Christmas Cheer

Phoenix Song, Chapter Fifteen : Christmas Cheer

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute. Where I have quoted dialogue from the original story, I have marked it with an asterisk.

Three cheers for my wonderful betas, LAxo and WriterMerrin: hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!

Once it became apparent that she and Ron were not going to reconcile before Slughorn's Christmas party, Hermione turned her impressive mental faculties to the question of who she could take that would most annoy Ron. Noting regretfully that Viktor's Quidditch schedule made his presence an impossibility, she concluded that the lucky man would have to be drawn from the local Hogwarts talent. For a day or so, she seriously considered Zacharias Smith, until at one of the Slug Club dinners, inspiration struck: Cormac McLaggen. Repeated twinges of her overactive conscience ensured that she spoke briefly with him at most meetings. Invariably, he leered at her or made some comment that triggered her ire within the first few minutes. Then she'd snap at him and storm off. McLaggen, for his part, seemed to interpret her insults as some unevolved form of flirtation and didn't find them the slightest bit off-putting.

At the Slug Club supper in question, events went pretty much according to the standard plan: "You know, Granger, if you bothered with your hair and makeup, you'd be stunning," he remarked, letting his eyes trail the length of her body.

Hermione looked around her pointedly. "Unfortunately, I can't see anyone here who'd be worth the effort."

McLaggen laughed. "Wanna go to old Sluggy's Christmas party with me, then? I'll show you I'm worth it."

Hermione blinked in surprise. She was about to cut him dead with the nastiest remark she could muster when Ron's taunt in the greenhouses came to mind: "Why don't you try hooking up with McLaggen, then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug?"*

Hermione let her gaze travel down McLaggen's body, making a point to pause for a moment and consider his ass. Why not? she reflected. He's built like a brick shithouse, but from a purely objective perspective, he's not unattractive...if you like your men massive and muscular, that is, which I don't. But he would definitely piss Ron off, no question there.

"Alright," she agreed. Arguing with McLaggen almost has to be better than deadly-dull small talk with Smith. "I'll meet you at eight in the entrance hall. Don't be late." Giving him a tight smile, she left him grinning at his own good fortune and clapping his friends on the back with glee.

Once Jocelyn returned to first principles, it took her only a couple of sessions to get the hang of Transfiguration, and Hermione enjoyed the teaching. Jocelyn was clever, quick and fun to hang around with; plus she was visibly appreciative of Hermione's time.

"I'm surprised you weren't sorted into Ravenclaw!" teased Hermione at the end of their second and final revision meeting.

Jocelyn managed a Slytherin-worthy sneer for a couple of seconds, before she spoiled it by grinning widely.

"To be honest, the Sorting Hat considered it, though I'm certain it made the right choice: I'd be dead or locked up if I weren't in Slytherin."

Well, that certainly puts the Sorting Hat's decision into perspective. "It considered Ravenclaw for me, too," remarked Hermione, a recollection of her lonely first few weeks at Hogwarts sweeping over her. She'd been convinced that the Sorting Hat had deemed her too stupid for Ravenclaw, leaving her more determined than ever to excel in every class. That, in turn, had made it even harder to make friends.

"I figured that much, Hermione," replied Jocelyn. "I reckon the Hat does a pretty good job of putting people where they need to be."

"You think that the Sorting Hat knew that Harry would need me even then?"

Jocelyn rolled her eyes. "Or that you would need him. Haven't you ever thought about how your life would have been had you been Sorted into Ravenclaw?"

Hermione hadn't. Not seriously. Not since before she, Ron and Harry had become such firm friends.

"You'd have made friends," continued Jocelyn, "but you wouldn't have had adventures. You'd still be top of your year, of course, but no-one would be surprised by the fact. You'd be an average Ravenclaw square."

Hermione stared at her friend. It was the kind of comment Snape might make, but he would have delivered it in a voice so freighted with sarcasm that it could only be received as an insult. Jocelyn gave her appraisal in a flat, normal voice; Hermione wasn't quite sure how to take it.

Unexpectedly, Jocelyn sniggered. "I bet you would have been best friends with Marietta Edgecombe!"

Guilt twisted in Hermione's stomach. "All she has to do to get rid of that hex is feel some remorse for her actions!" she snapped, her unhappy conscience ratcheting up the pitch of her voice.

Jocelyn raised an eyebrow. "Surely that would depend on her motivations for betraying the group in the first place?" she queried.

"I take back what I said earlier," replied Hermione in the most even tone she could manage, "you make a perfect Slytherin." If there was ever a house that took instruction in observing and then needling everyone else's weak spots, she grumbled to herself, it would be Slytherin. Jocelyn's question had only intensified her guilt, but, as Hermione well knew, without the original parchment, there was nothing she could do about it...and who knew where that had ended up once the Inquisitorial Squad was done with it?

Jocelyn merely smirked, clearly delighted to be thought a perfect Slytherin.

As she made her way to the Room of Requirement later that same evening, Hermione pondered her Arithmantic project. She'd added the calculations that described Katie's accident, and they definitely related to the larger whole. There was something missing, though, something that she didn't have the data for, something that would illuminate the rationale behind the attack and demonstrate the precise connection between it and the larger probability matrix. As it was, it just seemed so random. It didn't make sense, and Hermione Granger didn't like it when things didn't make sense.

When she got to the room, it was obvious that Snape had already arrived: an unprepossessing door was visible in the wall. It was much like the standard interior doors in her parents' house and looked incongruous in the stone wall of the Hogwarts corridor. The handle turned easily, and she stepped inside, catching her breath in surprise when the small door opened into such a large room. It looked like a gymnasium. The floor was covered with coloured matting, and the walls were hung with climbing bars and ropes. At the sight of Snape, her eyes widened further still. He was kneeling down facing the door, his teaching robes nowhere to be seen. He was dressed in a pair of ancient black tracksuit bottoms and a faded grey t-shirt. The sight of him set her heart racing.

"Hurry up," he greeted her crossly. "Take off your robes and your shoes; for now, you won't need your wand. I trust you remembered to wear something appropriate."

Hermione had felt odd earlier in the evening, when she'd put on her sports clothes under her uniform, but now she felt relieved. "Yes, sir," she said obediently, turning to find somewhere to hang her things. Beside the door she'd entered through was a row of hooks. There hung Professor Snape's robes, and she hurried to add hers to the rack. She slipped off her shoes and placed them neatly beside his dragon hide boots. As she turned back towards him, she felt strangely exposed.

In the few moments it had taken for her to remove her uniform, he had risen and crossed the mat towards her. His feet were bare and drew her eyes despite her best efforts not to stare. They were long and narrow, with a sprinkling of black hairs across the knuckles of his toes. Slowly, she followed the line of his body higher. Out from under the capacious folds of his robes and his formal clothes, his body was leaner and stronger than she'd imagined. The curves of his biceps balanced elbows that would have otherwise stood out on too-thin arms, and the veins in his forearms called attention to the muscles beneath. The black ink of the Dark Mark stood out in shocking contrast to the white of his skin. He must have known she was staring at it, because he turned his inner arm out towards her so that she could look her fill, his left hand clenched in a loose fist. Hermione's heart was beating so loudly that the thudding in her ears left her slightly dizzy. Slowly, she forced herself to look him in the eye, bracing for the aggression she expected him to unleash.

When their eyes met, he said nothing. His mouth was set in a thin line, oddly pinched at the corners. One eyebrow was raised, but his face as a whole looked strangely bleak. With a sudden rush of intuition Hermione realised that he wasn't waiting to shout at her, but rather expecting to witness her revulsion...he was waiting for her to recoil in horror at the sight of the Dark Mark. Fighting a sudden urge to weep, Hermione forced her face into an approximation of her normal welcoming smile. "Good evening, Professor," she said. "I'm ready to begin."

An unreadable expression swept over his face before he turned away. He gestured towards the mats. "Show me a summersault," he instructed.

"Um, I'll try." Hermione pulled a face. She squatted down at the side of the mat and placed her hands on the ground. Awkwardly, she pushed off with her feet, remembering to tuck in her head as she went over. She almost made it back onto her feet, but rocked backwards again before she managed to regain her balance, twisting sideways in order to scramble back to a standing position.

"Not like that." Snape shook his head gently, mocking her. "Like this." From a standing position, he dove forward. His arms absorbed the weight of his body, and his legs folded effortlessly in towards his chest. In one incredibly fluid movement, he tumbled over and rose up on his feet again. Seeing her open-mouthed expression of shock, he smirked.

"I can't do that." Hermione shook her head in flat denial.

"You can't do that, yet." His smirk was even more strongly pronounced, and she suspected he was enjoying her discomfort.

"No, I can't." Hermione felt the pitch of her voice slide slightly higher in desperation and sought to control it. "I wasn't one of those girls that did ballet and gym. I'm hopeless at this kind of thing."

"Miss Granger,"...she knew she was in trouble when he added the honorific back in front of her name..."you are a witch. You can do this." He held out his hand in an imperious beckoning gesture.

"What's being a witch got to do with it?" she muttered, almost too quietly for him to hear, though she stepped forward obediently.

Snape took her by the shoulders and positioned her in front of him.

"Widen your stance," he ordered, sliding one foot between hers and tapping his arch gently against the bone of her ankle until she had her feet where he wanted. "Now, bend your knees slightly." He pressed the toes of the same foot into the back of her knee, checking that it gave to his touch.

Everywhere he touched her, she tingled. Who are you? she wondered to herself. And what have you done with Professor Snape? Without his robes he looked foreign, and she tried in vain to remember a time that he'd voluntarily touched her...the time that she ran into him in the hall didn't exactly count.

"Your hands," he stepped around her and used his foot to point to a spot about a metre in front of her, "will land here. Tuck your head in," he emphasised his words by pushing her head down towards her chest with one hand "pull up your knees, and relax. The momentum of the dive will ensure that you roll the whole way. Try it now."

Hermione concentrated hard on the floor where he'd pointed and focussed on the slight bend in her knees. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. "I can't," she burst out and looked up at him with a pleading expression.

He rolled his eyes. From where he stood, perpendicular to her stance and diagonally to the front of her, he reached out and placed his near hand on the small of her back, his other hand on the nape of her neck. "Do it, Granger," he growled.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione threw herself forward but chickened out of the tuck and roll section at the last minute. She ended up on all fours, poised uncomfortably in a weird parody of downward dog. His hands were still on her, and he grabbed two handfuls of her sweater and levered her upright. "Try again."

The second time, she followed through. She felt his hands push her head in at the right moment and ensure that her back curved correctly. She was so astounded to find herself on her feet once more that she nearly fell over. "Oh!" she exclaimed, turning towards him to register his reaction.

He raised one eyebrow. "Again, Granger."

Snape was a relentless taskmaster. By the end of the class, Hermione could tumble forwards without him spotting her and even tumble sideways, laying one forearm on the floor and twisting up over one leg as she stood.

"Now," said Snape, at the point when she thought they were done. "Get your wand."

Hermione jogged over to where she'd left her robes and fished it out of her pocket, then jogged back to stand before her professor.

"Close your eyes," he instructed. "Remember carefully the feeling of your body being in control. Think about the moment at the end of the summersault, when your feet are beneath you, without you being quite aware how they got there. Focus on the feeling of pushing up from knees that are already bent in preparation." He paused for a second. "Now cast the wards."

"Cave inimicum!" cried Hermione, and power streamed from her wand. Never before had she cast a spell with such strength. The wards were visible in the air as they formed, shimmering like a heat haze between her and the ceiling above. "Wow," she whispered, looking at what she'd done.

"That," replied Snape smugly, his arms crossed over his t-shirted chest, "is the difference between charmwork and warding."

With the end of term approaching, Hermione's workload went from merely full to manic. For her Arithmancy research proposal, she spent hours in the library tracing examples of historical precedent in battles, counter-insurgency and guerrilla warfare. On top of the rest of her scheduled class work, she was meeting with Snape twice a week...he hadn't mentioned being too busy to see her, and she certainly wasn't going to remind him of it. Hermione and Ron still weren't talking, which made the time she spent with Harry strained and awkward (despite his best efforts), and her lessons with Snape had become the unequivocal highlights of her weeks.

One session a week was spent in the Room of Requirement, where the physical demands he placed her under became progressively more difficult. He taught her to fall, then to leap, and he forced her to repeat arduous sprint drills that he claimed would improve her fast-twitch muscle response. One class, he made her crawl commando-style back and forth across the room the entire time. During their last session before Christmas break, he set up an obstacle course, started her at one end and placed her wand at the other, then challenged her to retrieve her wand while he stood at the side of the room and fired stunning curses at her.

Even the lessons they held in his office had become more orientated towards defensive magic. They had worked through a number of different wards...constructing and dismantling them. They also worked on several techniques to improve her reflexes. Sometimes, that meant Snape might fire random curses at her while he was talking, forcing her to conjure a shield charm or otherwise deflect them; at others, he would drop the word "wand" at unexpected moments, and she had to get out her wand as fast as possible. They still worked on Legilimency and Occlumency occasionally, though only rarely and only when Jocelyn was there too.

Hermione felt that, with her reaction to Snape's Dark Mark, she had passed some kind of test. He still snarled at her and growled and sneered and made sarcastic comments, but never with the viciously nasty edge she knew him to be capable of. Outside of her lessons, Snape was the same that he'd ever been, and even during the sessions in his office, his behaviour was close to that of his old self, but in the Room of Requirement, he was positively relaxed.

Hermione had come to realise that Snape took a very real pleasure from the use and training of his body. Indeed, Hermione was sufficiently self-aware to acknowledge that she took a fair amount of pleasure from it as well. She'd had crushes on enough of her teachers to recognise the signs...hell, she'd even had a crush on Professor McGonagall for awhile, not to mention the travesty that was Professor Lockhart. Firstly, Snape was smart. She was learning more in her lessons with him than in all her other classes put together. And second, he looked good. Viktor Krum was evidence that Hermione had no problem with big noses or grumpy expressions, and Snape moved in a way that hooked itself into her field of awareness and drew her attention. If the smooth lines of his body on display in the Room of Requirement had first made this undeniably apparent, she'd also gained an appreciation for the way he walked the corridors and the classroom, the way his robes swept and billowed in response to the movements of the body below. Pity I can't take Professor Snape to Slughorn's party, she mused, that would have really pissed Ron off. The very thought sent her into flights of giggles, earning her a reproving look from Madam Pince as she ineffectually tried to smother her laughter between the pages of her Arithmancy homework.

Hermione received confirmation of Viktor's travel plans on the last day of classes. He would arrive on the 28th, a Saturday, and would stay with her until the new year. Though he was going to be in England right up until the 12th of January, travelling around to meet with several Quidditch managers, he would stay at her house just the first four nights. Viktor had agreed to coffee with "an important person that I really want you to meet" on the afternoon of his arrival...Hermione hadn't told him who it was precisely...leaving her to confirm the final arrangements with Snape. She felt thankful that the letter had arrived before she left Hogwarts.

Hermione didn't get a chance to speak with Snape during the day, but with Slughorn's party scheduled for that evening, she wasn't too concerned. She certainly didn't intend to spend much of her time hanging from Cormac McLaggen's arm.

As arranged, she met up with McLaggen in the entrance hall at eight. He wasn't worth the time it would have taken to Sleekeazy her hair, so she'd merely pinned her curls up loosely on the top of her head. She wore a very plain, very simple halter-neck dress in a dark rich blue. It was long enough that no-one would realise it was a Muggle purchase rather than genuine dress robes, and the cut covered all but a brief section of her scar. The inch or so that remained visible across her collarbone didn't bother her too much. McLaggen had made a noticeable effort: he was wearing expensive-looking dress robes in a deep red, and he'd brought her a small bouquet. He insisted on drawing her hand into the crook of his arm on the short walk from the entrance hall to Slughorn's office and held it there with a firm grip that suggested slipping away from him might not prove as easy as she'd anticipated.

"I told you that you would look stunning, and I was right," remarked McLaggen with the air of one offering a fulsome compliment.

Goodness, it's going to be a long night. "There has to be a first time for everything," she responded, with a tight smile. McLaggen switched to the topic of Quidditch then, clearly reckoning the niceties dealt with. Hermione sighed inwardly. It was boring, but at least she had had a great deal of practice tuning out conversations about Quidditch.

They were greeted at the door by their host, Professor Slughorn, who had matched his velvet smoking jacket with a tasselled hat. He was clearly aiming for a relaxed look but managed to look more like an overstuffed footrest. "Cormac! Hermione! What a lovely couple you make!" He pinched Hermione's cheek in an unforgivable gesture of avuncular friendliness. "Don't forget, it was right here at the Slug Club that you first got to know each other! Always such a pleasure to smooth the path of young love."

This conversation is even worse than McLaggen's, thought Hermione as she graced Slughorn with a grimace that she hoped would pass for a smile. "Come on, Cormac," she muttered, pulling him away into the room and desperately scanning the crowd for some sign of Ginny or Harry.

"I see what you're playing at, minx!" McLaggen grabbed her suddenly around the waist, crushing her to his chest.

"What...?" Hermione struggled to catch her breath and extricate herself from McLaggen's embrace without making a scene. He wasn't just huge, he was solid. Pushing at his chest was ineffectual.

"Mistletoe," he smirked at her, lowering his mouth towards his.

The kiss was terrible. To be fair, she really only had Viktor as a point of reference, but the comparison did McLaggen no favours. His lips were disturbingly warm, disgustingly wet and slightly too floppy. The experience was highly unpleasant and went on far too long. To add insult to injury, McLaggen ran one hand up her neck and into her hair, knocking several hairpins out of place and destroying any hope that she could keep her mess of curls under control.

It was several minutes before he released her. Stepping back with a smug grin, he wiped at the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. "Well," he began, sounding inordinately proud of himself.

"Er, I've just got to powder my nose," gasped Hermione, beating a speedy retreat.

On the far side of the room, she ran into Harry and sank into conversation with him and Luna with a sigh of relief. It wasn't long, however, before McLaggen came looking for her, and she hurried off again. Taking refuge behind a fold of the wall hangings, Hermione took stock of the situation. She spotted Snape, eventually, only to note with irritation that he was talking to Harry...of all people! She'd have to wait and speak to him later. McLaggen was over by the drinks table chatting to some wizard she'd never seen before, probably one of Slughorn's special guests. Ginny, on the other hand, wasn't anywhere to be seen.

Checking up on Snape, Hermione saw that he was escorting Malfoy outside. Damn. Hopefully, he'd come back soon...she wasn't prepared to hang around all night and risk another encounter with McLaggen and the mistletoe.

"What are you lurking about for?" Ginny materialised out of the crowd.

Hermione gave the redhead a conspiratorial grin. "Avoiding my date."

"I don't blame you! I'd avoid him, too. Since Ron's not here to enjoy the show, you can just sit back and let the mere idea sink in."

Hermione smirked. "Exactly."

"I've half a mind to avoid my own date," sighed Ginny, leaning her shoulders up against the wall beside Hermione. "Don't raise your eyebrows like that, young lady! You know as well as I do that we're effectively following the same strategy. Though I do think that Dean is an easier choice to deal with than McLaggen. Ugh." She gave a dramatic shudder and Hermione laughed. "I don't envy you."

"No," agreed Hermione. "But it's just for one evening."

"Yeah, just avoid the mistletoe in future, all right?"

"Thanks, Ginny." Hermione gave the other girl a friendly nudge with her shoulder, and Ginny pushed off the wall.

"I'm going to find Dean." She pulled a wry face. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Ginny's red head disappeared into the crowded room as Hermione made another scan for the figure of Professor Snape. He'd returned, she noted, and was speaking with Slughorn not far from the door. In fact, she narrowed her eyes in consideration, it looked like he was saying his goodbyes. If she made her way around the periphery of the room, she might just be able to exit at the same time. Checking quickly that McLaggen was still safely ensconced at the other end of the office, Hermione began to move. She hurried, she squeezed, she apologised, she definitely stepped hard on someone's foot, and she was just seconds too late. Snape stepped through the doorway while she was still a good few metres from the door. Still, she needed to talk to him. Hermione edged past a couple of Ravenclaws and gave an absent smile to a fourth-year Gryffindor. At last! She stepped into the corridor, the cool air a welcome relief after the stuffy atmosphere of the overcrowded office.

Professor Snape was nowhere in sight, but guessing he was headed for the dungeons, she took a right turn and ran lightly down a hidden staircase. From the bottom of the stairs, she saw him in the distance, quite a way ahead.

"Professor Snape," she called, but he didn't seem to notice. Gathering her skirt up in one hand and grateful that she hadn't worn ridiculous shoes, Hermione ran after him. "Professor Snape," she called again, once she had gained a bit of ground. Surely he must have heard me? When she had nearly caught up with him, she called out once more, "Professor!" He whirled towards her then, whether at her words or because of the sound of her feet she wasn't sure. She had to catch herself short to avoid running right into him.

"Miss Granger," he snarled. From the look on his face, he was furious.

Hermione stumbled back a step. "Professor Snape," she gasped.

He covered the short distance between them in two strides and loomed over her. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy with threat, each word quite separate and distinct. "What do you want?"

But Hermione wasn't looking at him. Her eyes had slid past his face and she was staring, wide eyed, at something just above his head. For several long seconds, neither one moved, until...almost reluctantly...Snape turned his head the merest fraction and looked up out of the corner of his eye to see what had caught her attention.

"Mistletoe," she whispered in a strangled voice.

His eyes swivelled back towards her, but otherwise stood frozen. Hermione couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. Then, she moved: with infinite slowness, she leaned up and forwards. One hand came to rest lightly on his chest. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and her heart was pounding. She could smell him, a clean, warm scent overlaid with the smoky smells of the dungeon. His lips were so close. Any second now . . .

Abruptly, Snape turned his head. Hermione's lips skidded across his cheek, the hint of stubble rough against them.

Her eyes flew open, and she flinched. Snatching back her hand, she pressed it against her beating heart. Shit. Hermione felt panic press out all other thought and tried to prepare herself for the explosion of anger she felt to be imminent. Shit. Snape...SNAPE!...is going to kill me. What the hell was I thinking?

"Miss Granger," his voice was frighteningly calm, his face expressionless, "I suggest you return to your dormitory, immediately."

Hermione needed no further encouragement. She turned at once, stumbling slightly in her hurry to walk as fast as she could. At the corner she looked back over her shoulder, but Snape was gone.

A/N : 102 people have listed this story as one of their favourites!!!!! Exclamation marks alone cannot convey my delighted excitement. :)