Victory

"Why aren't you dressed yet?" Ginny demands.

"It doesn't start for another two hours." Hermione glances up from her Transfiguration notes distractedly.

Ginny is standing with her hands on her hips, wearing a shimmering set of gold dress robes and Molly Weasley's patented pointed stare. Only Ginny Weasley, with her golden-freckled skin and her vibrant sun-fired hair and her inherent gracefulness, could ever wear robes like that and look like a mythical elf princess; they would be exceedingly tacky on most other witches.

"You look lovely, Gin," Hermione says, closing her textbook as she foresees the inevitable end to her solitary studying.

"You're not going to flatter your way out of this, Granger," Ginny says archly, although she emanates a slightly smug air for a moment. "Why haven't you Sleekeazied your hair yet?"

"I like it curly," Hermione says defensively, brushing her fingertips through the riot of curls that haloes her head like she's a saint from one of the castle's stained window panels. Without her curls, she wouldn't be Cass.

"Curly is one thing, Hermione," Ginny says snippily. "It looks like you've been dragged backwards through the forest by centaurs."

"Do not!" Hermione gasps, a little put out that Ginny would resort to Umbridgian insults to make her point.

"Sit," Ginny orders, Conjuring a chair next to Hermione's bed.

Hermione sighs as Ginny begins to tame her hair into a twist of curls with Muggle hair pins and a glitter of magic for good measure. "You're very bossy, you know."

"Takes one to know one," Ginny retorts, viciously wrestling a curl into place.

"Ouch," Hermione whines.

"Sit still," Ginny orders. "Harry is arriving early to check the security for the party, and I want to go down early and meet him."

Hermione smiles; she's looking forward to seeing Harry again, and she thinks she's even ready to see the newly engaged Ron, too. She's already seen Neville this morning...he arrived early to help Professor Sprout with the flower arrangements. "Did you hear that Neville's coming back to Hogwarts next year? He's going to be a student teacher for a year, and then take over from Professor Sprout when she retires next summer." Hermione thinks Neville will be a wonderful teacher, although she wonders how he's going to cope with being Severus' colleague.

"Mmhmm," Ginny mumbles through a mouthful of hairpins. A few minutes later, Ginny pats Hermione's head. "There," she says with satisfaction, "now you're neat enough to go up and get your Order of Merlin."

Hermione's mouth is in the process of forming the round notes of a thank you when Ginny leans forward and opens the shell-inlaid box, letting a tumble of hairpins slide into it with a muted, metallic tinkle. "Why is your pretty box empty?" Ginny closes it and pats the lid. "Oops. That central panel is loose... you should get that fixed because it's really gorgeous. Lucky you that your folks got you such a nice pressie from New Zealand. Now, just for a Hairspray Charm..."

Hermione's breath is still swollen in a tight bubble of disbelief as Ginny blasts her hair with a jet of hairspray. When Ginny dances across the dormitory and out of the door, Hermione stares at the box and laughs softly; Severus is going to be absolutely befuzzled when he next opens his box.

A conversation spirals up the stairs as Hermione nears the turn into the Entrance Hall.

"Merlin, Severus, you look like a priest!" Professor Sprout exclaims in a deceptively light tone; one that carries a surprising twist of bitchiness to it. "It's garden party, not a funeral, you know."

"Well, given that certain members of staff look rather like they're mutton dressed as lamb, perhaps the Ministry should have made it a Tarts and Vicars garden party, then," Severus says, his low drawl etched with acid and irony.

As Hermione turns the corner, the Great Doors slam with a clang of indignation, and Professor Vector's scandalised gasp of, "Bastard!" is still echoing sharply off the stone walls.

Severus chuckles in decidedly evil fashion, and Hermione tsks, although she cannot deny she's unaccountably amused. She does wonder, though, why Severus seems to deliberately antagonise his fellow staff members. Easy amusement factor or retribution because they were nasty to him first?

Severus' shoulders stiffen, and he turns with a twisted sneer on his face. When he sees it's Hermione, though, his expression softens, replaced by a definite look of interest as he takes in her pretty aquamarine dress robes and her delicate silver sandals, which flash from the hem of her robes as she descends to Entrance Floor level.

