Chapter Seven

It was the night of the Hogwarts Leaving Dance, and Hermione was descending the Common Room staircase with great care in order not to twist an ankle in her outrageously high heels. Wrapped in yards of gauzy pale-apricot fabric, her hair swept deftly into an elegant twist and her face expertly made up by Lavender, she felt beautiful and sexy...something she never felt when she was wearing her school robes or her jeans. Or her student nurse's uniform.

Harry and Ginny waited below, arm in arm, along with Ron. My fiancé, she thought, as he turned to look her up and down with those startlingly blue eyes.

"You look as beautiful as . . . as . . ." he said, and took her hand to help her down the last step. Clearly, he was trying to pay her a compliment, but the words were escaping him.

Hermione rolled her eyes at this demonstration of eloquence, but smiled when Harry said, "You're dazzling, Hermione. If it weren't for Ginny, I'd be fighting Ron for the privilege of escorting you."

"Watch it, Potter," said Ginny, tugging him by the necktie, and the two of them left, laughing, in the direction of the party.

It was a smaller party than in previous years, since not all of the seventh-years had come back to finish their studies. Some because they didn't want to, others because they had moved on . . . or because they were dead.

But so many were there...almost everyone from the Order of the Phoenix, students' parents, others who had fought alongside them in the in the Battle of Hogwarts...that it seemed like just another of the celebrations occasioned by the fall of the Dark Lord.

The music played, and the students danced. Harry and Ron were no longer the children they had been at their first dance, during the Triwizard Tournament; they had a man's appreciation now of the pleasures of holding a woman and moving to the rhythm of the music. Not that either of them was possessed of exceptional grace, but at least they were genuinely enjoying it now.

They were well into their third dance when Hermione noticed, among the little knot of professors, the arrival of a wheelchair pushed by a frightened house-elf who disappeared as soon as his task was completed.

Severus Snape, who had sworn he would never deign to attend a dance held for the spotty little scrotes, was here...dressed in his best robes, of a silk so black they seemed to suck in all the light around them.

Hermione kept dancing, but awareness of him pricked at the edge of her consciousness. She saw him turn down a glass of punch, shaking his head politely. And then to everyone's astonishment, he picked up a cane from beside the chair and rose ceremoniously to his feet.

They all held their breath as he took his first shaky steps, wondering if his legs would support him. The music continued to play and the couples to dance, but no one's mind was on the dancing: there was a much more interesting spectacle unfolding at the moment.

Step by slow step, with a look of focused determination on his face, and the dignity of which only he was capable, Severus arrived at the place where Ron was dancing across from his fiancée, who had stopped in anticipation.

He shot Ron a fierce look, and thrust the cane roughly toward his chest.

"Out of my way, Weasley. I'm here to dance with my nurse."

And to Hermione's...to everyone's...amazement, he took her by the waist and began to move gently in time to the music.

To say that they danced would be an exaggeration. Snape was barely able to move, and he leaned on Hermione much of the time, but they managed to move gently back and forth on the dance floor.

"Professor . . . what do you suppose we're –" she began, once she had overcome her initial shock and recovered the use of her voice, but he interrupted her.

"Shhh, Granger . . . I know that I said I'd rather be dead than come to this party, but I was forced to reconsider. It's the Leaving Dance for my best student and my nurse. I had to come and dance with you at least once."

He berated himself mentally for having said something so infantile, made such a cheap excuse. He had come because he wanted to see her in her finery, because he had wanted to hold her as he was doing at this moment . . . and by Merlin, because he would have regretted it bitterly if he hadn't had the guts to do it. It might well be the only opportunity he'd have to hold her in his arms . . . although, if he were being honest, she was the one holding him.

He was drunk on the music, the lights, the sweet smile on her face and the fragrant aroma of jasmine that surrounded her, and before he could stop his tongue, he had blurted out, "God, you're beautiful tonight. How do you do that?"

Surprised, her brown eyes met the dark depths of his own. His gaze and his words were so intense that she had to look away, blushing furiously. She felt as though her feelings for him were written all over her for him to read.

Severus Snape could have kicked himself. He felt as though speaking those words had bared his soul to her and given her access to his thoughts. To their mutual relief, the song ended just at that moment, and Ron came up to them, holding the cane in his hand. Severus took it, leaned on it, and turned to go. Both Ron and Hermione tried to help him walk, but he batted Ron's hand away brusquely and shot Hermione a warning look. He walked back to his chair and sat down, and the elf that had brought him returned to take him back to his rooms.

