The Falconer's Knot

Chapter Twenty – The Falconer's Knot

"The Falconer's Knot - The Falconer's Knot is a knot used in falconry to tie a bird of prey to a perch. As the left hand would have the bird sitting on it the Falconer's Knot must be tied using only the right hand." – from Wikipedia's List of Knots

Hermione sighed heavily as she stared into the mirror. The two house elves in the room had hovered behind her for a good, solid hour before she'd become so frustrated at the looming presence that she'd asked for help with her hair just to give them something to do and keep them from staring at her with a mix of disapproval and yearning. Unfortunately, the artful tumble of curls at the back of her head really did look quite splendid, bugger it. From the flurry of excitement that had run through the little creatures as soon as she had requested help, Hermione gathered that they didn't often have a chance to use these particular talents.

"Isn't it lonely in this great big house with just the Marquis here?" she asked as she sat down at a vanity table in front of a large mirror. The instant her bum touched the stool, both house elves leapt to attention, one snapping her fingers to light a series of candle sconces around the mirror, the other clambering up onto a nearby stool, clearly awaiting direction.

"Not lonely, Young Miss," the first elf – Gigi? Hermione thought that was her name – responded as she waved a hand, adjusting the level of the lamps as Hermione picked up the small bag of cosmetics she'd laid out. "Old Master is always having dinner parties and balls, so we is kept plenty busy. And the manor is big, so we has plenty of cleaning to do every day."

"Parties?" Hermione asked, incredulous. "He doesn't seem the type."

Seta, the second elf, nodded. "Plenty of parties, Young Miss, with lots of important wizards and witches who runs France. He also invites wizards from the Ministry in Britain, Young Miss."

"And he never invites Prof...Young Master Severus?"

Both elves' faces had a distinctly sorrowful cast to them, despite their efforts to mask it.

"No, Young Miss," Seta answered. "He is not inviting Young Master anymore. He and Young Master never gets along when Young Master was a boy, Miss, but the fight they had just after Young Master finish school made Young Master so mad he say he never come back. And he never did." Seta shook her head.

"Never," Gigi repeated, shaking her head as well. "Not until he bring you, Young Miss."

"Hmmm," Hermione murmured, but couldn't think of anything else to say, so she fell silent. In the quiet, she opened the zippered bag of her make-up and began to apply the sparing amount of cosmetics that she used for special occasions. Smudging eggplant-shaded eyeliner at her lashes, Hermione tried to keep in a sigh. She was rather annoyed that this had become a special occasion. With the arrival of Lady Snape, the Marquis seemed to want to roll out the red carpet, use the most formal china, and treat the late supper as if it were an estate ball rather than a small dinner of four. Which, she supposed, was the whole point: he wanted to see if Hermione could hold up to the standard of high formality. Arrogant bloody lout. Well, she'd show him, anyhow. Slicking on mascara over the delicate purple eye shadow that brought out her warm brown eyes, she thought that despite the fact that she'd never be a real beauty, the effect was quite nice. And, in marvelously unexpected serendipity, her good cosmetics matched the remaining set of evening robes, hued a rich plum purple. After carefully applying her make-up without allowing the ivory lace sleeves to drag in it, Hermione sat back to judge the effect.

"What do you think?" she asked the waiting house elves. "Will I pass muster for the Marquis?"

"You look very pretty, Young Miss," Seta said dutifully.

"Though, Young Master's favorite color is red," Gigi put in. "Young Miss may want to consider scarlet-colored robes in the future. She is wanting to please Young Master, I'm sure."

"His favorite color is red?" Hermione asked, dubious. For all the man paraded around in and the ruthless bias towards his house, she would have assumed green or black. "Well, I'll ... take that into account for the future. I just wish I knew how to get my lipstick to stay on past the drinks," she added with a rueful smile.

Seta rushed forward eagerly. Bringing Hermione towards her with a delicate, bony hand on her chin, the little elf brushed her fingertips across Hermione's face lightly. For just a moment, she felt a cool sensation, then a tingle.

"It will stay on all night now, Miss," she said, beaming.

"Really?"

