Poison Prince

Chapter One

Hermione Granger had come to the awful realisation that she had developed a bit of a crush on Professor Snape. Now in her sixth year, initially she'd mistaken her feelings for nerves - after all, he did cut rather an intimidating presence, both in and out of the classroom. Plus she was a sensible girl, a good girl. And good girls simply didn't do things like fancy their teachers. Their bad-tempered, most-definitely-not-interested-in-anyone-and-certainly-not-her teachers! But there you go. Every time she caught a glimpse of a billowing cloak, or heard his low drawl in the corridor or dungeon classroom, it sent a perverse shiver down her spine.

Hermione hadn't told anyone about this - not even Ginny, to whom she confided most things. But even her best friends wouldn't have understood, and Hermione couldn't have explained exactly what she found attractive about him anyway, even if they'd asked. So it went unsaid, and everybody carried on oblivious. Including Snape, which was lucky. She hoped that any unconscious reaction she might have to him when he swept by her in class would be mistaken for fear or distaste. She'd rather have him think she hated him, along with the rest of the school, than know the truth.

Privately, she thought Snape would probably prefer it that way too - he didn't seem the affectionate type, to put it mildly. He'd called her a "silly girl" on more than one occasion, and she had no doubt that were she to profess her adoration to the Potions master, his opinion would remain unchanged. He'd maybe snort with derision, or glare at her and then breeze coldly away, leaving her feeling foolish and small. No - much better that it stay a secret. Tricky, given that the object of her affections could, as Harry so clumsily termed it, "read minds", however Hermione was no slouch and had been reading up on Occlumency during the summer holidays and was confident that she had practiced enough in order to resist at least a passing intrusion into her thoughts - at least as well as she was able to while lacking anyone to train with practically. Book learning would have to do, for the moment.

She was seriously considering asking Professor Dumbledore for personal instruction though. She had none of the risky links to Lord Voldemort that had made the Headmaster reluctant to teach Harry himself, yet she felt it would be a valuable skill to have, given that an escalation to the wizarding war looked extremely likely in the near future. Also, as Harry's lessons with Professor Snape had been something of a disaster, she might be able to pass on a bit more information to her friend as well, as he would undoubtedly learn better from a friendly face than from one of the maybe two people in Hogwarts that Harry loathed on sight.

They had all been surprised at Snape's appointment to the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor that year. Hermione was secretly a bit pleased for him - after all, the man was clearly talented in that area, and he had been stuck teaching Potions for who-knows-how-long when he'd have preferred a different subject. She was also slightly nervous on his behalf, given their track record for going through DADA teachers and the fates that had befallen them. It didn't bode too well for Snape, but she had faith that Dumbledore knew what he was doing.

That was also the reasoning she gave the boys for her trust in Snape. Whenever they questioned his loyalty or insulted him, she reminded them that Albus Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard at least in their time, if not of all time, and he had faith in the Head of Slytherin. Not having Snape teaching Potions any more was also a little annoying because Harry had discovered an old textbook belonging to somebody called the Half-Blood Prince and was merrily cheating his way through their recipes using the "Prince's" spiky annotations, and while Hermione thought Snape would have cottoned on in five seconds and demanded to know the reason for his least favourite student's newfound brewing skills, Slughorn seemed cheerily oblivious, happy to have such a famous high-achiever in his class.

Severus Snape had been enormously satisfied to eventually be granted the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor this year. Albus had finally acquiesced to his incessant applications, and although Snape was well-aware of the long-standing rumour of a curse on the post, he felt confident that he would avoid a fate similar to his predecessors. Thanks to Albus's idiotic fumblings with Lord Voldemort's old jewellery it no longer mattered anyway, he supposed. The Headmaster would most likely be dead by the end of the academic year, by fair means or foul, and Snape was hotly in the running for culprit. What a marvellous legacy to leave and be left, after all his years of loyal service to the Headmaster and his school(!)

