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The Quickening	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 32428 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
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Hey there. This is my first attempt at writing so all feedback welcome and appreciated.
Chapter 1
He peered down his long nose at the students before him, bumbling around and knocking into one another like short-sighted moles in their haste to complete their potions. Occasionally, they would shoot a desperate glance at the golden grains of sand slithering through the hourglass propped on the front corner of his desk.
“Dunderheads.” He thought. Not for the first time that lesson. “Utterly hopeless. The lot of them.”
He knew it was unfair. He had sprung the test on them without warning. It was a petty torment he employed for his own amusement. One of many in his ever-expanding repertoire. Peeling Boomslangs was another. The easiest way of course was to boil them and then pop them out of their jackets like potatoes. But he enjoyed watching the students dry retching as they pulled at the fetid sinews. Fresh ones would have done perfectly well but where was the fun in that?
Severus Snape checked himself. He was at risk of smiling at the vivid images that swam through his mind’s eye. Not smiling was another of his passions. It was surprisingly difficult at times but he was well-practised in the art, which indeed it was, often putting his severe frown to good use and to impressive effect. As he did now. There was a flurry of ineffective activity as the hapless students, Longbottom amongst them, flapped around under his stern gaze.
He sighed deeply. And loudly. Not because he needed to but because it caused even greater consternation. Longbottom’s agonised expression looked like he might have, indeed, evacuated his namesake.
‘Stop it.’ He admonished himself, setting his jaw. He was on the verge of smiling again. And he mustn’t. Absolutely not. He had worked too hard, galvanizing his brittle, cantankerous persona with layer upon layer of practised humiliation, belittlement and haughty disregard. It would be a shame to ruin it all now.
But he had to admit that it was becoming less satisfying. Haunting the dungeons, lurking in the shadows, catching unsuspecting students in compromising positions, and menacing the fresh-faced first years were no longer past-times that he enjoyed. Not that the ‘Greasy Bat’ nickname that the students muttered as he swept past offended him. He cared little for the opinions of the student body. It was just that . . . well it felt increasingly meaningless. All of it. Everything had become boring and mostly pointless since the war.
All of his adult life had been dedicated to harnessing and honing not only the silky finesse of subterfuge but the explosive savagery of outright fiery destruction. He could call forth both with ease. And now. There was nothing. Nowhere for this release. No lighting rod to guide this irrepressible surge of energy, potent and pervasive, crackling and sparking through his veins, safely to earth. Nothing to dissipate its power. And so he had to create. Manufacture opportunities, as feeble as they were. Otherwise the slippery tendrils of pulsating energy turned inward, causing a crushing tightness in his chest, a mounting electrified tension that sharpened his senses to excruciating precision and stole his breath way. In these moments he felt that his over-taxed heart might actually finally give in. It was the quickening. And when it came he had learnt to rapidly dip into his arsenal of targets. If caught early enough, the tension could be diffused like a zap of static electricity, obliterated in a harsh word to the closest victim or in flashing retaliation to some, usually benign, threat. If allowed to build up, however, it could be dangerous. Extremely dangerous.
He pressed his lips against long steepled fingers, tilting his head in consideration of the tumultuous inner workings of his mind. To the students, however, he appeared to be appraising them with even greater scrutiny. Their agitated movements became even more feverish and Snape realised that he would have to put an end to their misery before Longbottom caused yet another accident. He narrowed his eyes at the hourglass and flicked his fingers imperceptibly. The sand sluiced through in a final wave and was still.
Protests bubbled up around the room, as the students realised that their time was up. They could have sworn that the hourglass was at least a quarter full when they last stole a glance.
“Your time is now up,” Snape drawled. He drew his robes around his body and stood, enjoying looking down upon their weary faces.
“If . . . your potion was brewed correctly . . .“ He halted for effect. “It should be pale green and have the consistency of custard. If . . . you have not managed to follow the simple instructions provided. You have clearly not been paying attention.” He glared around the room, his obsidian eyes resting on each face in turn. “And you have failed.”
Arms crossed, he took slow, deliberate steps to appraise each cauldron in turn. His black pointed boots echoed on the stone floor, adding to the tension.
“Slop. Snot. Gloop. Pus.” He ticked off the consistency of each failure, internally, as he passed.
“This looks like vomit, Weasley.” He peered at the contents of Ron’s cauldron. Ron stared back, head slightly bowed. He knew it looked pretty bad.