The little elves both nodded proudly. Regarding her face in the mirror, Hermione noticed that there was a bit of sparkle about her, but nothing else seemed different. As if in disbelief, Hermione scrubbed her hands across her eyes, then her lips, but was amused to see that not one tiny fleck or smear graced her fingers or her face.

"How clever you are!" she chortled, causing both elves to grin in pleasure. "What a helpful charm."

"We hasn't had much chance to use it, Young Miss," Gigi said. "Not since the Mistress passed away many years ago. But it's very handy for pretty ladies."

"Thank you," said Hermione. "It's perfect."

"Best go now," Seta said, gently urging Hermione towards the door. "Dinner begins at nine, and it's getting close."

"Yes, I'm off," Hermione said, putting her hand to her hair and taking one last, quick glance. "Thank you both."

The little elves both watched her go, expressions of amusement and curiosity reflecting in their large eyes.

*****

Hermione stood at the railing of the gallery alcove that looked down into the library. Unable to cap her nervous energy, she banged her palms against the wooden balustrade and tried to keep from chewing on the inside of her lips. Damn the Marquis; damn him to flaming, choking, seething, polyester-coated Hell. Obviously he had insisted on all this pomp and nonsense just to unnerve her, or failing that, to prove once again that she wasn't on the same societal or financial level as he congratulated himself on occupying. Her bare hands slapped against the rail again, warming them with the little stinging slap. There would only be four of them at the dinner table, yet he was insisting on six courses, formal dress, and Merlin only knew what else afterwards. No wonder Professor Snape had been only too eager to leave this nonsense behind.

"If you keep doing that, you're liable to get a splinter," a voice from behind her said with a hint of amusement.

Hermione looked over her shoulder to see Lady Snape striding up to her, her whippet-thin body clad in a set of copper-colored dress robes that flattered her auburn hair quite well and was resplendent with winking crystals here and there. Elbow-length white gloves adorned her slender arms, a diamond bracelet covered her right wrist, and a triple-strand choker of creamy ivory pearls supported a long chain of gold that dripped a larger pearl down her sternum towards her cleavage. Hermione couldn't help being dazzled by her stately elegance, topped off with the myriad of pearls scattered through her rich red hair. She stared down at herself to give the appearance of scanning her hands for splinters, but Hermione felt terribly underdressed compared to Lady Snape's grandeur.

"Don't you look lovely, my dear," she said, her voice a warm caress. "Might I be so rude as to ask who made your robes?"

"Madame Moreaux, of the..." Hermione started.

"Needle Fairy," Martine finished, nodding. "Yes, I'm familiar with Etoile, as she was a playmate of Severus's once upon a time. She does lovely work, as you are clearly exhibiting."

Hermione had started to snicker at hearing the stern and disapproving Madame Moreaux as a 'playmate' of her even more stern and disapproving fiancé, but it melted into a nervous laugh at the effusive compliment.

"You're very kind," Hermione responded, "and given to exaggerate, it seems."

Martine laughed a musical chuckle. "Nothing of it, dear; you look splendid. And Etoile always did have a knack for creating absolutely lovely work at very reasonable prices. Perfect, I'm sure, for a Mudblood on a limited budget."

Cringing at the insult, Hermione fought to keep her color down and her tongue in check, remembering Snape's chiding direction from earlier. It only worked for a moment.

"Lady Snape," Hermione said quickly, trying to keep acid from her tongue, "I would ask you, please, to cease referring to me with that term. I find it offensive in the extreme." Lady Snape's features dropped into a moue of surprise, but Hermione couldn't stop herself. "I'm informed that you do not mean it as an insult, but I don't see how it could be taken as anything else, so I would beg you to please refrain from using it in my presence."

Martine's features shifted from surprise to thoughtful consideration as she gazed at Hermione. After a long moment of silence where she simply gazed into Hermione's eyes, she said, "You are an interesting young woman, Miss Granger."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "That is a very diplomatic way of stating it, my lady. 'Bossy' and 'forceful' seem to be the usual ways."

Martine responded with a rueful smile. "Terms that I've heard spoken about me quite often." Again, she seemed to consider Hermione thoroughly before speaking. "I did not mean to insult you, Miss Granger; you have my humble apologies."

Hermione couldn't respond immediately, so she simply nodded in response to the apology. Lady Snape turned to move towards the marble staircase leading to the dining room with Hermione accompanying her.

