Chapters 31-40

Teacher, Teacher, Toil and Trouble

She must have dozed off, because the next sound Hermione heard was Snape’s smooth voice near her ear as he asked, ‘Did the sweet children tire you out already? Why, but it’s only your third day! I cannot imagine a heroine of the war to give up quite that quickly.’

Hermione blinked—trying to go from sleepy exhaustion to witty repartee within a few seconds, and failing miserably. All she could see were his dark eyes, black and fathomless, and his gaze made her stomach flutter. For fleeting moment she the horrible suspicion overwhelmed her that he knew exactly what an effect he was having on her. Then her ears caught up with her eyes, and she realised that his voice sounded ever so much better. Almost like the silky-tongued potions master of her school days. Had he attempted that ‘silly’ exercise after all?

She couldn’t help smiling, a befuddled, sleepy, honest, happy smile.

A smile that made him frown and draw back instantly, and suddenly she was wide awake with her heart racing and her mind in desperate circles: mustn’t think mustn’t think mustn’t let him see mustn’t let him see how I how I—that I—

Somehow she managed to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘And yes, they did. How did you survive so long?’

Too tired for diplomacy and too Gryffindor for subtlety, she added, ‘More precisely, how did you survive me?’

The mere thought of Ravenclaw smartarse Pearl Shynnyng was enough to make her feel nauseated. And the girl was only one rather small Second Year, compared to a whole group of sullen teenagers interested in anything but study groups.

The corners of Snape’s mouth quivered. Then he gave in to the impulse and snorted. In better days the sound might have been a chuckle.

‘There’s one of your kind in every other class. Along with a Neville and hopefully only one specimen of Weasley twins. Oh, and we mustn’t forget a pair like Potter and Draco, of course. Though I should probably warn you now—you can count yourself lucky if you get them as boys. Boys are less studious and much more obvious than girls.’

Hermione blanched.

Snape smirked, but his reply was almost gentle: ‘Don’t worry, Miss Granger. If you’re merely weary to your bones, if the classroom is not in ruins and less than ten pupils are in the hospital wing, you have done very well indeed for your third day.’

‘But I don’t think they learnt anything today at all,’ she moaned.

She knew she didn’t have the perfect personality for a career as a teacher—she was too impatient, she hated having to repeat herself. But to fail at such an important aspect of her tasks as Professor Snape’s apprentice…If she didn’t even manage teaching basic potions to a horde of Second Years, how could she ever hope to…

‘Welcome to your life as a teacher at Hogwarts,’ the potions master said dryly.

oooOooo

She dropped her wands again, her face screwing up as if she was close to tears.

Snape was ready to snap at his apprentice, when something about the way she’d winced when the larger wand had struck her palm, how she couldn’t keep her fingers from twitching now and again, registered with him belatedly.

Minerva’s words came back to him, ‘Her hands were completely flayed because they were drenched in your blood.’

Shite.

He ought to have remembered that. The only reason he hadn’t snarled her to hell and back or even chastised her as was his right was that he was so bloody tired himself today. She ought to have told him.

Why hadn’t she told him?
Bloody Gryffindor stubbornness.
Why did she so desperately want to impress him?

…she wanted to impress him?

‘He–’ He was about to clear his throat, when he remembered Petrel’s admonitions. Instead he only swallowed painfully. ‘Miss Granger? Could it be…’

He shook himself. Her hands, wet with his blood, with his blood and Nagini’s venom. Snape heaved a sigh. He had to do better than that.

‘I was informed that your hands were injured when you saved my life. Is it possible that there are some after-effects that impair your performance with your wands?’

Her wands, one moment held loosely in her hand, cluttered to the ground once more. She was deathly pale as she stared at him.

After-effects, my arse, he thought, and bent down to retrieve her wands. It was not something he would normally do, touching the wands of another wizard, but Hermione looked as if she was about to faint.

Somehow in the process birch touched yew.

The energy and wisdom of two sphinx feathers mingled and flowed into him, soothing and golden, overwhelming him, blurring the world before his eyes.

He would have fallen, but for Hermione’s hand catching him just in time. He heard her suck in her breath in agony, then the power found her—recognised her—and flowed through his body into hers, drawing them together and drenching them with warmth and light. When the flow of magic ebbed away, he felt as breathless as if he’d just played a round of really fast Quidditch, or crazily made love to a beautiful woman.

‘I didn’t know that the core of your wand is made of a sphinx feather,’ he said slowly.

She was staring at him as if she had never seen him before. ‘I—I—I’m sorry—’

He shook his head. ‘I should have asked,’ he said softly.

Carefully he laid their wands on the table and reached for her. Clasping her gently around the wrists, he pulled her hands towards him.

He stared at those hands. They were slender and very white, perfectly healed. Nothing reminded of what they must have looked like, stripped down to raw flesh by the touch of his blood.

‘I can give you a salve for your hands,’ he whispered.