Chapter Ten

Author Note: Thank you to all of the people who have helped this story come to fruition – the betas (queenofspades, corianderpie, Southern Witch 69) and the readers. It's been an enormous pleasure to write, and I'm grateful to JK Rowling for allowing us to share.

Chapter Ten

She had sent him an owl. This is a bad sign. Or is it? I have no idea anymore. That dratted woman . . . He slowly unfolded the parchment and smoothed out the creases.

Dear Severus,

I hope this missive finds you well. I know it's been several weeks since our last encounter, and I didn't want to let it grow into months again. I wish I knew what you were thinking, what I could say to address your apprehensions; I realise that at our last meeting we were talking at cross purposes. It was as though we were participating in different conversations.

This is all so important to me, and I'm terrified of saying something wrong and driving you away and losing, well, you. Our convergence in New York (however incidental and inadvertent) and getting to know you, has been the best thing that's happened to me since I received my letter from Hogwarts . . . I've been trying to speak my heart as clearly as possible, yet being misunderstood. Perhaps you're being wilfully obtuse, but maybe you just don't have an "ear" for endearments.

I'll put this as plainly as I can. I like you. We get on well together. I enjoy your company. When you're gone, I look forward to seeing you again. I enjoy hearing what you're thinking about and discovering the way your mind works. Your existence has become peculiarly necessary to my happiness. Lest you think this is merely an intellectual inclination, I should clarify that I fancy you. That is to say, I feel strangely shy and physically excited by your proximity. My mind wanders along lustful paths.

I remember that you said that you don't know how to be friends; well, I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be overly subtle or say anything other than what I feel and what I want. I could give you a list of well-considered reasons why this alliance would be mutually beneficial, and I'm quite sure I could find a decent reference book on relationships, but it wouldn't have much relevance to this unique and unlikely thing that exists between us.

I'm assuming you will have many reservations about entering into a relationship with me, so I'd like to make perfectly clear that I don't give a shrivelfig for your age or for the facts that you used to be my teacher and a Death Eater – all of that is surface. Underneath it, I believe that you and I have a congruence of souls. I feel both at peace and intriguingly ruffled when I'm near you.

I believe that you found my earlier attempts to convey this information too forward or too brash. Maybe you're not used to being approached, but I'm hoping my intent is not wholly unwelcome. To reiterate – I am interested in pursuing a relationship with you that involves both physical, emotional and intellectual components. I'm putting my heart on the line by writing these words so starkly because I sense a corresponding echo in you.

I could be mistaken. I hope that I am not and that you are interested in exploring this species of mutuality. I will be at Harry's birthday party at the end of July – I believe it's being viewed as an impromptu anniversary celebration of the end of the war. I hope to see you there.

Yours,

Hermione

Bloody hell.

He carefully placed the letter down on the table and smoothed it again with his hand. A post-script hastily inked itself in. "P.S. You are not a git."

He decided to disregard the rest of the letter (for the moment) as too alien, in favour of the post-script. Now here was something he could understand! I wonder what she's playing at – of course I'm a git! Once a greasy git, now a much cleaner one, but a git nonetheless. The world had always treated him as a git, and he had treated it right back. With interest. But she sounded so sure. He knew he was a git . . . wasn't he? Gods. What if he wasn't? Well then, what was he? How on earth does one go about finding out what kind of person one really is? He dropped that line of thinking like a red-hot crucible.

Back to the letter then.

"I am interested in pursing a relationship with you." She liked him. She fancied him. Well, that's all right then. I fancy her. He was simultaneously flattered at being sought and terrified of what was expected of him next. Well, not that part, but the wooing. He had already decided to court her, but now the tables were turned, and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to proceed. He read through the letter again. She was a remarkably intelligent witch, and it appeared she had put some of that considerable intellect into sorting this whole relationship business out. It would behoove him to investigate the conclusions she had reached. Maybe this could work. And maybe it could go disastrously wrong. Would it be worth the risk, to see how things turn out?

He wanted to believe it, to believe she meant it – that she wasn't delusional or mistaken or bound to change her mind in a month or a year. But the world didn't work like that. Could it? Wasn't life unfair and cruel and arbitrary? Yes, obviously it still was: just look at the headlines of any Muggle newspaper – still plenty of muttering have-nots and undeserving haves. Was it possible for him to be happy, even in a miserably imperfect world?