Hermione, for her part, returns the scrutiny without remorse or embarrassment. Severus is dressed entirely in black, although, surprisingly, he's not wearing dress robes. And his dashing outfit is certainly not inspired by the church, as Professor Sprout had suggested...there is a sharp military edge to the narrow, high collar and the double line of buttons that run down either side of his chest to the edge of the knee-length jacket. His dress pants have an elegant line of black satin edging the outer seam, and his shoes are polished to a high shine.

By the time Hermione draws level with him, the attraction that snaps through the air and flickers across her skin like static is almost electric; she's sure a jagged, white-blue bolt of lightning is going to arc between them at any moment. "Happy Victory Day," she says. Longing and awareness glow warm in her cheeks, and she forgets to add the publically obligatory, "Sir."

"Yes," he agrees, inclining his head to hide his flicker of a smile from the wall of portraits. "Come along, Miss Granger, or you'll be late."

Once they're standing in the relative privacy of the stairs outside the Great Doors and gazing across the white marquees and round garden tables dotted from the castle all the way down to the lake's edge, Hermione says quietly, "So, there are the black pants the students imagine you wear all the time."

The light spring breeze carries a teasing scent of his aftershave along with his breath of a chuckle towards her. "No stiffly starched white shirt, I'm afraid," he replies, subtly sliding the sleeve of his jacket up to give her a glimpse of the cuff of a dark red shirt and an onyx cufflink.

Hermione can't stifle her grin as they begin to walk down the stairs towards the freshly spell-mown stretch of emerald lawn. Hermione thinks it's a terrible pity that the Mowing Charm removes the earthy scent of freshly mown grass, Vanishing the cuttings into the air with scentless magical efficiency.

"I think red is a brilliant colour for you," she teases, and a red-robed wizard standing under a marquee catches her eye as he waves and begins to lope over to them, stopping briefly to greet the guests who have begun to stream in the through the gates, their robes bright and shiny like points of coloured light. "You and Harry match today, then."

Severus snorts and dips his hand into his jacket pocket, then raises a curious eyebrow as he opens his hand to reveal a Muggle hairpin in his palm. "I wanted to enquire about the significance of this..."

Hermione laughs merrily and steals the pin away from him. "Ginny thought that the box was simply a box."

"Ahh. No nefarious motive, then," Severus says, and there's a hint of disappointment there that suggests he wouldn't mind finding something surprising in the depths of his box.

"Not this time, no." She turns and grins at Harry, who has stopped to meet them at the foot of the stairs. Harry's dressed in formal Auror regalia today, and he's mitigated the problem of rebellious hair by gelling it all up into a modern array of bed-head spikes. "Nice hair, mate," she says in cheeky fashion.

Harry gives her a look that feels more suspicious than long-suffering or exasperated. "Back at you," he says, breaking into a smile of his own. He turns to Severus and extends his hand. "Happy Victory Day, Severus," he says with so much adult maturity in his voice it's difficult for Hermione to reconcile this man with her childhood friend. "And a First Class day at that."

"That it is, Harry," Severus says formally as they shake hands. His use of Harry's first name indicates their letter writing has progressed to what might be termed a tentative friendship. "Now, if you would excuse me..."

Harry stares after Severus as he makes his way towards the knot of staff who have gathered in the shade of one of the marquees. "A whole year, Hermione," he says, shaking his head. "Can you believe it?"

Hermione closes her eyes and lets the warmth and brightness of the day glow through her eyelids. She smiles because today feels exquisitely pleasant in comparison with the sense of horror and numb grief that had twisted and settled between the rubble and the scorched scent of death and anger that red morning. She sighs softly and opens her eyes. "Actually, I can, Harry," she says softly.

Hermione's Order of Merlin, First Class is about as twice as big as a Galleon, and its weight sits heavily on her chest as she stands on the dais and stares out across the crowd. In splendid British tradition, most women are wearing elaborate head gear; Hermione hates to think how many Fwoopers are sitting without feathers in their bottoms to fund this level of finery.

When Neville comes to stand next to her after receiving his medal...making Hermione realise he's grown another foot and now towers over her...Hermione whispers to him, "Well done, Nev," and he gives her a huge, lopsided grin. At Kingsley's insistence, Neville has the Sword of Gryffindor belted at his waist, and Hermione spotted crowds of women asking him if they could touch his sword before the ceremony started. He's got a newfound aura of confidence about him, and Hermione thinks he's going to do very well at Hogwarts next year.