Minerva and Poppy looked at each other, confused.

"What's going on here, Poppy?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. I sent those two on their way from the Hospital Wing some time ago," murmured the Mediwitch, bemused.

When he arrived outside his rooms, Severus stood up immediately and walked the few steps to the door. And first laying his forehead carefully against the wood, he drew back and struck his head against it three times. Brute. Beast. Animal, he thought, in time with the blows. He sighed deeply, resigning himself to the idea that what was done, was done, and he sat down to drink Firewhisky until he passed out. At least that way he'd be able to sleep.

And while Severus was hitting his head against his door, Ron took his fiancée to the Room of Requirement to have their last romantic night in the castle, before some other couple had the same idea and beat them to it.

***

The following morning found Hermione sleeping on the edge of the bed, while her fiancé occupied almost the entire rest of it, sleeping with outflung arms and legs. She stretched painfully, her muscles protesting the uncomfortable night, but relieved that the torture had ended.

Getting up, she looked at the man who would be her husband in a few short weeks. He looked so peaceful when he slept. He wasn't handsome, really, but neither was he ugly. His hair blazed like a bonfire in the morning light, and the freckles across his nose gave him the look of a mischievous child.

She buried one hand in his hair and was overcome by a feeling of affection. She loved Ron. Of course she did. She loved him with an infinite tenderness. He might not be the perfect lover, he was hardly romantic, but . . . they cared for each other deeply. That was more than you could say for most married couples.

She concentrated, and the Room responded rapidly to her request, supplying her with quill and parchment. She wrote Ron a note, telling him that she had to follow through on the promise to Professor Snape that they'd discussed the night before, and that she'd see him next weekend. She dressed quickly and headed straight for Gryffindor Tower to shower and change.

She felt contented. She had finished her studies with the highest qualifications a person could get; there was a post waiting for her at St Mungo's and a brilliant future to look forward to. For a second she remembered that in two weeks she'd be married as well, and would need to talk to Ron about her career . . . and she also remembered the intense look her professor had given her the night before . . . but she buried those thoughts deep in her mind. She didn't want to mar her moment of happiness.

When she arrived at Severus's rooms, the doors recognized her and opened to let her pass. He was seated in an ordinary chair, the cane resting between his knees, his hands fiddling with his now-useless wand. On seeing her, he slid the wand into his sleeve and stood up. Just the sight of him here, waiting patiently, filled her with intense joy, and she smiled in spite of herself.

"Good morning, Miss Granger. If appearances are anything to go by, you had a good night." He felt a twinge of jealousy but was unwilling to admit it even to himself.

"Good morning, Professor. Erm, I guess that depends on your point of view . . . but most of all I'm happy to be getting out of here once and for all. Are you ready?"

"I've sent a quantity of luggage, and the wheelchair, ahead with house-elves. Minerva was kind enough to connect the fireplace of this room to my new abode. All that remains is to ask whether you've had breakfast."

"No, actually...I didn't have time."

"Perfect. We'll have breakfast in my new house." He gestured ahead of him to the fireplace.

"Who should go first, sir? I don't want to arrive before you; I'd feel odd if there were someone waiting there . . . and you'll need help getting out of the fireplace . . . "

Severus stepped into the fireplace and stood there with his hand outstretched.

"Quiet, then, Granger, and put your arms around me. We'll arrive together."

Hermione stepped forward and took the proffered hand, and he pulled her against his chest and encircled her with his arms. Instinctively, she placed her hands against his chest and felt her head begin to spin even though they hadn't yet begun to travel. The fragrance of his aftershave invaded her senses, her heart began to beat uncontrollably fast, and she lost her breath for a few seconds. Her eyes closed involuntarily and she gave herself over to the feeling of being embraced by her Potions professor.

This reaction did not go unnoticed by Snape. His entire mind and body shouted at him to incline his head until his lips found hers and kiss her until she yielded to him. Those soft lips, moist and pink, that had just now parted . . . for him. I'm hallucinating, he thought, and settled for clasping her a little closer to his chest.

"Granger . . . are you all right?" She's probably just dizzy. Low blood sugar from missing breakfast.

She opened her eyes, looking a little startled.

"Yes, Professor, I'm fine."

"Hold on, then."

She clasped her arms firmly about his waist, and he released a handful of Floo powder.

"Prince residence!"

T/N: I have coined a new Spanish noun, britpicolaje, in honor of exartemarte.