He started to weigh up his ideas and impressions and sort them according to time-honoured principles of gain and loss, but then stopped abruptly. He sat back in his chair and thought of Hermione. Himself eddying in the wake left by her hair as she sailed around the bookstore, seeking out books for his enjoyment. Her serene face absorbed in reading at the beach, nibbling on a ginger biscuit – holding it carefully away from the book so that no crumbs fell into the crease. Her pale neck thrown back in uninhibited ecstasy at the concert. The way her cheek fit into and warmed the palm of his hand in front of Cleopatra's Needle. Laughing with her until his lungs hurt at the museum tea-shop. Anything would be worth it to have more of those moments. I don't want to be lying on my deathbed and have nothing to flash before my eyes.

He closed his eyes in speculative contemplation of the range of activities afforded to the successful paramour. He had never done this before (the "advancing one's suit" part), so he wanted to do it properly.

This means going to Potter's blasted fancy dress party . . .

--ooOO0OOoo--

Snape was one of the first to arrive at the party – he wanted to find a safe spot from which to observe the proceedings. It's bad enough to have to celebrate the continued existence of The Prat Who Lived, but to have a costume party to celebrate the fall of the Dark Lord! It's obscenely unfit. Although that could be the very point – thumbing one's nose at evil. He rustled his robes more tightly around himself and adjusted the helmet so that he could see more clearly through the eye-slits.

I see Arthur and Molly have come as Zeus and Hera – he doesn't seem the 'catting around' type, but Molly could certainly give Hera a run for her money in the shrewish-interference department. Following the theme, ah, yes, there are the Heavenly Twins. Good Lord. I can't imagine their tunics need to be that short! I wonder who landed the slinky blonde – oh – it's Fleur Delacour, now Weasley, and Bill. He's got a trident and she's in green scales, so they must be Poseidon and Amphitrite. Hmm. There's Sybill . . . I wasn't aware that the Pythia reached her transports via cooking sherry.

He watched with some trepidation as the elder Weasleys approached his hidey-hole.

"Ahhh, Severus – so glad you could make it!" Arthur Weasley made so bold as to grab his upper arm in a gesture of greeting. Snape slid the helmet visor up off his face and prepared for the worst.

"Arthur, Molly." He nodded politely.

"I hear you ran into our Hermione in the States . . .?" Molly enquired in a carefully casual tone that fooled none of the three.

"Since she sustained no lasting injury, I declined to bring it to the attention of the authorities." Get to the point you meddlesome woman! Why are you being nice to me? What did Hermione tell you? Has she been talking about me?

Arthur chuckled and chuffed Snape again on the shoulder, then quickly removed his hand as Snape looked down at the hand in question and then back up at Arthur with a raised eyebrow.

"No, no! No harm, certainly. She looks well, don't you think?"

"As I have not yet seen her this evening, I can neither confirm nor deny your statement and do not wish to be drawn into conjecture."

Molly poked Arthur in the ribs and gave him a meaningful look, as if to say, "Shove over; I'll handle this, you big booby!"

"Hermione told us that she particularly hoped you would be here tonight. As improbable as it seems to some of us, she is looking forward to seeing you. She may not be my daughter, but I've not known her these many years to suddenly think her a fool. If she cares for you, then you must have given her good reason to do so. But she's not very worldly, if you know what I mean. She's young. I don't want to see her get hurt."

"Are you implying either that Miss Granger cannot fend for herself or that I'm the Big Bad Wolf? Both, perhaps?" His voice dropped into a low and cold register. Anyone who knew him could tell he was an eyelash away from a hex on the grey side of the spectrum.

Molly had the grace to blush, but she continued anyway. "Her parents aren't here to make enquiries on her behalf, and we wouldn't be good friends to her if we didn't try to establish your intentions towards her . . ."

"My intentions!" He nearly squeaked with alarm. He took a deep breath to calm down and attempted to speak in a settled and masterful way. "My intentions are a matter between myself and Hermione."

"So it's 'Hermione', then?" asked Arthur gently.

Snape closed his eyes briefly, then looked down at a point somewhat to the left of Arthur's shoe. Someone will find out, sooner or later. I can't deny it, especially since I came here to see her in the first place. He nodded.

"All right then, Severus. Molly, let's go and see what the twins have used to spike the punch this time . . ." Arthur put his arm around Molly's shoulders and steered her away. She looked for a moment like she might argue, but he gave her a little squeeze and she snuggled up to him as they walked off.

Snape shifted the visor back down as he watched them walk away and replayed the conversation in his head. What has she been saying? To whom has she been talking about me? He was deeply uncomfortable to find himself entered into the equations of other people. His life was his own, and he was accountable to no man! Well, there's the exact rub. If we engage in any kind of a relationship, I'll have to take her friends into consideration. She's woman enough to hex off my bollocks if I don't . . . His musings were rueful in tone because it seemed evident that there was no way to have Hermione without running the gamut of many Weasleys and the occasional Potter. However disruptive she proved to his life, he had decided that wanting Hermione in it was a given, if she would have him.

