beyondwandpoint

“11 13a Thurs - Up With the Lark”

Severus, Hermione, Staff: Poppy Pomfrey, Gryffindors: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, Fay Dunbar, Jack Sloper, Ginny Weasley, Demelza Robins, Jimmy Peakes, Others: Crookshanks, Sunny the house elf

Mentioned briefly: Staff: Sybill Trelawney, Nurse Wanda Wainscott, Gryffindors: Colin Creevey, Kevin Peterson, Ravenclaws: Michael Corner, Luna Lovegood, Edgar Martins, Others: The Bloody Baron

Originally Published: 2020-02-18 on LJ / DW
Chapter: 117

Characters:

Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)

Staff: Poppy Pomfrey (Mediwitch extraordinaire)

Gryffindors: Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Seamus Finnigan 7G (fiery Reserve Beater), Dean Thomas 7G (mannered Chaser), Fay Dunbar 7G (Reserve Chaser), Jack Sloper 6G (Reserve Beater), Ginny Weasley 6G (Chaser), Demelza Robins 5G (Chaser), Jimmy Peakes 4G (Beater)

Others: Crookshanks 'Crooks' (Hermione's half-Kneazle), Sunny (the Snapes' house elf)

Mentioned briefly: Staff: Professor Sybill Trelawney (Divination; Scarves, Tealeaves, Patchouli, oh my!), Nurse Wanda Wainscott (chatty), Gryffindors: Colin Creevey 6G, Kevin 'Kev' Peterson 5G (in a class of his own), Ravenclaws: Michael Corner 7R (one of Ginny's Exes), Luna Lovegood 6R, Edgar Martins 6R (Prefect), Others: The Bloody Baron (Slytherin House Ghost)

Previously:

Ron gets more detentions than he can shake a wand at. (Ongoing...)

Monday evening. Seamus may have been a bit too preoccupied with the news of Hermione's bonding the dungeon bat for Ron's taste, and some vigorous hexing results in the both of them and Dean landing in the Infirmary. (056 LJ / DW) Minerva responds by giving all three detention Saturday during the team's practice hours, counting on their brand of justice being more effective than her own. (068 LJ / DW)

In the library Tuesday evening, between dodging cursed inkpots and Confunding staff, Neville cheerily tells Hermione how Ron had hexed the stuffing out of Colin and Kev in the Gryffindor dorms shortly before. And as if that weren't juicy enough, he goes on to relate how Professor McGonagall responded to Ron's antics and the subsequent need for the team to reschedule Quidditch practices leading up to the match with Slytherin. (080b LJ / DW)

Lunch Wednesday. Sunny very enthusiastically chastises Hermione for the division of labour in their household. Hermione, eager to get him to calm down, acquiesces to all his demands, much to the Baron's horror, if only on principle. (098a LJ / DW)

Wednesday, after classes. Severus teaches Hermione the Brightness and Curtaining Charms for their windows, which in combination serve as an alarm clock of sorts, greatly lightening the dungeons. (103a LJ / DW) In an effort to make good for upsetting Hermione with a much too casual mention of the battle at the Department of Mysteries her fifth year, idiocy (on both their parts: hers then, his now), Severus also gives her his very own Scar Scarcefying Salve to treat the scar she'd received in the fight. (The bond can be fantastically motivating that way.) When to her surprise the scar then yields a dark, smelly, viscous substance, he explains the phenomenon of Ichor Malus to her. (112b LJ / DW)

Wednesday at dinner. Harry and Ginny reckon they'll need to procure some Draught of Peace for Ron if he's going to have a prayer of surviving double Potions with Snape Thursday morning. 'Bloody hell', as Ron would say. (104 LJ / DW)

Within earshot of the Bloody Baron, Hermione explains to Hunter Hutchinson how spiders are a far more effective means of retaliating against Ron than the stolen Dirty Draught. The Baron, suitably inspired and far from idle, has Peeves gift Ron a bucket of refuse and spiders. (Peeves is only too happy to help, both as a matter of character and in response to Ron taking his stale bread Tuesday morning. (069a LJ / DW)) Ron runs shrieking from the broom cupboard where he's searching for the portrait of Temperance Mathew and promptly tumbles down a flight of stairs. (108 LJ / DW)