"I'm sorry, Lady Snape," Hermione said in a rush as they rounded a corner. "I don't mean to flog a dead horse, but I just can't understand how you could see that term as anything other than an affront." Realizing that she'd just implied Lady Snape's ignorance, she amended her statement by saying, "Perhaps you could explain."

Lady Snape sighed heavily. "I'm afraid I have no more dignified explanation than the teachings of youth; an explanation which, when put into perspective, seems rather flimsy. And," she said, obviously pondering the matter, "when you put that fine a point on it, I can't say I'd much care for someone implying that my blood was dirty."

An unwitting snort left Hermione. "I'd say not. No one has ever confronted you on it before?"

"I can't say that they have, in all honesty," Martine replied. "But you have to understand, my dear, that between my young life, my schooling, and my current status as a very influential landowner, I suppose that anyone who would want to challenge me was most likely afraid to do so."

"Well, I'm not," Hermione answered immediately.

"So it would seem," Martine responded.

Hermione started to apologize for the impertinence, but Martine waved it away with a gloved hand and a wry smile. Suddenly, Lady Snape broke away from her at the top of the stairs and stood back to regard her with an assessing eye.

"Something is missing," she muttered as she gave Hermione a penetrating look across her entire body. She quickly withdrew a handkerchief from the top of her left glove and an applewood wand from a deep inner pocket. Tapping the handkerchief with her wand, Martine charmed it into a pair of long white gloves, detailed up the outside with gold swirls of embroidery. She absently handed them to Hermione, who tugged them on quickly. Martine didn't seem satisfied, though, as she muttered, "Almost, but ...." Martine's gaze fixed at Hermione's neck. "Ah!" she cried with satisfaction. "That's it. Easily remedied, dear; easily remedied."

Bemusedly, Hermione watched as Lady Snape reached up to the back of her neck and unhooked the clasp of her pearls. Too stunned to protest the action, Hermione stood still as Martine fastened the expensive piece around her own throat. The heavy weight of the ropes sat cool and smooth against her throat, with the larger pearl dropping into the valley of her cleavage, just above the neckline of the robes. Hermione looked up to the much taller woman, her face coated in surprise but unable to articulate a response.

"Much better," Martine said simply, a wide smile on her thin lips. "You look perfect. Severus won't be able to keep his eyes off you."

Hermione cleared her throat heavily. "Be that as it may, my lady, I couldn't possibly accept such a generous but obviously expensive gift. It is kind of you to offer, but I couldn't..."

"Nonsense, my dear Miss Granger," she responded, laying a hand atop the one Hermione had raised to return the necklace. "First of all, I have ropes and ropes of them at home. I certainly won't miss this one, so put your mind at ease that you're robbing me of something." Hermione started to respond, but Martine continued. "Secondly, this particular piece was an heirloom that was passed to me upon the death of Severus's mother, Solange. It seems only right that you should have it. And thirdly, I feel I owe you a boon for my blundering insults earlier. It would make me very happy and assuage my conscience if you would take it."

Hermione started to form another polite refusal, but shut her mouth over it. Almost as if she had no control over it, one hand moved up to stroke the cool pearls at her throat then trace the line of the gold chain that descended over her sternum. Whether or not she looked lovely in it, she certainly felt lovely. Hermione flashed a smile to Lady Snape, who looped her arm threw Hermione's and began to walk again.

"Thank you very much, my lady," Hermione said with a shaky voice.

"You're entirely welcome, my dear. And as we're going to be family soon, please call me Martine." The older woman gave her an impish grin as she propelled the two of them towards the long marble stairs ahead. "Now," she said. "Let's see if we can't go to dinner and bore those two fools out of their heads with more talk of farming."

