Patrimony

By The0lyn

Chapter One

Severus Snape, potionsmaster, sat hunched over his great desk, scowling at the latest pile of poorly executed essays. It was cold in the dungeons, colder than it needed to be, just shy of the point when Snape's breath would have become a cloud in the air. Of course, Snape could have created warmth for himself, without even lifting his wand, had he chose. But he did not so choose. Snape viewed comfort as an indulgence, distraction, a road to complacency. He would never allow himself to become so soft.

Even now, so many years after the war's close, he felt he must remain ever vigilant, lest a small lapse come with a great price. He preferred to stay sharp. Discomfort was long his companion, and to have made any other choice would have been, for him, impossible. And so, he allowed the cold to seep into his joints as he continued to slash red ink upon the papers before him.

It was fourth years in this pile. His favorite year. You could practically smell the hormones wafting up off the page. It never ceased to amaze him how that year could begin as children, homely, gangly, awkward, and somehow end the term in sleek versions of their adult forms. It secretly amused him to watch the transition, to see duckling after duckling become swan after swan and then watch them careen into the absurdities of the opposite sex like birds smashing into plate glass. So much energy, so much drama, all squandered on the fruitless task of acquiring a mate. On an intellectual level, the whole thing was fascinating, if a bit repulsive. If only they could be kept under glass, teenagers would make the most satisfying research subjects.

The thought of locking the entire class in a glass case brought an uncharacteristic smile to his face.

Hermione Granger had been watching Severus Snape grade papers for almost a minute. In that stolen moment, she'd seen him scowl, snort, and even smile at the papers in front of him. Why, she realized, he's fond of them. How interesting.

No sooner had the thought formed in her head, than the professor's head whipped up, as if he'd heard her musings.

"Professor."

"Miss Granger," he rose gracefully from from his chair, all the better to intimidate her. "Brightest witch of the age. Lauded heroine of the Dark Lord's last battle. Youngest Director of Research for Magic and Wizardry Industries in over a century." His voice practically dripped with sarcasm. "To what do I owe this honor?"

As a child, that tone would have flustered her. His nearness would have frightened her further. But Hermione was a woman grown now. She knew who she was, and she had a deep confidence in her abilities. She would not be easily discouraged by the professor's games.

"I am here to ask for your help professor."

"My help? Interesting. And what form, prey, would such assistance take?"

Hermione paused. She was an attractive woman. Much to her chagrin, she'd ended up with a shape that spoke lingere model more than "serious intellectual capacity." Over the years, she'd become resigned to the gleam that appeared in her male colleagues eyes. And now, when she would have welcomed such a reaction, she saw none. There was no sign at all that he even saw her as woman. There was only the deep fathomless intensity she remembered from her childhood. Spy's eyes, she thought, involuntarily.

"That would depend upon you, professor. I am open to suggestions. You see, I want to have a child, Professor... and I want the father to be you."

End Chapter One