5: Rung Three - Her

Disclaimer: Not mine. No money. Special thanks go to JKR for sanctioning HP fanfic.

Gobs of thanks go to my beta Southern Witch 69 and to my Brit-picker the amazing Saracen77.

5: Rung Three – Her

June 30th, 8:05 pm

He doesn’t see me, and I’m glad.

I am glad, right?

Making up for my missed chance from earlier, I look at him. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. I may be friends with Tonks, but she doesn’t exactly bring him ‘round the pub. He looks better than he ever did at Hogwarts, but that could be because he no longer wears body-obscuring robes. He’s even lost the frock coat for the night, donning a silver and green fronted waistcoat over starched white cotton. I can finally appreciate his lean build.

No – it’s more than that. His face appears more relaxed, the lines of care he’d worn so harshly during the war look softer, his eyes and mouth less pinched.

The change extends to his body – the shoulders don’t ride so high, his movements appear even more fluid. In fact, when Tonks runs at him to hug him, he catches her and spins her lightly, twirling her laughter throughout the room. He even smiles.

Their physicality makes me uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable or jealous? Am I jealous? And if so, jealous over what? We had a … an encounter of mistaken identity. That’s all.

Ron chooses this moment to grab my wrist and drag me into the room proper.

“Snape,” he’s calling, and I wonder when he decided they were on such friendly terms. Whatever’s in the punch must really be something.

Snape appears puzzled by it as well and decorates his reply with a half sneer. “Mr. Weasley, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

If I weren’t so mortified, I’d laugh – he makes pleasure sound like the direst torture.

Why shouldn’t he – he’s good at combining the two, or have you forgotten already?

I blush fiercely, feeling the heat engulf not only my face, but my neck and décolletage as well.

He turns to me, and the sneer changes to a smirk, a smirk with eyebrow.

Ron continues. “See, it’s like this: Hermione has a headache, and it’s not only the Victory Celebration tonight, it’s also our anniversary. So help a bloke out, will you, and give us a spot of headache potion.”

The look on Snape’s face turns thoughtful, and even as he answers Ron, he keeps his eyes on me. “Ah, a headache – we all know how infamous those can be.” His tone is sardonic, and the eyebrow arches higher.

I blush even hotter, darker.

“I will see what I have.” He disengages from Tonks and moves towards a front hall crowded with overflowing coat racks borrowed from Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, and my flat. Their restless shuffles can barely be heard above the noise from the next room.

I only know all of this because Ron continues to pull me by my left arm as he trots after Snape.

Turning abruptly, Snape puts a stop to Ron’s forward momentum by raising a hand. “Mr. Weasley, undoubtedly, you have a plethora of family members to attend to. If you would leave Ms. Granger in my hands, I promise I will strive to return her to you shortly pain free.”

Ron breaks into a smile and raises an arm to cuff Snape’s shoulder, but it waivers without making contact as some part of his brain belatedly realizes that might be taking things a bit too far. “Thanks, Snape. Now that the war’s over, you’re an alright sort of bloke.”

Another eyebrow. “Why, Mr. Weasley, such high praise from you wipes the slate clean of the condemnations of my life.”

I fight to stifle my snort of laughter, turning it into a cough.

Pounding my back, Ron smiles again, this time a little unsurely, before turning to kiss my lips gently. “I hope you feel better soon, Mione,” he whispers.

I sigh a bit as he walks away – how can he move so quickly from oaf-like to sweet? It’s one of his most endearing qualities and one of the first things I loved about him.

Then I turn to face the intensity that is Severus Snape.

I meet the sneer on his face with a glare of my own, and we stand deadlocked like this for what seems ages, but must only be a few minutes.

I have no bloody clue what to say.

He breaks the silence. “Let us discontinue this farce. Unless, that is, Weasley’s inane Quidditch babble has truly given you a headache.”

“You leave Ron out of this. He’s a good man and doesn’t deserve such derision.”

“A good man, you say?” He moves closer, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Just how good is he?”

Of all the nerve. As if he were so wonderful.

Oh, but he is – at least at that.

I give myself a mental shake and purposefully respond only to the surface meaning of his words to more fully reject the dampness growing between my thighs. “He’s kind. He’s caring. He’s loyal. He’s –”

He interrupts, “You mistake the connotation of my words, Ms. Granger. The, shall we say, double entendre as it were.”

I’m gritting my teeth to keep from replying. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the competitive world of magical graduate studies, it’s if you want the ruddy bastard you’re fighting to drown himself, you have to give him time to cook up a large enough cauldron.

He takes the bait and steps closer to continue. “I must admit I am curious. During our little bout of mistaken identity this afternoon, you reacted like a woman in dire need of my attentions. If Weasley were as good –”

This time I stop the conversation – with the crack my hand makes connecting with his cheek.

He backs slightly away and stands at his full height. His eyes flash dangerously, but a small smile pulls at his lips. “Touché, Ms. Granger.”

Brushing past me, he leaves the front hall, and I stand, waiting to get my breathing under control, trying to organize my chaotic thoughts.

All I feel is the stinging of my hand.