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Sense and Insensibility Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 33531 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- 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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A/N: Thank you for your kind wishes. DSx
Fox – ‘so be good... or bad... not sure’ – LOL. Thanks Fox. I’m being both good and bad as you suggest. Thank you for your thoughts. ‘it feels almost as if I was the one experiencing them’ – I’m so pleased. I’ve decided to write this one in the present tense in the hope that it feels more immediate and tangible. ‘It shows his quiet and mysterious nature, his powerful and fear-inspiring presence’ – I love your words. ‘Ohh Minerva... that was a dirty trick to play’ – they do seem to be harbouring some tension. Updates will be slower but hopefully still regular. <3
Kvarta – ‘you post a story in a middle of my business meeting’ – I deliberately waited ;) ‘we really think alike, why? That is something you'll have to discover on your own’ – hmmm, I’m intrigued! ‘Every time I fall for him over and over again’ – I love that, and so do I! ‘I see her more as motherly type that would be protective over him’ – this is a little different, I’m imagining developing strain and tension over time, perhaps we will find out why. ‘it is too early in to the story to make me sad, give us bit rest from crying, have mercy.’ – I’m sorry but when I feel sad, unfortunately it comes out in my writing. I’m feeling better now though so we will see. <3
Discord_the_Lunatic – I hope so :)
OO – ‘I already feel horrible for Hermione and we're only 10 paragraphs into the story.’ – yes, I’m feeling this one is going to be pretty sensorially unpleasant for a while, in the hope that it will make the resolution more satisfying. ‘I'd just keep grunting in pleasure, and I'm sure you get the point’ – Hahah, I love pleasurable grunting. ‘so much room for a great character arc as the story progresses’ – I really hope so as I can only ever conceive of a bit of the arc at a time. ‘I know he can help her, because he's a wiz at keeping away my squatter's twat’ – LOL. I do love a therapeutic Snape. Thanks for the sound effect fix. I have done it in one place but need to fix in others, you’re right about the pain of these multi-site fixes. x
Chapter 2 – Ebony and Ivory
She hesitates. Voices rumble behind the closed door. Then laughter. Mocking—though not directed at her, reminding her of how long it has been since she’s allowed herself to indulge.
When she’d stood before this door as a student it was usually with trepidation, waiting to alert a Professor to some horror, or having been summoned to answer some incriminating question.
Now, preparing to enter that hallowed room alone, she is horrified to find the heat of shame flooding her cheeks once more—an admission of fraudulence, of guilt without a single accusation even being levelled at her. She is more than aware, however, that her hard-earned qualification has already been overshadowed by her unscheduled arrival, as well as her appearance. The mutters and glances are not new to her. But they hurt. As deeply as the throbbing pain that has commandeered her joints, a constant and exhausting companion.
She swallows as her hand hovers tentatively over the handle. She’s a masochist—she must be to submit herself to more of this. But hiding herself away isn’t going to gain her acceptance. She needs to be visible—even if it causes uniform discomfort amongst those whom she should now consider colleagues.
Grasping the handle with a gloved hand, she twists, pushing the door open.
Conversations immediately stop, sentences hang unfinished. Faces as familiar to her as family look to her as a stranger. Shielded behind her dark mask, her entire body almost completely covered, she understands the disquiet. But it is still her. She’s still in there.
Taking hesitant, self-conscious steps into the room, she makes her way over to a table set with cups, saucers and a magically heated teapot. Pouring herself a cup, she casts a hasty cooling charm and brings it to her lips, finally looking up.
Rapid glances away. A few mouths pressed together in those inverted, apologetic smiles.
She realises then that she has made a mistake. They should have been informed. All of them. Minerva had considered it best not to alert them to her arrival in case there had been objections. But she should have insisted. It wasn’t fair to expect them to accept her in this way. Clearly they suspected a level of subterfuge and possibly preferential treatment. And in some ways they were right. But perhaps not in the manner they thought.
Is it too late for explanations? Or could it even be too early?