*****

Despite her tease about farm talk, Martine proved an articulate and vivacious conversationalist at dinner. Hermione found herself thoroughly surprised that her topics varied widely, from animagi Transfiguration to advancements in Potions to current politics. Her discussions were thought-provoking and just a little bit exasperating, as she seemed to have a great fondness for playing the devil's advocate, but Hermione felt thoroughly cheered by a conversation that challenged her intellectual stature. Much as she adored Harry and Ginny and Ron, they just couldn't debate the same topics she could. And, very much to her surprise, the debates Martine sparked even encouraged Severus to participate, delivering his point of view in his typical knife-point invective, but somehow, in this context, it carried less of his seemingly inherent desire to wound people. Hermione's brows pulled together as she glanced down at the wine-poached pears, her thoughts returning to Ron. She could function reasonably well most days, but sometimes – like now – a horrible melancholy would descend upon her and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. A pre-wedding dinner with Ron's family certainly wouldn't have been so treacherous to navigate. She could actually be herself. They could have celebrated it, even, and maybe even Harry...

Hermione looked up as the high-pitched cry of an owl echoed through the chamber. She jumped in surprise as Hedwig soared in through the long stained glass window that had been pushed open to admit the cool evening breeze. The snowy owl circled for a moment before dropping a tightly-furled scroll in Hermione's lap, perching on the arm of her chair. Cheeks reddening under the sudden scrutiny from every side of the table, Hermione's shaking fingers reached down and plucked open the seal of the parchment. Strangely, it was Ginny's handwriting – not Harry's – that covered the small piece of paper. With trepidation, she read:

Hermione,

Don't forget the stag's advice: the snake's venom isn't as strong as the bite.

We've found a raven that's willing to claim the stag.

She's quite the lovebird, so she'll set him free.

Details when you get back.

Chin up,

Ginny

Screwing her face up in concentration as she read, Hermione bit the inside of her lip absently as she tried to make out what Ginny had tried to tell her. Clearly, her friend had been suspicious that someone else might read the letter, and as such, had written it in code. Some parts of it were obvious – the reassurance against the collective Snape family "bite" – but other parts were nearly incomprehensible. The stag, of course, had to be Harry, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out who the "raven" could be. Before she could wrinkle it out, though, a long-fingered hand snatched the letter from her grasp. Hermione turned a scowl towards the Marquis, but was surprised to find that it was Severus that had stooped to a moment of flat-out rudeness. His dark eyes darted over the parchment quickly before a condescending sneer touched his lips and he tossed the paper back to Hermione.

"Well," he said smoothly, "I shall remember to cross Miss Weasley off my list of people who can be counted on for delicate subterfuge."

Hermione focused her scowl on her fiancé, barely noticing the concerned and puzzled look on Martine's face or the unwillingly amused expression on the Marquis's.

"Is everything quite all right, Miss Granger?" Martine asked, gently glossing over Severus's comment. "You haven't received bad news, I hope."

"No," Hermione said, forcing a smile. "Good news, actually. We've been having a spot of bad luck with one of the animals in our Care of Magical Creatures class..." She pointedly ignored Snape's disdainful snort. "...but my friend Ginny's just written to say that he's doing much better. It was uncertain for a while, but we've all got quite a bit invested in this animal, so we want to keep him safe until he's reached full maturity."

Snape's eyes narrowed at her with an assessing gaze, but the sneer disappeared and he said nothing. Martine simply nodded and smiled, still obviously puzzled but too well-mannered to pursue the matter further. The rest of dessert passed in near silence, for which Hermione was profoundly grateful. When the last of the plates had been removed by the house elves and Hermione rose from the table, ready to declare the evening over and, for the most part, a success, the Marquis stood and offered his arm to Martine, a slick smile on his face as he threw Hermione a darting glance.

"In honor of your presence, my dear niece," he began, "I thought we might have a little music and dancing in the ballroom. Might you favor me with a dance? And of course, Severus can dance with his charming fiancée."

Martine smiled and nodded, but slewed her eyes to Hermione as the Marquis escorted her from the dining room. A full smile flashed to Lady Snape, Hermione accepted the arm that Severus extended to her; the instant they were alone, Hermione's face dropped into a scowled and she fought the urge to scream.

"Dancing?" she hissed. "This isn't a bloody state ball; it's a bloody dinner with four bloody people!"

Snape glared down at her as she fumed, hissing a remonstrance from the corner of his lips as he escorted her out of the room. "You will keep your vulgarity in check," he snapped. "Need I remind you that you never know who is listening? Besides," he said when she made to retort, "the more important issue at hand is whether or not you can dance."