When Harry steps forward from the crowd, the cheers and whistles from the crowd are deafening, and they drown out Kingsley's Sonorused, eloquent words of praise for the Chosen One. The centaurs standing proud at the edge of the Forbidden Forest raise their bugles and trumpet a herald of triumph for Harry as he ducks his head and allows Kingsley to bestow the Order of Merlin, First Class upon him. Hermione tries not to squint too much as Harry walks past her and a flicker of flashes pulse brightly like strobe lights; despite her nonchalance about her appearance this morning, she doesn't want to look like an idiot in the Prophet tomorrow.

The applause is more sedate and serious for Severus Snape...Hermione's not sure whether it's the taint of residual hatred or a hush of awed respect, though. She cannot take her eyes off his tall and lithe form as he walks towards Kingsley, and as he bends his head, his glossy hair slides forward to hide the expression on his face when the medal comes to rest on his chest. The palms of her hands burn she's applauding so hard for him, and there's a tight swell of pride in her chest that makes it hard to breathe past her smile.

Severus' face is a careful blank as he turns towards the line of recipients and walks calmly past her to take his place next to Harry. Hermione knows him better by now; inside, behind the meticulously constructed stoicism, he revels in the fact that this is recognition for his sacrifice...it is his glorious moment of vindication.

Hermione palms several hors d'oeuvres that feature salmon as their primary flavour, and she slips away from the cloying attention of the crowd and down to the edge of the lake where it curves into serene silence behind a cluster of trees. She's sure that Syrena, with her delightfully inquisitive nature, is spying on the gathering of wizards.

Hermione slides her sandals off and wiggles her toes into the thick, soft grass. It feels wonderful to relax after an afternoon of sweaty hugs and boisterous backslapping. She slides the heavy medal from her neck and lets it nestle in the scarlet pool of its own shiny ribbon. She's glad the Ministry were circumspect about awarding these medals; they've given sufficient time and distance for healing and grieving, she thinks. His quiet subtlety and guarded strength of character is what makes Kingsley such a popular Minister of Magic.

But Hermione is glad for a moment away from everybody...her mouth is sore from smiling, and she's tired of being gracious and charming. That, she thinks with a touch of fond amusement, is where Severus has an advantage; nobody seems to expect his Order of Merlin to magically turn him into a charming knight.

Hermione is particularly proud of herself for being nice to Lavender earlier: they had a brief conversation about the wizarding orphanage; Hermione admired Lavender's engagement ring (gold and rubies, of course); they graciously exchanged cheerful platitudes like 'no hard feelings' and 'I wish you all the best'. Ron's grateful smile made her concerted effort worth it, though...the fond regard in his eyes was for her, and it still glows softly like a comforting nightlight in her mind.

"Cass!"

Hermione breaks off from her self-congratulatory daydream and waves at Syrena.

"I knew you would be here. I brought you a treat." Hermione Levitates the salmon morsels through the air in a careful arch, and she laughs as Syrena systematically picks the fish off the crackers. She's learned from Syrena that the selkies do not tend to eat much starch, even when they are out of the water. Watching Severus at mealtimes has confirmed this fact, and she finds it interesting that he'd have the same preferences even though he only found out he was half-selkie after he turned seventeen.

She and Syrena talk about the wizarding guests and their strange and wonderful robes and hats; Hermione tells Syrena about her plans for next year, confirming that she'll be back to visit often, especially since she plans to rent a cottage in Hogsmeade; Syrena tells her about the selkies' summer routines and that they are planting fields of Algae Grass at the moment.

"There you are!" Harry's voice carries to her with a petulant huff of exasperation.

Syrena gives a high-pitched squeak of surprise and disappears beneath the divide with a flash of her silver tail.

Hermione turns around and scowls at her friend. "Harry," she complains, "you frightened her."

"I'll tell you what is scary," he tells her, stripping off his heavy robes to reveal a pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt, "is listening to you speak Mermish."

Hermione clucks her tongue in quasi-annoyed fashion and pokes Harry's shoulder with an index finger. "Aren't you supposed to be posing for the Daily Prophet, pandering to your adoring public?" Hermione grins at Harry. "Where is Ginny?"