Hermione learns Luna is being bullied by her roommates, because people can be right arseholes sometimes. (115 LJ / DW)

Hermione stretches happily, waking unexpectedly well rested to a light flooded room that has her briefly questioning the hour until she recalls the Professor's Charms on the windows that ensure just that brightness. They're really something else, she acknowledges as she yawns and shifts, causing Crooks to rise a bit grumpily, sluggishly abandoning his position by her tummy in favour of the safer pillow. If he were less loyal, he'd simply remain there. The witch just doesn't value sleep enough by half. Or kippers. Or Kneazle toys. Frankly, she makes an altogether wretched feline, he thinks to himself as he yawns in turn and tries dozing off once more.

Witches.

Of course the recollection of those Brightness Charms doesn't stop Hermione from doing a slightly groggy Tempus to confirm the time, obviously - she's careful that way, and it wouldn't do to be late for classes - but she relaxes immediately once the results match her expectations. She's feeling too good to be tense anyhow, a thought that now worms its way to the forefront of her mind.

And just why does she feel that way?

Not that she thinks it's a good thing to have to question it - goodness, it's probably unhealthy - but the sensation isn't customary, and interrogating that seems wise. At the least. And it's practically second nature, so she does.

Almost predictably, she's less pleased for having done so.

Well her good mood stems almost entirely from the Professor, which is more than a little odd, really, because it seems weird that he's in a better mood than she is. Once again. And much weirder still, clearly, to be aware of it. Well it's early days, isn't it, since the bonding, and it would be even more strange if this were to seem natural.

Although it is a little disconcerting to notice it doesn't seem unnatural either...

She decides that's probably advantageous, accepting the win.

But now that she's thinking about it - well, him - she recalls she'd been dreaming about him when she woke, something she can no longer quite piece together because she gotten distracted by the daylight - if it's that; perhaps it's all down to the bioluminescent plants... - and casting a Tempus had driven the vestigial recollections of her dreams from her consciousness as effectively as a good gust of wind banishes cobwebs... Bugger. And that's something else to add to the list of oddities this morning, dreaming about the man and having that improve her mood... Dreams were probably only to be expected, what with the events of the past several days - the rescue alone, holy cricket - and the bond allowing emotions to leak through as it does, waking cheerful as a result, however...

The few pieces she can recall - nothing... untoward, she hastens to assure herself - still prove unsettling given their positive resonance. He'd taught her something, or made something? No, he'd shown her something new and explained it... Well that had happened, hadn't it, just yesterday, and it had made her rather happy. (Just the recollection of it has her smiling again.) But it's the happiness now that doesn't quite sit right with her. This wasn't pleasure because her painful scar was being treated - which was clearly justified, no one could object to that - or learning a heretofore unknown Spell for the windows, or even about the Ichor Malus, no, it originated from being included. Coupled, she's quick to add, quite naturally with the chance to learn something new. Given that pleased feeling persists even now that she's aware it was a dream and she'd obviously learnt nothing at all, she has a sinking feeling it has less to do with the idea of knowing something secret than with having learnt it from the man next door...

That has some uncomfortable connotations that cause a spike of panic, promptly followed by the next spike of panic that he must have felt that, and already she can feel his mood worsening. Which...

Bugger again.

Anxiously trying to correct for that, or he's really going to demand her head on a platter if she keeps this up, and trying for all she's worth not to think about any of those possible connotations of the dreams, she stops instead to examine the sensations via their bond more closely, and finally she realises that wasn't quite correct. He isn't the man next door just at the moment. He's the man who had been next door but presently isn't. He's... elsewhere. And wherever he is, he seems to be enjoying himself once more.

Assuming she doesn't ruin that as she had last night.

She isn't very good at this, is she? It's the mental equivalent of being the worst roommate ever.

She resolves to keep her panicking in check, as though it were that simple, but sometimes that decision actually makes enough of difference that it's worth a shot.

It can't hurt.

There's a brief flash of something that isn't jealously (except a better word escapes her), that he's up with the lark and clearly out, when she can't be - curfew, thank you very much (and that at least is envy, which is a more reassuring way of couching things) - and off without her, and so clearly... yes, enjoying himself. Also without her. Again. Except that makes sense - heavens, she'd had that conversation with herself just last night - and yet it bothers her.