Hermione colored slightly. "A little," she admitted. Panic began to set in. "But only the few things we learned for the Yule Ball. Do you know how to dance?"

Snape sniffed disdainfully but ignored the question. "Which dance do you remember the best?"

Hermione clenched her eyes shut for a moment, humming tunelessly for a bit as she feverishly went over the steps in her mind. "The waltz," she said eventually. "Definitely the waltz, but I really don't know how well I'll do if..."

"The waltz it is," Snape said and gestured for Hermione to precede him into what she assumed was a room more fit for entertainment.

In actuality, it was a ballroom the likes of which she'd never seen in real life. The first image that leapt to mind was that of the ballroom in The Sound of Music. Gilt mirrors reflected the light of four chandeliers that cascaded down towards the floor, heavy with candles and crystals that winked rainbows all over the room. Gold swirls in the burgundy velvet wallpaper glittered under the light of hundreds of flickering wicks. Hermione found herself gasping, one hand to her chest. In the corner of the room, the Marquis was just raising his wand to what looked like an old-fashioned Victrola. When he tapped it, music surged out of it, but not the scratchy, hollow sound of a record player that Hermione had expected; the sound issuing forth made it seem as if a twelve-piece orchestra lingered somewhere just out of sight. Unwillingly, Hermione felt a delightedly smile tug across her lips. Whatever the circumstances driving this situation, she most certainly felt like something out of a fairy tale, dancing in place like this.

Severus stepped across the room swiftly and met his father's smug smirk with a calm smile. "May I?" he asked, gesturing towards the Victrola with his wand.

"Of course," the Marquis answered smoothly. "Choose the perfect song for romancing your betrothed."

Hermione fought the embarrassed blush on her cheeks, hoping that it would read as a flush of pleasure. Tapping his wand to the device that would have been the record needle, Severus nodded shortly when the lilting strains of a waltz began. Much to Hermione's surprise, the waltz was sweet and simple, featuring only a piano and cello, making her raise her eyebrows to her somber fiancé as he crossed back to her. Without addressing the look of astonishment in her eyes, Snape extended his hand to her, quite obviously asking for the dance. Her cheeks aflame, Hermione raised her hand and placed it in his, wishing desperately that she hadn't left her gloves on the arm of her chair at dinner. Her palms felt unspeakably clammy as Snape's long fingers twined around hers, cool against the back of her hand.

Conscious of the two people watching them, Hermione forced herself to relax into Snape's arms as he circled her waist with one and used the other to raise their joined hands. A few moments went by as he rocked them back and forwards slightly to digest the beat pattern, but soon, Hermione felt herself being gently guided into the pattern of the dance that she'd learned nearly three years ago. Strangely, she didn't have to wrack her mind for the proper movements and counts as much as she thought she might; the pressure of Severus's fingers against the small of her back warned her when he was about to push her into a turn, the clasp of his fingers indicating a change of direction. Being that he was so tall, Hermione could only see his shoulders and the base of his neck without gazing upwards, which she tried not to do as she was concentrating on the dance.

Before long, the need to concentrate fizzled into the background. Snape's steps were definite and his motions smooth; with his inherent driving energy, he couldn't really be called graceful – the word seemed too delicate for his swift sureness – but there was a confident, almost feline polish to his movements. At one particularly effervescent point of the melody, Hermione felt herself being effortlessly lifted in the air. Her hands automatically pushed down at his upper arms to steady herself as he turned on the spot, but it wasn't until she was back on her feet whirling around the floor again that she realized that the dance she had learned three years ago didn't contain a lift. Startled in this realization, she turned her face upwards, only to find that he was already gazing down at her. The smile that had tugged at the tips of her mouth slipped away as she fought for composure. Charged with strange energy, Hermione grappled with the concurrent need to say something and complete lack of any discernable topic. Severus was the first to break the silence.

"You look ... very nice this evening, Granger," he said.

Feeling her cheeks warm with both pleasure and discomfort, she favored him with an unsteady smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Severus," he said stiffly after a moment. "You should call me Severus."

Hermione's cheeks flamed. "Thank you ... Severus."

Snape nodded, but said nothing more, gazing out over her head at the ballroom whizzing by them.

"When did you learn this dance?" she managed eventually.

"For the Yule Ball, of course," he answered easily. "As did you."

"You didn't dance at the Yule Ball. At least, not this one; this was the champions' dance."

"I watched the dance and learned."

Hermione nearly bobbled the steps. "You learned an entire waltz just from watching, and then can repeat it three years later?"

Snape's lips quirked up in a smirk. "When one knows the basics, it isn't all that difficult to pick up a dance by watching. It's just variations on a theme, really."

Unable to help the innate gesture, Hermione chewed the inside corner of her lips as she digested this information. It was hard to remind herself that this was Professor Snape, of all people, suggesting that repeating a dance he'd only ever seen done once was as easy as all that. Then again, moments like this reminded Hermione of just how little she actually knew about her sharp-tongued fiancé. In the background, the gentle strains of music caught her attention. It really was such a strange choice for such a forthright and brash man.

"The song is lovely," Hermione said, staring at the knife-straight line of buttons on his chest. He made no response, so she filled the silence herself. "What's it called?"

"Butterfly Waltz," he said, his voice oddly strained. "It reminded me of you."

"This ... made you think ... of me?"

Turning her head up to look into his hawkish features, her mind reeled with knowledge and sensation. Her pondering of the matter was short-lived, however. A particularly tricky spot in the dance pattern caused Hermione to stumble just a tad, and she found herself pressed against his chest, her feet barely touching the floor as he pivoted them both together to cover her fumble. Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but it died on her lips. A bizarre feeling of buzzing lightheadedness had overtaken her, and she found herself leaning into him, her hands clasping tighter to his. Her heart raced insanely and she found herself lifting to her toes, though they had stopped dancing. Snape's face showed a flash of emotion dreadfully close to panic before something clicked into place; he was leaning towards her, the hand at the small of her back pushing her inexorably closer.

Suddenly, as if time had skipped ahead in a condensed lump, Hermione found herself so close to Snape that she could feel his breath rushing down across her nose and cheeks. His mouth parted and she could smell the mild, sweet scent of pears on his breath. Hermione's fingers trembled within his; dear God, he was going to kiss her. She waited, vibrating with energy and uncertainty, but he moved only a fraction of a distance closer to her. Her whole body cried out to push herself closer, to take his lips without waiting for him to make that last crucial move. It was that instinct that had Hermione stumbling away from her professor, hands fluttering at her chest as if they could still her erratic pulse through sheer force of will. Vaguely, Hermione noticed that the music had stopped – though she had no idea when – and that the Marquis and Lady Martine were both staring at them, the Marquis slightly gape-mouthed, Lady Martine with a tiny smile.

"Sorry," Hermione mumbled. One hand pressed more firmly against her rib cage, the other floated between her lips, her heated cheeks, her hair. "I ... sorry, I just ... sit ... need... I...air. I need air."

Almost out of her mind with panic, Hermione turned blindly and scurried out the double doors of the ballroom, down the short corridor and out a set of French doors into the courtyard beyond. Bending over with her arms wrapped around her stomach, Hermione gulped lungfuls of cool, autumn air, hoping that it would help clear her head. Legs wobbling beneath her, she toddled along a gravel path that wound in and out of little clusters of flower bushes and beds that were scattered around a lily pond at the center of the courtyard. Professor Snape had very nearly kissed her just now. And, Merlin help her, she'd wanted him to. Both of her clammy, shaking hands pressed against her forehead as Hermione tried to clutch at whatever self-control she had left. Her mind whirred wildly, speculating if there'd been something in her drink to make her act this way, whether it was the peculiar new version of her professor that had thrown her. It couldn't possibly be that she actually wanted to kiss him; the thought was perfectly ludicrous. She couldn't quite seem to control the fact that she was shaking out her hands on either side of her body, as if to rid herself of the pins-and-needles sleepiness that came from sitting in one position too long. The sound of footsteps on the gravel behind her forced Hermione to wrench her spine ramrod straight, though she couldn't quite bring herself to look at whomever was behind her. The weight of the footsteps spoke quite clearly that it was not Lady Martine, and as such, she had no desire to look into the face of whichever Snape had come after her.

"Well, well, well," the smooth voice said in a thoroughly amused low whisper.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she remained staunchly turned away under the guise of looking out over the lily pond.

"I must say, Miss Granger, I find myself most unusually impressed."

She could hear the crooked smile in her professor's voice, and because she wasn't sure she'd ever heard him sound quite so approving – certainly not of her, at any rate – she didn't want to destroy it by revealing her turmoil.

"Oh?" she said, forcing levity into her words.

"Indeed," Snape responded. He closed some of the distance between them and allowed himself a small chuckle. "That was quite a performance; I didn't think you were capable of such."

"Didn't you?" She sounded like a complete idiot, but any more words and she'd betray herself.

"I didn't, and I can see now that I'd underestimated you. That doesn't happen often." He paused for another light chuckle. "It was absolutely brilliant. Fudging the steps so that I might pull you in, clamming up as if you expected me to kiss you ... I admit, Granger, for a long moment, you even had me fooled. You could have told me what you were playing at, but I suppose that was for authenticity's sake."

"Mmm," she said noncommittally. Hermione supposed that she should have been happier that he hadn't wrinkled out that it wasn't an act, that she really had expected him to kiss her, but she still felt a little off-kilter by the whole affair.

"Yes, well," she said, then cleared her throat. "Couldn't make it look rehearsed, you know? Spur of the moment and all."

"To say the least," Snape responded, a note of amusement still in his voice.

Hermione nearly collapsed with surprise and tension when she felt his fingers gently cup her chin and turn her face so that she glanced backwards at him over her shoulder. Ever so lightly, Snape ran the backs of his fingertips across her cheek in what was all too dangerously close to a lover's caress, his face strangely relaxed, a tiny smile on his lips. He needed to stop; he needed to stop this right now, or Hermione would never be able to grab a handle on the situation. Hermione reached up and clasped his wrist in her small hand, still the movement that his gesture had taken down her throat towards her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she whispered hoarsely.

Snape kept his face serene, but there was a deliberate, stiff quality to it now. "Every damn wall of this courtyard has a window. I'm playing to the audience."

"Ah," Hermione managed, her stomach flip-flopping. She eased the grip on his wrist and spread her fingers out to cover his hand, trying to make it look affectionate, but still impeded his progress towards her collarbone.

"Must we really continue this charade?" she said desperately. "Can't we just drop the act for a bit? I mean, they mightn't even be watching..."

Snape took a very large step towards her, so close that the delicate lace of her cuffs caught on his stiff wool robes; his large hands twined around her cheeks to the back of her head as he bent down to her, his face still carefully serene as he loomed over her.

"You're the one who kicked open the door, Granger. I had no choice but to walk through it," he said quickly. "Do you really think that after that performance in there, the curiosities won't be piqued? That was the whole point, wasn't it?"

Snape descended suddenly, and Hermione's heart nearly stopped in her chest as his face came down near hers. Much to her surprise, however, he stopped just as the curtain of his lank hair rained down in a tickly stream across her face. Using his long fingers to change the angle of her head, Snape laid his cheek against hers. Hermione found herself unaccountably surprised that his pale skin was so warm against hers; something in her – probably years of classes spent in the dungeons – expected him to be cold-blooded like a serpent. Frozen, Hermione stood stock still as Snape's face moved against hers in tiny, undulating movements. Eventually, one hand left her nape to push at the small of her back, bringing her ever closer to him.

"Wha...?" Hermione stammered in a weak whisper. "What are you doing?"

"Staging the kiss you half started, obviously," he said. After turning just a bit so that the door she'd entered from was at his back, Snape twined one hand in the sweep of curls at the back of her head. "Put your arms around my shoulders."

"Why?" she squeaked.

Snape let go of a harsh sigh, which dampened her cheek with his steamy breath. "Good Christ, Granger, no wonder you're a love pariah, if you're really this much of a cold fish. Make it look convincing! Haven't you ever had a snog before?"

" 'Course I have!" Hermione cried indignantly, not caring that he winced at the volume of her voice in his ear. Getting a rein on her temper, she dropped her voice to a whisper. "It's just that this play-acting seems such nonsense. Wouldn't be easier if we just kissed?"

A throaty chuckle landed on Hermione's ear lobe as Snape moved closer to her ear. "You don't really want me to kiss you, now do you, Granger?"

Heart racing, Hermione couldn't help but claw her hands into the firm pleats of robes at his shoulders, unable to make noises other than babbling squeals of incoherent gibberish. Snape seemed to take this as noises of protest and cocked his eyebrow to compliment the smirk on his lips as he drew back, regarded her flushed face, then moved his head to the other side.

"I thought not," he said knowingly. "Now, for God's sake, could you try to make it look like you actually want to kiss me? You were doing a bloody good enough job in the ballroom, and this was your idea, so I don't see why..."

Lightening quick, Snape's whole body stiffened as he clutched her tight to his body.

"Bollocks!" he spat harshly.

And then he was upon her.

His arms suddenly felt like bands of steel as he wrenched her against his chest and crushed his lips to hers. Her nails sunk into the knife-blade pleats across the back of his broad shoulders and her squeak of surprise was stifled against his lips. Hermione felt dizzy-drunk, confused and unbalanced at this sudden turn of events. He'd just been protesting that she didn't really want him to kiss her, and yet, here he was pressing his lips against hers so suddenly and desperately that she would have sworn that her stalwart professor was an ardent lover. Snape tilted his head to change the angle of the kiss but didn't move his lips to part hers; Hermione couldn't decide if she was relieved or offended. After the moment of panic passed, though, she felt some of the tension leave his arms. Slowly, tentatively, Hermione released her grip on his robes and allowed one hand to sneak upwards and thread into the sheet of hair at the base of his neck, the other sliding down to lay against his arm. Just as Snape's lips seemed to be softening against hers, she heard what he must have heard moments ago: the crunch of the gravel path beneath approaching feet.

"...Uncle, I really don't think it's necessary to...oh!"

Startled at the surprised ejaculation of Lady Martine's voice, Hermione squealed and leapt away from her professor as if his touch had scorched her. Her skin immediately turned crimson as she clapped a hand over her mouth. Snape slowly turned to face his relatives, a scowl settling into the familiar lines on his face as he stepped in front of Hermione to shield her from view.

With a growl, Severus barked, "Bugger off. We're busy."

"So I see," the Marquis replied smoothly, but as Hermione peeked around Snape's arm, she noticed a nearly suppressed furrow of unhappiness between his brows. "We came to see about Miss Granger, of course; she seemed quite upset when she left the ballroom."

Snape opened his mouth to grumble fiercely, but the Marquis pre-empted his response.

"But I can certainly see that she has recovered herself."

At this, Martine let out a huff of indignance, her balled fists flying to her hips. "Which I mentioned was more than likely the case when she left," she said sourly. "Forgive us for interrupting, Severus," she grabbed a hold on the elbow of Tobias's robes and yanked him towards the door. "My apologies, Hermione. We'll leave you two in peace."

Her limbs wobbling slightly, Hermione scurried around her fiancé and held out her hand towards Lady Martine. "That's all right. No harm done. But actually," Hermione turned to look at Snape's scowling face for just a moment before turning back, "I'm quite knackered, so I think I'll just ... you know ... bed."

Trailing off as the three of them simply stared at her, Hermione gestured weakly in the direction of the guest wing. There was a tense moment of silence before Lady Martine spoke again.

"Oh!" Martine said, coloring a tiny bit and giving Hermione a conspiratorial smile. "Yes, of course, my dear; you'll want to retire for the evening. And, of course, Severus will want to bid you good evening properly. Without a crowd of onlookers."

Lady Snape gave Hermione such a pleased grin – only one step away from winking theatrically – that Hermione felt her face turn practically purple with humiliation. She started to mumble that that's not what she meant, but Martine waved away the protest and smirked as she led her uncle away. Martine called a quick "Good night!" over her shoulder as the rustling of her robes died away. Hermione turned back to Snape, who merely stared at her with an inscrutable expression on his sharp features. After a long moment, he seemed to snap out of a trance and walked towards her.

Offering his arm, Snape asked, "To your room then?" in a cool, quiet voice.

Despite her panic, Hermione felt it would be rude and wholly unnecessary to decline, so she took his arm and allowed him to lead her out of the courtyard, gravel crunching beneath her shoes as she fought to keep up with his swift strides.