"Hallo, Severus." He gave a start, as she had sidled up to him without his noticing. His spying skills must be slipping, or maybe he wasn't alerted to her presence as something foreign.

"How did you know it was me?" He was slightly aggrieved. After all, the costume had a helmet that hid his face.

"Well, who else would dare to impersonate the Lord of Death? The black robes, the menacing helmet . . . playing Hades must be like wearing a comfortable slipper." She smirked at him. He tipped the helmet back and glared down at her. She grinned back up at him and gestured at the crowd. "Are you enjoying yourself so far?"

"Potter is such a Gryffindor, always so literal and unimaginative – I wouldn't have thought him subtle enough to do justice to Hermes, though it's true that he has a Cloak of Invisibility . . ."

"It was either that or one of the heroes – Heracles, Perseus, or Jason, and he hasn't the physique. Oh, and be cautious of Luna . . ."

"I don't see Miss Lovegood at present. Her costume is . . .?"

"Medusa – the snakes won't bite her, of course, but they took a healthy nip out of George a minute ago. Now, he did get rather close . . ."

"I don't think that I will be in danger, then. I was surprised to see Miss Weasley as Athena. I thought surely you would be the natural embodiment of Wisdom."

"Oh, perhaps, but I'm not nearly warlike enough. Besides, she was able to borrow Hedwig from Harry, and that really adds a nice touch. So . . . have you figured out who I'm supposed to be? Everyone seems to think I'm some kind of Greek seamstress." She frowned with disappointment that, once again, her allusions flew over the heads of the group.

"Let's see – plain grey hooded robes, holding a heavy pair of shears that transforms into a spindle and then a tape measure (impressive Transfiguration there) . . . You're the Moirae; they spin the thread of life, measure it, and then, ultimately, cut it. Lady Fate, before whom even the gods must bow." He finished his speech with his own low and courtly bow.

She flushed at his attentions and beamed with delight at his knowledge of classical mythology.

"Very creative, but all wrong. Please – allow me . . ." She held her hands up and open in a gesture of surrender and closed her eyes. He transfigured her grey robes into a white linen chiton with floating layers, took her shears and transfigured them into a wreath of colourful spring flowers for her hair. She opened her eyes and looked down cautiously. She blushed when she noticed the slight sheerness of the weave, but settled a bit as she noted that there was sufficient fabric for modesty's sake. She looked up at him with cautiously expectant eyes as he settled the crown of flowers on her brow.

"Your letter . . ." he began.

"Yes?" she interrupted him hopefully. After all, he had shown up – surely a good sign.

"Thank you for writing it." He sketched a little bow in the air in her general direction. Thank you for giving me a chance, for being who you are. For existing.

"That's all?" Her heart fell through her body like an over-ripe fruit hitting the ground on a windy day. But he came! He's here – what does he mean by it? Don't go leaping to conclusions, Granger. Take a breath.

"Why, exactly, are you thanking me?" She tried to ask in a playfully light tone. She needed to know if she should gather up the sticky mass of her heart and shove it back in place or if she should take it in both hands and run out the door.

"I'm not yet sure." He attempted the same inconsequential tone, but had to work hard to suppress a nervous tremolo in his voice. "Can I tempt you with a bite from the Tree of Knowledge? Ah, no apples here. Some grapes perhaps?"

"Some writers aver that the original fruit from the Garden of Eden was a pomegranate."

Severus Summoned a pomegranate from the fruit spilling out of a cornucopia on the nearby table.

"You know that I'm no longer confined to the dungeons . . . so, no underground lair for this Hades," he said in a conversational tone. She nodded, eyes wary but hopeful.

"But – stay with me, Hermione. Be my Persephone." He held out the pomegranate with a playfulness that masked his gut-wrenching certainty that this was the cusp of his life and that the whole world was about to come crashing around his ears in the next moment.

She took the pomegranate from him, carefully peeled back its rubbery rind and plucked out a handful of the bittersweet jewel-red seeds. She counted out twelve under her breath and ate them as she counted.

"Six for the dark and six more for the light months . . ."

His breath caught in his throat and what began as playful badinage took on truthful weight. "But, but Persephone only stayed for half the year. She could only be compelled to stay for that long . . ."

"Yes, but I'm not Persephone." She looked up at him defiantly, challenge in her eyes.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her juice-stained lips.