Professor Snape progressed back and forth through the rows, congratulating himself on achieving a perfect failure rate. One hundred percent. There might even be grounds for a full class detention. He could do with restocking his supply of Boomslang . . . what the fuck?
He could tell, even in the dim light of the dungeon classroom, that the potion in the very last cauldron was perfect. He sighed. Hermione fucking Granger.
He looked disparagingly at her, scanning her face for the usual smug self-possession, typical of the insufferable know-it-all. His roving gaze was met by a look that could only be described as grim determination. When had that happened? Had the girl suddenly changed? Or had it been so long since he had actually taken the time to genuinely analyse a student’s emotions that he had missed the transition altogether.
“Miss Granger.” He intonated, his tone clipped. “It would seem that you have managed to produce a passable sample. It’s a pity only one of this class has managed such a thing.”
He watched for the glow to alight her features. He knew that this was what she craved. What she fed upon. Even the most bland utterance resembling praise could leave her reeling. Again he was disappointed. The frown that knitted her brow was not what he expected. If anything, she looked angry. He definitely wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of such an expression, particularly from a student.
“Professor,” she said, her brown eyes flickering away nervously before returning to his.
“Yesss,” he drew the word out, raising an eyebrow as if daring her to voice her obvious displeasure.
“I believe there is an error in the recipe you provided.” She held out her parchment. It trembled slightly between her fingers. “It should say Ribwort, not Ragwort. I remember it from the potions text in fourth year. I made the correct substitution when brewing my own.”
Professor Snape’s eyebrows dropped into an intense scowl and his dark eyes flashed with fury. He snatched the parchment out of her hand.
“I believe the error is on every parchment.” Hermione continued, her voice turning raspy as her throat constricted, trying to prevent her from speaking. It was attempting to protect her from herself, but she couldn’t let this go. A mistake was a mistake after all. Despite her knotted stomach, she knew it was important to speak up. Otherwise the test was unfair and unfairness was something that she absolutely couldn’t tolerate.
“And I think your hourglass might be broken,” she rasped. “The last two minutes passed in only four seconds . . . by my watch.” Her last words were a strangled whisper, as her throat closed over completely.
Professor Snape glared at her, his nostrils flaring as he attempted to process her insolent ramblings. An error? He scanned the parchment. There it was. Ragwort. Fuck, she was right. How had that happened? The useless house elf he’d asked to scrawl twenty five identical copies of the recipe must have fucked it up. Shit.
And she must have seen his wandless magic on the hourglass. Should he just admit it? Admit to everyone that he was responsible, that it had been a careless error on his part? Never.
“Detention, Miss Granger.” His voice was dangerously calm. “You will come here for the next four evenings to re-write all of the recipes, as you are so adamant that they are incorrect.”
“They are incorrect!”
“Silence!” He growled, slamming a hand down onto the desk in front of her.
She jumped involuntarily, her eyes widening. But he could still see the fiery glow of anger in their depths.
“Little chit.” He thought. Who the fuck did she think she was? Didn’t she know what he was capable of?
“Get out. All of you.” He suddenly turned away from her and waved a hand, flinging open the classroom door with a loud bang.
Everyone immediately started packing their bags. Eager to get away from the volatile Professor, whom they had all noticed was becoming increasingly vicious as the weeks passed.
Snape uttered further words under his breath and the recipe parchments flew from the student desks back to his own, assembling in a neat pile. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Trying to control the sensations that were trickling like mercury through his body. Building with rapid intensity. He felt ready to explode. Luckily the students had exited with such haste.
“What a fuck up,” he hissed.
“What time?” The voice came from behind him.
He whirled around to see Hermione Granger, bag in hand, chin raised defiantly.
“What?!” He glowered, barely able to see straight.
“What time do you want me here for detention?” She enunciated each word as if he were hard of hearing.
The muscles in his face twitched spasmodically under his pale skin. He was as angry as she had ever seen him. Even in the heat of battle. She was beginning to think that he’d also lost the capacity for speech when he suddenly straightened, glaring down his nose at her.
“Seven pm,” he spat icily, before turning on his heel and disappearing in a billowing twirl of robes through a door in the front wall of the classroom.
“I can’t wait,” Hermione murmured, her blood still thrumming steadily in her ears. She had only three months until she would never have to see the bastard again. She could ride it out. She was destined for bigger and better things than that miserable git could ever dream of.
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The Quickening