"Weasley family photograph session," Harry says. "I thought I'd come look for you."

"Aren't you practically a Weasley?" Hermione teases, wiggling her hand playfully to indicate that it's about time he started shopping for an engagement ring. Ginny isn't coming back to Hogwarts next year...she's been offered a position as Chaser with the Holyhead Harpies...and Hermione knows, with a conviction that is clear and defined like diamond, that Harry and Ginny are two halves of one piece.

Harry ignores her provocation and stares across the lake with a moody expression twisting his lips. "Hermione," he says carefully after taking a deep breath, "are you shagging Snape?"

Harry's question jolts through her nerves: her heart stutters; her stomach clenches and writhes with a slick and nervous apprehension; a headache begins to pulse behind her eyes. "No!" she exclaims, her voice high-pitched and indignant, sounding a lot like a Mermish warble.

Not yet, her mind whispers, and the knot of nerves in her stomach blossoms into a wildfire of anticipation. The warmth of the heat races along all the nerves just under her skin, setting it aglow with a fierce blush. "Why would you think that?" Severus was going to kill her for being so obvious, for letting her open expression tell a secret and beautiful truth.

"It's just..." Harry says, shaking his head. "It's just that when you were talking to him this morning... He was smiling at you. Not smirking or being a smug bastard. It was a genuine smile."

Hermione rubs at her temple. "Friends can smile at each other; you smile at me all the time and that doesn't mean we're shagging, Harry," she points out, skating on the gossamer thin line between telling the truth and the temptation of dishonesty. "Severus and I are friends... you're friends with him, too, aren't you?"

Harry taps her on the arm, and she turns to look into his eyes...they're dark green and cool like the depths of the lake. "I don't smile at you like that," he says. There's no anger in his voice...there's only concern and curiosity and the brand of intensity that has evolved from teenaged anger and angst into cool and calm logic.

Hermione sighs. "Fine," she snaps. "There's something between us." She knows it with that diamond edged and frighteningly sharp clarity. "But nothing has happened yet; we'll wait until after NEWTs, when I leave Hogwarts."

Harry doesn't explode like Hermione might have expected a year ago; he nods gravely and his eyebrows draw together in a tight frown. "Do you know what you're doing, Hermione?" he asks. "I've come to know Snape a bit, but that doesn't mean he might not still be a bitter and broken..."

Temper flashes red at the periphery of Hermione's vision, and her burgeoning headache snaps in her words like acid in water: "You don't know him at all well, then, if you can still think that." She shakes her head. "I can't believe that you..."

"Hermione," Harry interrupts, putting a hand on her arm urgently, "I'm just concerned for you, all right?" He squeezes her arm gently, and then moves his hand, linking his fingers together over one knee. "I can tell he's changed, but he's still very guarded with me in his letters... I'm just worried that you don't know what you're getting into..."

Hermione's surprised that Harry doesn't argue against the core of the idea of falling for Snape; it's a sharp surprise to have his unspoken, tentative approval, although it does come with a heavy dose of scepticism and concern.

"I know, Harry," she says quietly, watching the way the lake seems to breathe in soft ripples. She smiles as she thinks of seeing Severus in the water, watching his skin shimmer in the green light, being able to touch him, express the depth of what she feels in more than a subtle smile. "I know."

Harry hmm's softly. "You know," he says slowly, plucking a piece of grass and twirling it between finger and thumb, "I don't know anybody who has ever been right more often about things. So, I think I'm going to trust you on this one, keep your secret until you're sure."

Hermione smiles at him, and she realises that their friendship is something she treasures beyond words, beyond magic. "Thank you, Harry."

After Harry leaves to find Ginny, Hermione watches Charlie and Draco amble along the lake's edge a long distance away, and she smiles at the startling beauty of unconventional love.

A/N: Thank you to Gelsey, as always. You're a star, honey. No, a sparkle of shooting stars...an entire sky full of wisdom and light.

Thank you to everybody who reads and reviews The Silvering Divide. Writing this story has been a shining and silver experience.

In case anybody was wondering about Severus' attire in this chapter, I've stolen that from one of my very favourite movies, Equilibrium. There have to be more fangirls for it than me? Grin. Anyway, Christian Bale (guh) has the best outfit for the movie, and it has always reminded me sharply of our Severus.