She sighs into her cup. This is not what she’d hoped for. She’d been seeking sanctuary—a soft place to land after so much turmoil. But she clearly wasn’t the only one dealing with trauma. Witches and wizards alike had become naturally distrustful after the war. It was as though they didn’t know how to dismantle the thorny barriers they’d erected—they’d forgotten how to trust.
And in many ways she is just as guilty. In fact she is liable to jump on anyone who suggests—
“You should take sugar.”
A jerk of her hand sends tea slopping to the floor as she turns her head toward the voice. She is greeted by a wall of newspaper.
“I’m . . . sorry?”
After a moment, the paper smartly folds back to reveal a face that she hasn’t seen up close in nearly eight years. It has changed surprisingly little. The disapproving frown is still a permanent fixture, the dark eyes still measuring out some withering critique.
“You should take sugar . . . with your tea.”
“Oh.” She glances down at her cup. “I’m afraid I . . . can’t.”
Snape’s lips press together, adding a further layer of disdain before he flicks the newspaper back up.
“Or won’t.”
Hermione frowns at the muttered jibe before a surge of anger floods her.
Clearly he thinks he is protected by the paper. He probably also realises that she is unlikely to make a scene.
Drawing a steadying breath, she steps around the side of his armchair and crouches to eye level. Leaning forward, she rests her elbows on the arm of the chair, the teacup held precariously over his lap. They are both hidden from the room by the paper and she is hidden from him by the glasses.
His eyes dart in alarm towards her before he attempts to continue reading.
“Do not presume to know me,” she breathes. “I did not choose this. Nor am I anorexic. I would prefer you to ask me outright than to make such offensive inferences.”
He scowls at the teacup that had begun to shudder slightly in her frail hand. “You presume that I wish to know,” he replies, flicking the paper irritably.
Her jaw tightens. “Then if you are as disinterested as you claim . . . I’d appreciate if you would kindly keep your nose out of my business.”
She straightens with difficulty before turning her back to him. “As challenging as that would clearly be,” she mutters, loud enough for him to hear, before dumping her cup back on the table and striding from the room.
She can hear him crumpling the paper in fury. In fact, she can hear everything. Every look. Every unspoken word.
***
Stepping into the dungeon classroom provides some relief. Despite the fact that she can practically taste the damp earthiness of the ancient stone walls, it is comfortably dark—for her at least. The students seem less at ease, peering at one another in the gloom, muttering and squinting at the blackboard. She tentatively removes her glasses, the low lamps flaring at the edges of her shuttered gaze as she slowly adapts.
More students enter the door, she catches it before it thumps closed a second time, smiling at their surprised faces despite her nerves rattling like the old latch. She murmurs her ‘hello’ to each and they respond in similarly muted tones. She is thankful. For this is the most frightening part.
She is so desperate to communicate that it already aches like some bitter misunderstanding, she so wants to teach them, to assist in their learning. But she is terrified, unhinged by the unpredictability. Not theirs. But hers. Of her body. And what lies within.
But she has to trust. She has to believe that they will make it work . . . she and the students, striving toward a common goal. Failure is her greatest fear in that moment but she must simply allow herself to be—
He passes. An apparition. Accusing black eyes following her as she closes the door, frown slicing into the bridge of his nose, pale fingers curling around stiffly buttoned sleeves. She couldn’t feel any more undeserving in that moment. But, in reality, he can’t take any more from her. She has already lost everything.
She pauses against the closed door, gloved hands resting lightly, drawing shallow breaths. She absolutely must make this work.
And so she begins.
She introduces herself, bold and enthusiastic—borne of a desperation that she hopes is not too transparent. The students are courteous and attentive, and remain so throughout, whilst retaining a pleasant undertone of delight and mischief that will unfortunately be lost in years to come.
They are intrigued by her descriptions of Muggle communication, handling her mobile phone like some sort of sacred relic. They line up to practice tapping on her laptop keyboard and to examine her email account which she has carefully vetted.
She plays a video clip demonstrating how televisions work and describes the internet as best she can, watching their faces open like flowers as they gradually realise that the Muggle approach is perhaps not summarily inferior to magic. In fact, the more she describes ‘Muggle magic’ in terms of technology and innovation, the more spellbound they become. It is what she had hoped—for future generations to not only understand the world of Muggles, but to have their curiosity sufficiently piqued to inspire them to inquire, explore and even embrace the cohabitants of this world from which they seem to naturally remain surprisingly separate.