He would do it though. Severus would spare Dumbledore a protracted demise; spare Malfoy from rending his soul; spare the castle from suffering at the Dark Lord's hands when he inevitably took hold over Hogwarts. He had no other choice. For about a millisecond during one of his conversations with Albus, he had had a thought of a desert island somewhere: an unspoiled beach, a remote hideaway; somewhere he could run to and never return. But he was no coward. He might not be a pompously brave Gryffindor, but Slytherins were no slouches when their backs were against the wall either.

Unfortunately however, teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts turned out not to be the dream job he had anticipated. While he was possessed of great talent and interest in them, the same could not be said for the bunch of dunderheads he was instructing. Trying to get a non-verbal hex out of them was painful; the looks on their scrunched-up faces were laughable. Still, it gave him plenty of opportunities to dock points from Gryffindor...

Glancing across the room at Ron, who had a look of mild constipation on his face as he tried and failed to send a wordless spell towards Harry, Hermione sighed. They'd clearly not been doing any practice at all. Well, unless you counted skimming through the annotated margins of Advanced Potion-Making and trying out any unfamiliar spells on each other. Harry had attempted a non-verbal Levicorpus the other evening in the common room, and Ron's foot had jerked six inches off the floor before flopping back down onto the rug in front of the fire, but that was all. And this boy was supposed to save the wizarding world(!) She didn't notice Professor Snape, who was standing across the other side of the room, regarding Potter and Weasley with an equally disgusted expression.

At breakfast the next morning, Harry had been moaning about the number of people he had to put through their paces at Quidditch try-outs.

'I dunno why the team's this popular all of a sudden.'

'Oh, come on, Harry,' said Hermione, suddenly impatient. 'It's not Quidditch that's popular, it's you! You've never been more interesting and, frankly, you've never been more fanciable.'

She missed Professor Snape, who was passing by the Gryffindor benches behind her on his way to the teachers' table. His cheek twitched in irritation upon overhearing her words. Surely Granger could do better than Potter? He couldn't believe she was as gullible as the other girls - falling all over herself because of some stupid prophecy and an arrogant boy with an unholy amount of sheer dumb luck! He took his place at the table next to Minerva, and fumed silently.

Although he would never admit it, especially not to Minerva McGonagall, Snape found Hermione Granger rather intriguing. An uncommonly talented and, dare he say it, rather pretty Muggle-born girl, the similarities with Lily Evans did not escape him. Of course, he had driven Lily away with his burgeoning fascination for the Dark Arts, but now he was - as Dumbledore had once put it - "a reformed character", and putting his shadowy talents to good use, perhaps, just maybe- no, a ridiculous thought! And one he was quite glad that he could keep to himself thanks to his talent at Occlumency. He was under no illusions as to his own desirability and besides, his perpetual state of misery was an excellent motivator for him to continue his various espionage activities, as a sort of vicarious atonement. Although probably no-one would ever know the real truth of his allegiance. Such was the unfeted life of a double agent. And all the better not to risk complicating matters with personal entanglements, he reminded himself admonishingly.

Snape almost laughed at the notion that a girl like Granger would ever find a wizard like him remotely interesting. Clearly she was cut from the same cloth as all the other bimbos in her year after all. He had a vague recollection of her attending the Yule Ball with that meathead, Krum, and Snape had been of the belief that she and Weasley had something of a dalliance as well, although if she was going round buttering up Potter then perhaps that was just hearsay. But the witch obviously had a track record with brawny Quidditch players. It made him think of Potter Senior and Black, and the way they used to have dreamy-eyed girls sighing over them, and he scowled darkly into his cornflakes...

A/N: What do we think? I have about 18k of this written, up to about the end of the Half-Blood Prince book timeline. Currently debating whether to wrap it up there or to develop it into something further. There's upcoming fluff, smut and dungeon-bat-ness. Reviews are love :)