Still.

Well it's unreasonable to think she'd have changed substantially overnight. (And right there, thoughts of Friday and Sunday evenings, the attack and the bonding and the massive changes they'd respectively caused, overnight in fact, instantly flit through her thoughts as though conjured, only to be repressed just as quickly.)

Of course she can't afford to feel bothered or she'll wreck his mood once more. Repression is practically a kindness.

Well that's something perfectly harmless to concentrate on, not ruining his good mood. Unless she were to botch it and be on the receiving end of his - possibly justified - wrath. Hmm.

Right.

She stretches more thoroughly and a touch reluctantly disentangles herself from that truly magnificent self-warming comforter he'd crafted as she sits on the edge of the bed. At the moment she's having difficulty recalling just why she'd been so reluctant to relinquish the Matron's blanket the night before given this one was waiting for her... Hmm. Lovely. Stretching again, she collects her thoughts, determined to keep her moods in check and not to sabotage the Professor's morning... whatever he's doing.

He feels exhilarated. The sensation has many of the undertones of yesterday's but goes further. It feels more... physical. Which seems an awfully strange way to define it, really, and she's back to searching for other terms, and failing, and contemplating thesauri, but, no, really, 'physical' is the correct word. Nothing else seems to suit better. She's sure of it.

This feels a bit like...

No.

Suddenly there are a bunch of things she's eager not to compare it to.

She has a vague hope he's patrolling the corridors, dispersing detentions to all and sundry, and that's at the root of his...

And because she apparently has absolutely no mental discipline whatsoever, and isn't that a shocking admission to be forced to make, she's trying to tease meaning from the feelings.

It's not sexual.

Presently.

So not a wank then.

(A thought greeted by a flare of panic, followed by a wave of relief, questions of whether he actually... Well of course he does. Probably. If she and her roommates are representative, and yes, Lavender desperately needs to learn a Privacy Charm... She can't imagine males are too different in that respect. If her classmates and friends are any indication, they're probably more inclined to do so...)

Post wank, perhaps. (There's a lump she's trying to swallow, but her throat has gone unexpectedly dry. It transpires thoughts of wanking aren't something she can consider with universal indifference; for some people it has more... significance.)

If she's honest, he doesn't seem, erm... Well, there's something missing. For one thing, he's not post anything, whatever it is is ongoing, and the occasional hint of annoyance would indicate it's under threat from her... 'Preoccupation' seems a good term for it.

And frankly he's just not... Euphoric. Sated. And right about there her brain and its infernal internal conversation grinds to a halt, because she isn't comfortable thinking about him that way, and he's becoming more annoyed, undoubtably in response.

Fair enough. He'd only be more so if he had any idea what she was thinking...

Endorphins! That would explain his mood. Clearly a much safer explanation on consideration... Not that she should be considering it...

It really doesn't matter a flying fig what he's doing - well, not much - this needs addressing immediately.

Constructively...

Now.

She has to expend some effort to marshal her thoughts and then buckles down.

She begins with one of Professor Taylor's techniques, accompanied, as always, by disparaging thoughts that the class is a cruel joke, but this, at least, is something she's learnt. So well, in fact, that it isn't long before a state of peace overcomes her, and still she takes her time; she'd risen early enough that it shouldn't present any difficulties. This is something she can do, means to do. And once she sets her sights on a thing...

That calm is assured.

Mindful of her breathing, she then rises and heads off for the bathroom.

It's strange, but by far not the strangest thing already today, clearing her mind and thinking all at once, but her thoughts aren't racing and that's probably the key difference. She starts small as she gets in the shower, corralling those thoughts, cordoning off others, almost tacitly defining topics to avoid...

Those truly magnificent jets of water don't hurt as distractions go either.

He probably isn't patrolling, because the student body is entirely too lazy to rise at this hour and give him this much cause for good cheer. And he had been. Cheery. Pleased.

Hmm.

Students! She wrenches her focus back to that line of thought. No, they wouldn't be up and about unless the early activity were somehow related to Quidditch...

Oh! In a flash it occurs to her that Ron had managed to condemn the House team to early morning practices leading up to the match against Slytherin, and she tries not to giggle. She's only moderately successful, but doesn't even mind the slight sting as her shampoo gets in her eyes. No, she gleefully rubs them clear, feeling only a hint of guilt at the vision of the Professor catching the entire team slinking off to practise before curfew had lifted. That would explain his mood.

His puzzlement greets her amusement; perversely it makes her laugh. She'd hate to try to explain any of this...

She rinses the soap from her hair as she listens to the bond, trying to more precisely gauge his mood. Yes, if she closes her eyes, she can practically see it, him marching the lot of them down, up? Over to Professor McGonagall's door and turning them in... What were the chances, she wonders, that they had thought to sort things and had gotten permission from their Head in advance? Knowing her Housemates... It was perfectly possible they hadn't.

She massages her conditioner into her hair and allows it to work its magic for a bit while she applies Depilatory Charms to her legs. In contrast to her conditioner, honestly a bit of a disappointment - they never really seem to do as they claim - the latter is actually magic and produces perfectly satisfying results. That makes for a nice change.

She tests her feelings, and no, so strangely after her treatment at the Gryffindors' hands the last few days, the thought of them getting caught truly isn't a wellspring of guilt, but rather the source of quite some amusement. That she imagines, must feel a great deal better through the bond than the panic from before, and she tries to kindle its fire with thoughts of what punishments the Professor would contrive.

There's something almost naughty about it, envisioning how he'd punish her Housemates and deriving a certain amount of pleasure from the process. Cauldrons, naturally, they'd clean cauldrons... Pity Neville is no longer in Potions... She recalls Hunter Hutchinson telling her just how rubbish his friend Newton Kurz was at the subject. Perhaps his cauldron would do. The forth year Ravenclaws seemed to think so in any case...

Obviously the Gryffindor team would have to assist Mister Filch in his duties... With any luck, prior to practice even. Scrubbing the corridors with toothbrushes seems a fine start. No loss, at any rate. It's not like any of them had particularly good toothbrushes. With the exception of Harry and Dean, they were all raised in Wizarding society, and frankly it hadn't kept abreast of the advances Muggles had made in the field. (Her parents threaten to come to mind, but again Professor Taylor's techniques help to keep those thoughts at bay. It remains nothing more than a hint of a suggestion of their memories.) It was unlikely Harry's horrible family had sprung for a decent brush. (She puts it on the list of things to consider for his Christmas stocking before rejecting it. He was unlikely to appreciate the gift, and she was cash poor anyway, and at the moment she's a mite conflicted about giving him anything at all... She'll get over it; she always does. It just cheers her to allow herself to at least pretend to be able hold that grudge.)

Employing one of the visualisation exercises, she pictures that, the entire team on hands and knees, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing... Glaring at Ron the longer this continues... And just how would they show their displeasure? Ah! A Sticking Charm to affix him to one of the school's splintery old brooms... Bare arsed! Yes, that's absolutely something the team would do. Inappropriate, of course, but then no one listens to her about these sorts of things. Oh! And then hexing the bloody thing with that spell they'd thought the Professor had used on Harry's broom first year.

Brilliant!

(Except she now has a brief wave of embarrassment about the whole 'setting the Professor's robes on fire' bit. She probably owes him an apology... And possibly a fair few Galleons. Holy cricket.)

She doubles down on the visualisation - amusement is surely better than guilt and embarrassment - picturing Ron - starkers - on the broom bucking its way across the pitch... Possibly Colin would take pictures... After the Anteoculatia Ron had apparently performed on him Tuesday evening, he'd be only too keen. Heavens know, he'd been happy to photograph Kev while suffering the effects of Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex and readily shown the snaps to all and sundry. Yes, she can absolutely see it, Colin ever so eager to save that image of Ron for posterity. Posterior-ity? She laughs.

Well that's only what they deserve if people refuse to follow her lead about acceptable behaviours... Ron is most assuredly far from least amongst them.

She's still grinning at the silliness when she steps out of the shower and begins dressing for the day, wondering as she does so about the new scent to her clothes. Sunny presumably uses charms she's unfamiliar with.

Fay's half asleep on her broom, fair enough at stupid o'clock, and she'd completely missed the Quaffle Seamus had thrown her way. It sails past her and whizzes dangerously close to Dean's head. With a shout, he turns to stare at the offenders in disgruntled shock.

"Sorry, mate," Seamus quickly apologises from his position by the goals.

"No worries," Dean rejoins, ever easy to forgive.

"My fault entirely," Fay yawns, roused by Dean's cry. "Sorry, Dean. That's on me."

"Like hell it is," grumbles Seamus as he blocks an attempt of Demelza's to make ten points. "We can thank fucking Ron for this." He tosses the Quaffle to Dean, who passes it to Ginny to try her luck at a run on the goal. The strength with which she slams it home might suggest she'd heard Seamus only too clearly, not - however - that she's all that inclined to disagree with him. The hour was brutal, and none of them had had near enough sleep.

"All because Ron couldn't keep his bloody mouth shut..." Seamus complains some more. He may have fired the Quaffle right back at Ginny with far more force than necessary. She dodges neatly, and Dean goes flying off after to retrieve it.

"No, that was just point loss," Harry corrects, channelling his inner 'Mione. Something's just been missing since she moved out of their dorms. "Snape only took points for that."

"Knocking Trelawney arse over tit?" Fourth year Jimmy Peakes guesses; he'd loved that story. And right there, 'Mione would have explained how the phrase was properly 'arse over tip' but had become corrupted over the years. Seamus would then disagree that it's proper enough now, 'gone into common usage' as 'Mione was likely to claim when things suited her more...

"No, that's Saturday. Evening," Harry hastens to add, before anyone gets the idea Saturday's practice rescheduling was in any way his fault. The fool Snitch picks that moment to buzz past the back of his head, clearly mocking him. He swears under his breath, 'bloody hell' - there aren't enough of those when Ron's absent - stretches wildly for the flapping thing but misses. That sums up his week well enough. A simile? Metaphor? Parable? He isn't sure what those things are called. 'Mione would know, of course...

"As opposed to Saturday afternoon," Jack Sloper laughs with significant looks to Seamus and Dean who had received detentions then as well for their little hex fest with Ron Monday night.

"Hey, it was just the one. We're not out here now because of us," Seamus is quick to point out. Not even Ginny can disagree.

"It wasn't for hexing you and Dean?" Fay asks, genuinely confused. Really, Ron's landed himself in it so often this week, it's been hard to keep track.

"No, it was for hexing Colin and Kev the day after he'd hexed me and Dean," Seamus replies, and Harry can half hear 'Mione correcting his grammar. 'Dean and I'. (Hermione, were she privy to his thoughts, would naturally feel forced to point out that 'me' was correct given it's the direct object, although in a perfect world, yes, it would come second. Manners. Still, it's understandable. Grammar isn't precisely emphasised at Hogwarts, to say nothing of social niceties.)

"Ron's certainly been busy," Jack laughs again, and Ginny zings the next Quaffle straight at his head. Given he's one of their reserve Beaters, there's not even the thinnest of excuses to legitimise the shot.

"Oi!" He complains, his good humour vanished as quickly as that. "Rein it in or take it out on your brother. This is his fault."

"And he isn't even out here, the rat bastard," Seamus adds with no little heat, not that it does a thing to combat the freezing temperatures.

The boys have a point.

Ginny's sort of had it with any and everyone, and without another word, not that she'd had all that much to say this morning, she flies off to the tent to get changed for breakfast. She still needs to meet with Michael Corner anyway to see if he'd been able to get them any Peace.

"Brilliant," Harry mutters. "We've a week and a half to get ready for Slytherin. Do you think you could concentrate on what we're doing here?"

"Not at this hour, mate," Seamus answers, but it's without venom, honestly tired. For the reserve player to admit as much is telling. And of course, even more telling is their use of a reserve Beater for Keeper. They really are buggered without Ron.

Bloody hell, indeed.

It's not that they couldn't understand Ron's reasons for being upset, but he'd let things get well out of hand, and Fay can't help thinking Ron's really going to be in for it if this keeps up.

What a mess.

Ron isn't having the best of mornings either. He casts another Tempus and at this point is pretty well convinced that Pomfrey won't let him out of the Infirmary until he's been forced to eat more of her gruel. He could swear it's an unwritten rule or something. It's probably not worth another attempt at the Great Hall, though. He's already been chased all over the castle by Peeves for that once this week.

On the other hand... what were the chances it would happen again?

As long as he didn't take Peeve's bread, that is. Colin had been clear enough about that.

He thinks suitably dark thoughts about Colin, he's the reason the team has early morning practices, after all, and then has to avoid thinking about the team, no doubt out there practising and cursing him something silly.

Bloody hell.

He pulls the blanket just a bit snugger about him, trying to enjoy being sat here in warmth for all it's worth. This should be the last morning spent that way for a while...

Pomfrey comes over and performs some sort of Charm to scan his arm, apparently well on the mend after last night's fall down the flight of stairs. He couldn't follow the details - nor did he really care about them, to be fair - but for whatever reason it hadn't been as simple as an Episkey, and he'd had to spend the night. That wouldn't be so bad, having a bit of a lie in instead of being out in the freezing cold and dark on the pitch, and Nurse Wainscott was usually nice company when she wasn't fawning over Dean, but he hasn't seen hide nor hair of the witch since she came in, leaving him with Pomfrey who seems to have it in for his stomach with a vengeance.

And it didn't help things any that he'd had a rotten night.

He'd been lying there on the floor after he took his tumble down the stairs last night, a whole flight, bucket still on his head, spiders still crawling all over him, arm in quite a state, and sixth year Ravenclaw Prefect Edgar Martins had found him, apparently in something of a rush to get to their Tower. Ron knows that, because Martins had repeated the fact a whole bunch of times as he resentfully dragged Ron to the Infirmary instead. He was going to be late for a House meeting or something, all because of Ron. Ron frankly can't see the issue, if there was a House meeting, it was only for one reason: Quidditch. (It's unclear if that says more about him or Professor McGonagall's approach to being a Head of House.) Sure, the Ravenclaws had been on Harry's case about practice time, but the Ravenclaws didn't have a match coming up, they had gotten extra practice slots, erm, thanks to the Gryffindors practising early mornings now, and Martins wasn't even on the team, for Godric's sake. He really had nothing to complain about. Which hadn't seemed to stop the boy from complaining - non-stop - about Potter and his blasted friends and all the stupid things they got up to and got away with and... Well, there'd been a lot more, but Ron hadn't really cared to listen, and he'd been sort of injured at the time, hadn't he? And that's not to mention the spiders.

So he hadn't listened, much, not until Martins went off about 'Mione and Snape, and boy did he ever, and what kind of slag must she be, shagging a Professor, and frankly Ron hadn't gotten much sleep after that. And it's not like he could have taken House points; Martins was a Prefect. And he did sort of need his help to get to the Infirmary.

But it just kept going around and around in his thoughts the rest of the night, 'Mione and Snape, 'Mione and Snape, and really he was happy not to have slept more, because the last thing he needed was to dream about that.

Well, except maybe spiders.

"Your arm has come along nicely, Mr. Weasley. I'll have some breakfast sent over and then we'll have you out of here in time for classes."

Brilliant. He imagines the gruel, at least, will serve to distract him.

Severus props himself against the wall, wringing for breath. Unlike when he duels - he much prefers realistic conditions for that - a Charm keeps his hair neatly from his eyes. That, quite rightly, calls the sweat he now wipes from his brow into question, but he views it as an indispensable benchmark, a measure of his exertions, and doesn't like depending on magic for that in any event.

Bursts of panic and now amusement lap through the bond. Nothing so severe it had impacted his workout, small favours, but the witch is something else. He can't begin to explain her reactions, particularly in isolation and at this hour, and has a sense he shouldn't like to know her reasons for any of it. He probably has her flicker of embarrassment to thank for that certainty.

He tries not to wonder about it, especially as he's come to associate that emotional response with himself, cheers, or at least with her feelings about their bonding... But it's no coincidence that it had spurred him to to finish the last mile more quickly than usual. He has a stabbing sensation in his side to show for it. He massages it as his pulse returns to normal.

Worst case, if the cramp doesn't let up soon, he knows a spell for it. In the meantime it serves to further validate his efforts.

He's just run three miles and had spent the half an hour prior with weights and working on his abdominal muscles. A decent showing given how poorly he'd been just days ago.

His appearance is unusual, all the more so as it's much the same as at any other time and would seem utterly unsuited to his early morning activities. His dragonhide boots have spells applied that render them more appropriate to the task than any trainers. His cloak, robes and waistcoat hang from hooks by the door, his trousers and dress shirt have an assortment of Charms making them flexible, breathable, and Imperviused to perspiration, all of which was a necessity, as he'd rather eat his trunk (again) than be caught dead in a trackie. He has a reputation to consider. But as he's also well aware of the benefits of Mugglewear, he'd had a number of custom adjustments for Madam Malkin; the seamstress had been only too happy to see to the necessary changes.

If he survives the year and everything doesn't go to hell in the process - it's unclear which of the two is less likely - he has some ideas based on the properties of new Muggle fabrics. Perhaps in concert they can come up with Charms to mirror those advances.

The thoughts draw a sigh from him; it seems inevitable how often his thoughts turn to the improbability of his survival and the dismal state of the war... It's too commonplace to be mood ruining, per se, but it's equally difficult to just enjoy things in the face of it. No, there hasn't been a great deal of that lately.

Which makes the steady waves of amusement he keeps receiving from Miss Granger this morning even odder yet.

It's the strangest sensation in the absence of anything that actually amuses him. There was a moment at the outset when he'd toyed with being irked at the encroachment, but it's certainly more pleasant than her anger or sadness of the past couple of days had been, and soon he surrenders to it. He tries to picture the source of her merriment - whatever it is - for a moment and fails. Of course he does, how would he know what's going through her mind? But it's different to his responses. It has none of the darker notes that usually accompany his amusement. When is he simply amused? Over the years, truly spectacular mis-brews in his classes have become far more likely to give rise to annoyance, seeing them more as personal affronts - the students will so refuse to absorb a thing he teaches - and are periodically matters for concern... All the times lately he's been proven right and others wrong? They almost always stem from an underestimated threat, hardly occasion for unrestrained mirth. This seems to lack even the notes of Schadenfreude common to much of his own entertainment...

His Tempus signals the end of his session and he lifts the Charm on his hair. It flops somewhat lifelessly into his face. He'll need to shower again; magic isn't adequate to the task for that. He runs a largely unnecessary Cleaning Charm over his clothes. It's dictated at this point more by force of habit than any perceived need, Madam Malkin's spells saw to that, but the habit stemmed from the years he still noted the rampant ridicule for his appearance. He proceeds to the entrance where he begins reclaiming the rest of his clothing. His breathing is even enough that it shouldn't appear too strange if he encounters any students out and about at this hour. They aren't given to observing closely anyway, and the detentions he would mete out should distract further. An unspoken Charm buttons his waistcoat and he pulls on his robes.

He listens to the bond more closely. She's clearly having a bit of a lark. Her tatty moggie, perhaps? Or Sunny? Something's set her off. He sifts through the feelings, the sensations - when he isn't Occluding, it's difficult not to - and is slightly pleased when he finally uncovers just a hint of Schadenfreude amongst the rest after all. It's not pronounced, but it's there, and yes, it's pleasing. It makes her more human, more relatable, not that he has any clear idea why he should wish to relate to the woman, but still... It's something he can grasp. Understand...

He takes his cloak, the last of his clothes, from the hooks and is surprised to discover one last article of clothing hanging there. It's as black as his robes and cloak, but nothing he'd brought with him, and he's quite certain he'd have noticed had something been there when he entered. He takes it carefully in hand, a caution not easily explained given the readiness with which he accepts everything else the Room has on offer, but perhaps some part of his subconscious has recognised what it is before he does.

Bits of cloth and - surely that's string - that catch for a moment in an ill defined mass before falling into place as he lifts it gingerly from the hook.

And promptly wishes he hadn't.

The Room is clearly taking the piss, because the very last thing he wished for was a bloody bikini.

And had he done, perhaps every second dream last night, it certainly wouldn't have been this minuscule piece of tawdriness. What happened to sackcloth? Or sacks as a whole, in fact?

An Incendio eliminates the offending scraps of fabric before he turns and storms from the Room.

He can swear he hears it laughing behind him as the door falls to.

There's an incoming wave of annoyance - Hermione hopes she hasn't overplayed her attempts at good humour - that unfortunately appears to coincide with the Professor returning to quarters. Or at least that's what she thinks he's doing. The direction hasn't changed too much, but he seems to be drawing closer.

It's clearly well past time to get a wriggle on.

Hermione has given a bit of thought - naturally - to how to handle meals. Luna...

Poor Luna.

Luna had had a point. It was important to eat better, not just a pastie here and there. But Hermione still has no intention of subjecting herself to the Great Hall; she does, however, have the means of avoiding it, and intends to take full advantage of it. After the past several days, it's probably the least she deserves, she'd promised to do this, and she gives herself a break.

Sunny is soon summoned and a good breakfast ordered, although it takes some negotiating to convince him she has neither the time nor the stomach for a full English every morning. They soon reach a compromise and off the elf pops, the very soul of good cheer.

Hermione gathers her things for the day and makes her bed while she's waiting - longer than expected, she can't help thinking - taking care not to make poor Crooks into the bed in the process as she had yesterday. Progress! He radiates mistrust, utterly failing to show the proper appreciation for her duly cautious efforts, but then half-Kneazles have a way of not being excessively grateful, just as their owners serendipitously tend not to notice. Much.

Belatedly it occurs to Hermione she'd promised Sunny only yesterday that she'd leave the bed making to him (and hadn't the Baron chided her for those concessions), and she quickly grabs the corner of the comforter shaking it into disorder before the house elf reappears with her breakfast. Crooks thinks the appropriate thoughts about that bit of nonsense, but is soon distracted by the sound of the witch pouring his kibble into his food bowl in the bath.

When all is said and done, stupidity is more than welcome to abound, so long as his bowl and stomach are full and his bed is warm and dry. Really, he's not a demanding creature in the least.

Suitably soothed that food will be waiting when he wakes, he dozes off on his roost on the bed once more.

Hermione thanks the elf for what promises to be a lovely bowl of porridge, and beaming, he disappears again even before she can make herself comfortable at her desk. She takes a seat, enjoying the Professor's lovely chair while she still has it, and begins to tuck in.

There's still the matter of the Professor himself.

She certainly has no desire to put him out further, or force him to think about escorting her to the Great Hall, or worse, not doing so, leaving her behind, rejected in their quarters... Well, no, ending up at the Hall is probably worse after all. If they got there, he'd expect her to go in. She really shouldn't like to have to explain the situation to him, why she's avoiding meals with the others, her discomfort with the very idea of trying to tell him about it holds. All considered, her approach from the previous evening hadn't worked all too poorly, had it? The trick, she thinks, lies in leaving quarters before he does. The problem, evidently, is that he apparently rises earlier than she does, but if he doesn't return before curfew ends, she should have a shot at slipping out unnoticed...

Which helps explain why she's hurrying to eat her breakfast and nervously casting a Tempus as the man draws closer.

Bugger yet again.

From the look of it, she won't be so lucky...

Severus returns to quarters directly, forgoing his usual circuit in search of students jumping curfew. The morning yield tends to be a good deal less fruitful than his evening patrols anyway. Mostly it served just for a spot of exercise, that and to cement the impression in the students' minds that he should be anticipated everywhere at all possible hours. As neither is particularly necessary at this point, it wasn't much by way of a loss.

By the time he reaches his quarters, he's managed to forget his annoyance at the Come and Go Room's antics, and if he hadn't, the ripple of disappointment via the bond that greets his arrival would have seen to it.

Cheers.

Bloody hell.

It serves to emphasise for him, however, that bondmate or not, he has no business whatsoever considering the witch in his erstwhile study in bikinis or much of anything else for that matter.

Which makes it all the more surprising when he crosses the perception filter into chambers to find her sat reading in her chair by the hearth, as though utterly unfussed by the prospect of encountering him.

Perhaps she'd thought she'd have the place to herself...