As the end of the lesson approaches, she sets a battery-operated compact disc player on the desk. Only two students raise their hands to indicate that that they have encountered the device before. Others stare wide-eyed, clearly thirsting to learn more. Pressing a button, she starts the music playing—gently rolling chords signifying the start of ‘Clocks’ by Coldplay. They crowd forward, watching the silvery disc spinning as she describes how it is ‘read’ by a miniature laser.
Everything is progressing better than she could have dreamed. She wonders now on the irrational basis of her fear.
But then it happens.
Someone finds the volume switch. And flips it to maximum.
A sound bolt spears into her brain, her skull shudders, threatening to explode. She collapses, arms wrapped around her head, vision narrowing into an excruciating tunnel of pain.
She doesn’t realise that she is screaming until the noise suddenly shuts off. And another sound replaces it. A voice. Deep . . . surprisingly gentle.
“Professor Granger suffers from . . . migraines—triggered by excessive noise.”
“But w . . . we didn’t know, Professor,” one frightened voice pipes up.
“Indeed . . . But now you do.”
Hermione cracks her eyes open; a dark form stands before her—tall, rigid.
“Class dismissed.” He lifts only the ring and little finger of the hand that rests lightly on her desk, the gesture enough to send the students scattering back to their bags, packing hastily and exiting without a word.
He suddenly turns on the spot, swinging like a rattle-drum to glare down at her. She struggles to stand, pulling herself up by her chair, the reverberation still coursing through her ears.
“Did you not foresee such an eventuality—from a group of second years, no less?” he snaps. “Had you made no preparations?”
Hermione runs a hand down her cheek, the rough prickle of her glove like a trail of thorns, focusing her mind.
“I . . . I’m reluctant to cast a silencing incantation in class,” she stammers. “I’m determined for the quietest students to have a voice.”
He rolls his eyes. “How very admirable of you. I didn’t realise that teacher training still employed such trite expressions.”
She drops her eyes from his, feeling ridiculous.
“Have you attempted nothing else?”
She can’t answer for a moment. His tone has hacked another chunk from her diminishing self-confidence. She swallows before responding, her voice a whisper. “What would you suggest?”
He huffs irritably. “For someone who took the expression ‘know-it-all’ to new heights, Miss Granger, I find your question disingenuous. Perhaps you suppose I have nothing better to do than to indulge you?”
At one time she did have all the answers. At least she thought she did. But not anymore.
“I would appreciate any advice you can give, Professor,” she looks at him squarely, honestly.
His eyes narrow, arms folding across the rigid plane of his chest. “There are any number of possible approaches—physical manipulation of the ears, narrowing of the auditory canal, diminishing the arc of the pinna, tightening the ossicles. However, an inversion of a generalised Sonorous spell may provide what you are after. It would need to be cast as a space-occupying incantation rather than on a particular target, the inversion would enable a gradation of diminished sound to you. You could adjust it to the desired level but be protected from escalations such as occurred today.”
She blinks. A small spark of hope flares. It is . . . brilliant. Completely unorthodox but entirely possible. She is tempted to wonder why she hasn’t thought of it previously but the answer is clear. It takes a mind like his. Not one like her own that has been shocked into a barely pulsing jellyfish, often incapable of even a basic stimulus response.
“I . . . I believe that might work.”
He regards her warily before apparently deciding that he’s wasted enough time. Inhaling rapidly, he turns from her and strides toward the door.
“Thank you for your help,” she calls, wincing at the jolt created by her own voice.
He stops, before turning slowly. “I did this for the students. Frankly, I’m of the belief that you shouldn’t be here. I sympathise with your circumstances but as a teacher one must be prepared to put the students’ needs before one’s own. If one finds that they are unable to do so, they should reconsider their aptitude for such a role.”
His words come with a dark honesty that leaves her feeling hollow, bereft. Then he leaves. And as quickly as it flared, that tiny spark dies.
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete