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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
- 3
- 4
- 5
A/N:
Kvarta – ‘today I got new project, quite demanding, she seems to like times like this’ – I could really do with her help at work, things are going crazy. ‘everyday struggle of so many educational facilities’ – yes, it seemed quite likely that the war would have had a long-term impact upon the school, especially around enrolments. ‘acerbic but noble, as always, and doing thing his on way - as always’ – acerbic and noble – love that. ‘if my memory serves me right...there was another teacher in Hogwarts, in original canon, under the same conditions, and he also needed Snape's help’ – with any luck he’ll find it within himself to help again. ‘and a bucket of good mood and smiles’ – aww, thank you, gratefully accepted xx
OO – ‘Desolate but not without hope. Her life has become so devoid of all pleasures (except the exquisite joy of bathtime of course)’ – I’m glad the hope still comes across. And I thought you would appreciate the bathtime pleasure – I was thinking of you J. ‘Now I'm wondering how Hermione's going to save the day’ – more in this chapter! ‘I must be a bitch, cause I thought this was hilarious too’ – you are a bitch – that’s why I love you. ‘And Snape needs to make her all better so they can fuck without hurting her’ – and that’s the only good reason! ;)
Fox – Hey Fox, I just got your P.S. but I suspect there was more L. You definitely need to visit ‘down under’ – it’s lovely here, especially at the moment J.

Chapter 4 – High and Low
Hermione watches her own footsteps, once sure, now tentative . . . her gait has changed, hopefully not for good as it doesn’t match her intensity, her need, her frustration—it’s a functional adaptation—an attempt to minimise the relentless impact.
“Professor Granger?”
Eyes darting sideways, she instantly raises the library book, recently borrowed, to shield herself. A figure steps toward her from the window, silhouetted against painful shards of sunlight. Hermione retreats into the shadow of an alcove and the figure boldly follows her.
“Professor Granger,” the young girl addresses her with a disconcerting self-assuredness.
Blinking her glare-dazzled eyes, Hermione attempts to smile.
“I thought you ought to know,” the girl continues. “I attended your class yesterday. The one in which you . . . collapsed.”
“Oh . . . I see.” Hermione’s smile strains, threatening to slide away in humiliation.
“I have been doing some research and I’m of the belief that you have hyperaesthesia,” the girl announces matter-of-factly. “It’s a neurological condition in which the sensory neurons become over-stimulated. There can be a number of causes including changes to the myelin sheath covering the nerve cell axons and even electrolyte imbalances.”
The smile returns, genuine this time, creeping up to capture Hermione’s features. “I believe you may be right,” she responds quietly. “An excellent diagnosis.”
The girl’s eyes sparkle with pride at her words. “You might be surprised to know that some people don’t appreciate what I have to tell them—even when it’s the truth.”
Hermione gazes at her sympathetically. “Unfortunately I’m not surprised. I knew a girl just like you. She was told that she was an insufferable know-it-all. Just for telling the truth.”
“I’ve been called that too!” the girl cries excitedly. “Professor Snape!”
Hermione slightly inclines her head as she smirks behind her book.
The girl’s wonderfully honest face breaks into a radiant smile, making Hermione suddenly wistful for the innocent optimism of her own youth.
“You’re an excellent teacher. I loved your class. I just wanted you to know what was wrong with you so you could fix it.”
Hermione’s eyes flicker to the ground. “I’m doing my best,” she murmurs.
“Good,” the girl responds excitedly before backing away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you.” Hermione lifts her fingers in a small wave.
***
Hermione is lost in a parade of passing thoughts—far more positive than she can remember entertaining in recent times. In fact, she is so buoyed by the young girl’s kind words that when Snape approaches her in the dungeon corridor, she momentarily forgets that he hates her.
He stares straight ahead, set to ignore her, when she inclines her head toward the door to his classroom.
“I fear you may be too late.”
He stops abruptly, robes and hair swishing around him. “I beg your pardon?”
“They’ve all turned,” she informs him. “No, wait . . .” Raising her nose she sniffs. “One hasn’t. You might catch them before it does.”
His contemptuous glare, normally sufficient to send her scuttling away with fear, in her current mood causes her to feel inexplicably amused. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips before she manages to catch it. Of course it is not returned, but he does immediately lunge toward the classroom door and fling it open before stalking in.
Even as the door shuts in her face, it fails to shift her smile. And as she continues toward her room, she wonders at the transformative power of a few words of gratitude. She kicks herself—not literally of course as she wouldn’t want him to find her rolling about on the cold dungeon floor—but she does wish she’d taken the time to ask the girl her name.
***
Dunderheads didn’t even capture it. This lot were utterly useless. He seethes as they tidy up with fear-propelled efficiency around him, Scourgifying the curdled potions from their cauldrons. The confusion adds to his anger. She knew. She had somehow discerned through a closed door that all of the potions had failed . . . with the exception of one. And she’d teased him about it . . . that smile. He grinds his teeth, expecting it to add to the fury burning in his chest but he feels it lower, much lower than that. Inhaling deeply, he quickly dismisses it.
As the students quietly duck their heads and leave, he remains standing in the centre of the room, staring at an empty cauldron in resentment. He snorts angrily. It stinks . . . like yet another blatant manipulation. He’d had enough of this deceptive manoeuvring from Dumbledore—of being backed into corners until he was forced to make a decision, usually to his own detriment.
What did he owe her? Nothing. He didn’t owe anyone—not after what he had been through. And yet the responsibility still sits heavily on his shoulders—no longer to save the Wizarding world from a madman but to save Hogwarts from ruin of a different kind.
Is this to be the entire run of his life? Lurching from one crisis to another? Being left to shoulder the blame, to carry the burden of yet another predicament that was not of his doing?
Fuck it. She could help. He’d suffered more damage than he’d ever let on. His olfactory sense wasn’t a fraction of what it had once been. He’d had to rely upon sight and touch alone for both selecting ingredients and determining the status of potions. But it wasn’t reliable. There had been considerable waste.
Rubbing his fingers over his chin in contemplation, he suddenly turns and strides toward the door. In a few swift paces he is out and covering the short distance to her room. Pausing to gather himself, he lifts a fist and knocks.
There is a short delay. He contemplates leaving. Then she answers.
“Miss Granger I . . .” he starts strongly enough but falters as he notices she is wearing a knee-length dressing gown and, it appears, not much else.
“Yes?” She places a pale hand against the architrave.
His frown deepens in annoyance that she should be in such a state—it’s only late afternoon after all.
“I understand that you may be able to contribute to augmenting the school’s potion production.”
“Are you asking me to assist?” She looks up at him innocently enough but he can tell she wants more.
He is reluctant to give it.
“Professor McGonagall indicated that you might be available.”
“The question remains, Professor.” She holds his gaze and he feels a creeping sense of self-consciousness that is unfamiliar and distinctly uncomfortable. “Are you asking me to assist?”
He huffs irritably before finally acquiescing, his voice low and tight. “I suppose.”
“Then, I accept.” She steps back into her room and begins to close the door.
“When?” he interjects, his boot slipping forward before he stops it, realising how inappropriate it would be to block her door.
She notices, staring down at it before lifting her eyes to his, that small enigmatic smile returning. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Fine.” He glowers, tugging at the buttons over his waist which have suddenly tightened.
Then he turns and storms off.
She looks after him, glimpsing his shadow before it turns the corner, his hand rising to wrench at his collar. She’s never seen him harassed like this before. Maybe he’s changed . . . Or maybe he remembers.
***
He barely glances up as she enters his laboratory the following afternoon. He stirs a cauldron briskly and the bubbling aroma tells her he’s brewing a sleeping draught. Despite being informed of the financial difficulties faced by the school in one of her earlier visits with Minerva, she is still somewhat surprised that Snape has approached her to assist. Time will tell if it was the right decision for her to agree.
“Would you like me to chop the Sopophorous beans?” she asks, stepping over to his workbench.
“I’ve already prepared them,” he mutters, eyes trained on the mixture.
She scans the bench. “Crushed asphodel petals?”
“Top shelf.” He nods to a cupboard opposite.
She makes her way over, pulling open the door and trailing her fingers along the rows of jars before retrieving the correct one.
Removing the lid, she sniffs the contents.
“When were these harvested?”
“They’re fresh.” His intonation is one of annoyance as his eyes flicker up to her.
“I don’t doubt it. It’s just that they’re not mature.”
His eyes return, still filled with anger, but now something else—embarrassment? He doesn’t respond.
She decides to leave it, instead moving over to place the jar on the workbench beside him.
“Essence of nettle?” she asks quietly.
“Are you up to collecting it if it doesn’t meet your impeccable standards?” he asks snidely. “Or is it also set to incur your highly discerning criticism?”
She is standing close enough to see a moist sheen glimmering on his temple and tiny droplets slicking his upper lip. He is far more agitated than she’d ever seen him in the past. He’d always brewed with such an easy, almost-insouciant flair that she is shocked to see him in this state. However, if she is there to assist, she doesn’t intend to allow him to brew with sub-standard ingredients.
“That depends upon whether it has been similarly incorrectly prepared.”
He stiffens noticeably but continues stirring. “Second shelf. Same cupboard.”
She retrieves the bottle and, despite his sneer of displeasure, removes the stopper. Holding it at a distance from her sensitive nose, she wafts a little toward herself before screwing her eyes closed.
“Now what?”
“Too acrid,” she chokes.
“It’s supposed to be acrid,” he growls.
“And that’s why I described it as ‘too’ acrid—more acrid than it should be.”
He sighs before suddenly dropping the stirring rod into the mixture and disappearing the lot with a fierce wave of his hand. He steps over to his desk and sits with a thump before snatching up his quill and beginning to scrawl in long spiky strokes across a roll of parchment.
She waits to be given further instructions but none are forthcoming.
“Are we still brewing?” she asks, pushing the stopper back into the bottle.
“No.”
She takes a step toward his desk. “Why not?”
He ignores her.
“Because your ingredients aren’t up to scratch? Just order them from somewhere else.”
“They aren’t ordered.” He stops writing but doesn’t look at her.
“Well, perhaps you should harvest them yourself.”
He fixes his obsidian eyes upon her. The motes of white heat burning in them tell her what she had been hoping wasn’t the case—he had harvested them.
She had been reluctant to bring it up, but she suspects she knows the reason.
“You suffered nerve damage.”
“I don’t need your analysis.”
“I do understand, Professor.” She places both gloved hands on his desk. “I have suffered the same.”
“No . . . you haven’t,” he snarls, leaping up from his seat. “You have not suffered the same.”
“I was there,” she breathes. “Don’t you remember?”
He turns away from her, unnecessarily straightening pots on a shelf. “I recall asking for you to be removed from my room.”
“After four months.”
“It would have been earlier, had I known.”
“Known what? That I had volunteered to help you?”
He snorts with derision before turning to face her. “I hardly consider gawking at me, uninvited, as part of a final year research project to be ‘help’.”
“It wasn’t like that.” Her brow contorts with pain. “I read to you. I . . . I worked on your court appeal. I went on to study law . . . after that—to help people like you . . . to gain the acknowledgement that you deserved.”
“Indeed,” he sneers. “There is never a better teacher than one for whom it is a ‘second option’.”
“Why do you do that?” she whispers. “Why do you have to make me feel so undeserving? I had to leave law . . . because of this.” Her voice breaks in frustration as she pulls at her ridiculous layers of clothing. “I always wanted to make a difference to people’s lives. That’s why I went into law. It’s why I worked my arse off to do my teaching training in only one year . . . And it’s why I held your hand every day I was with you . . . even though you were unaware. Despite what you clearly think, I did it out of compassion . . . I did it to help.” The last words choke out as she backs away, before turning and fleeing from the room.
His shoulders sink as the door slams closed.
He hadn’t been as unaware as she suggested. He just didn’t know it was her.
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete