but it was none too exciting. From the ingredients he had noted and the colour of the brew, it looked to be a simple medicinal draught - strengthening and calming but not strong enough to be more than a tonic.

Idly his eyes strayed up to look at the girl. She was carefully ignoring him, still stirring steadily. She had that same, earnest, focussed look that she often wore in class while she prepared a potion. The artisan in him couldn't help but hold a grudging respect for the way she poured all of her concentration and all of her will into the preparation of a potion, and he had the strangest urge to smile at her as she stirred. Of course, he didn't though.

It was night-time, well past curfew, yet the girl still wore her school uniform. Unlike most of the other students she wore her shirt buttoned up to the very top button; the tie-knot sitting firmly against her throat. Snape's fingers strayed unconsciously to the high collar of his jacket as he wondered how it could be that this quiet, studious girl was the same cyclonic creature that had had a presence that filled the room the night before...but then her eyes flicked up to meet his and he caught a glimpse of that same mocking laughter that had washed over him the previous night. He tensed.

She spoke. 'I know it doesn't look like much, Professor, but I'm still experimenting,' she said, and her voice was soft and almost apologetic; deferential...but still something behind her eyes danced with scornful laughter. Wrong-footed again, all he could do was nod and turn away stiffly. Return to his desk and stare at his quill with determined concentration. The look in her eyes had had shades of the glances that Madam Rosmerta sometimes threw him. Looks accompanied by a flick of the hips, which said I know you want me. But you can't touch me. A student, though...buttoned up to the neck... He couldn't help but wonder what exactly it was that had gotten into Hermione Granger. He wondered, did she even know herself?

Hermione relaxed slightly as she felt Snape walk away from the workbench. Try as she might to ignore it, something within her railed against the stiff reserve of the Potions Master. Before this strange magic had taken hold of her, and despite her protestations at Harry and Ron's hatred of Snape, she had secretly wished for a teacher who was softer and less...terrifying. The man could quiet a room with barely a glance, and while it was impressive it had always made Hermione feel uncomfortable and small.

That had been before, though. That had been before this magic - this mood, almost - had started to whisper in her ear. And the thing about this magic voice was that it preferred Snape when he was vindictive, commanding and breathing power than now - sitting stiffly at his desk, unsure of himself, busy pretending that he wasn't interested in the potion she was preparing. Normally he would have no qualms about supervising the whole process. He would stand just inches outside of a student's peripheral vision in order to intimidate them, black eyes following every stroke of the spoon. Supremely confident, and always hovering on the edge of anger. Unpredictable and radiating volatility; a silken voice belying a soul that was capable of great, dark power.

His intimidation tactics had always annoyed Hermione, yet now the new mood that had taken over her mind longed to lock horns with that waspish, unpredictable creature. Get up, she willed him, watching his stiff shoulders, his hand tightly clenching the quill, get up. Stop being so cowed. Challenge me! She thought it with conviction, yet she was still somewhat surprised when, with a slight frown, he did indeed stand back up and stride over to scrutinise the contents of her cauldron again. He glared down at the grey liquid, but she willed his eyes up to meet hers.

An infinitesimal moment of shock registered in his eyes, and she wondered briefly what exactly it was that he saw when he looked at her. His face quickly became impassive again, but still Hermione could smell some of last night's uncertainty on him, and still there was the residue of something that was nearly fear in his eyes. She felt a sudden need to see that uncertainty washed away - to see the man back to his usual, disdainful, powerful self.

She spoke, trying to force the aggression out of her voice, but still there was the edge of a challenge to her tone as she held his gaze and stated firmly 'the potion is missing something, sir. We're going to need to visit the greenhouse for more ingredients.'

His nostrils flared slightly at that. He drew his shoulders back a fraction and a small part of Hermione rejoiced. His inner conflict was evident - he hated to respond to the demand of a student, yet he smelt the possibility of an interesting development in the potion-making process. Hermione knew that he would agree with her, eventually, but was happy to see that first he intended to argue with her. Success!

'Miss Granger,' he sneered, 'I fail to see how that is necessary. You haven't produced anything even vaguely promising, yet you expect me to accompany you while you traipse about the school grounds in search of some mysterious key ingredient?'

Hermione suppressed a smile and replied. 'I'm aware that this doesn't appear to be much,' she said, 'but I just know that we could make something of it...we just need one ingredient.'

'And what ingredient might that be?' He asked, looking down his long nose at her in that supercilious way of his...she never though she would be glad to see him do that again.

'Well that's just it, sir,' she replied. 'I don't know what it is. All I know is what it smells like...' She almost told him what she was thinking: it smells...it sounds...it feels...like that book I saw in your office the other day. Sweet and earthy and...something else. She kept quiet, though, remembering his shocked and angry reaction when she had asked after the strange book. Perhaps she was just imagining things anyway...

Snape was, unsurprisingly, not impressed by her answer. 'Miss Granger,' he said in a sharply sarcastic tone, 'if all we have to go on is some olfactory irregularity of yours, then I'm sure you will understand my reluctance to venture out into the cold and the dark on what will undoubtedly be a fruitless search. You know where the ingredient cupboard is; use it. Kindly do not bother me again unless it is strictly necessary.'

He went to turn away. Hermione bounced on her heels a little, relishing the challenge, and said firmly 'the missing ingredient isn't in the cupboard, sir. I checked three times. I can feel it out there, I think it's in the greenhouse...and besides, didn't Dumbledore say that there was a degree of urgency to this project? Sir?'

That sealed it. They both knew full well that Dumbledore had instructed Snape to do whatever it took to get this project finished quickly, and to cooperate with Hermione as far as possible. Snape concurred with a contemptuous sniff.

'Very well,' he muttered. 'We will go tonight, but if I see no results within a half-hour, we return to the castle and you return to your rooms.'

'That sounds reasonable, sir,' she replied, allowing herself a small grin.

She cast a freezing spell on the cauldron and flame and retrieved her thick outer robe from the back of a chair before following Snape as he swept out of the room without a single glance back.

Isn't it odd how coming events cast shadows backwards onto the immediate past? Because as the pair left the castle that night they were both momentarily flooded with a wave of nervousness. Snape, so good at disregarding emotion, shrugged it off as a twinge of excitement at the prospect of a breakthrough with the potion; burying it so quickly that it barely had time to register. Hermione, however...she had learnt over the past few days that inner voices often tell truths, and so she paid attention when the thrill of anxiety went through her.

She let a little candle of foreboding burn in the back of her mind as she stepped out into the cold night, walking beside the dark figure of her teacher.

...The future rushed forward to meet them, much as it always does, but tonight Hermione could feel the slipstream against her cheek. Even Snape fought a rising feeling of nervous anticipation.

They kept walking, though.