Chapter 14 – A False Start

Chapter 14 – A False Start

Ginny arrived early at the Daily Prophet headquarters, on the pretext of collecting notes before heading to the stadium for tonight's game. Both Ron and Harry were disappointed and indignant at Ginny's flat refusal to let either them or anyone else in the press box with her that evening. The game was too important, Ginny had said, and she couldn't be distracted during play. She compensated by pulling in a few favours and getting a handful of tickets in a prime spot behind the goals for Harry and the Weasleys instead. And so her father, George and Angelina, Harry, Ron, Bill and Fleur and the older children would be watching the match together in the stands whilst her mother and Hermione looked after the young ones. Percy wasn't a big Quidditch fan and Charlie was in Wales, hand-rearing baby Welsh Greens.

It was a clear, albeit cold February evening. Visibility was good, which boded well for the match. But it wasn't the chill that was bothering Ginny tonight; it was knot of apprehension that had lodged in her stomach.

Ginny didn't know why she was feeling so incredibly nervous as she climbed the steps and passed through the revolving doors into the reception area. She'd deliberately made an effort with her looks tonight, as she usually did for public appearances, but this time she had taken extra care in getting ready. She was wearing her best lavender robes and had even styled her hair. She stood anxiously waiting underneath the huge stone crest where she'd arranged to meet Mr. Nobel, which was carved with the Daily Prophet logo: a robed, bearded figure, with a crystal ball in one hand and a long, flowing parchment in the other. Running her hands through her vibrant red locks absently, she felt more than a little stupid for having butterflies. It felt as if she were waiting for a date. At that thought, she shook her head and laughed to herself. A date with a man of unknown age, whom she had never met, and whose only link to her was that he had saved her son's life. Was she really so desperate for male attention after the breakdown of her marriage that she had to resort to concocting a little fantasy? She knew she was setting herself up for disappointment; Mr. Nobel was probably an octogenarian. And she was married, for heaven's sake. Yes, her marriage was falling apart at the seams and she had been miserable for some months, but was that any excuse to be dreaming up fake dates with unknown, mysterious men? Hadn't she learned anything from her experience with Tom Riddle's diary?

'Mrs. Potter?'

Ginny was ripped from her thoughts by a low, rich, Cornish accent. She spun around, and instead of a bent, frail, wizened old man, she was greeted by a tall, ruggedly handsome blond wizard who was looking down at her with interest. The look of surprise must have been clear on Ginny's face, for the man raised a questioning eyebrow at her lack of response. She found her voice after a heartbeat.

'Mr. Nobel?' she asked breathlessly, extending her hand. The man studied her carefully before extending his own. 'It's a pleasure to meet you. Please, call me Ginny.'

Ginny noticed the roughness of his skin when she took his hand and how large it was compared to her own. It made her shiver. He seemed so strong and outdoorsy, not the kind of bookish academic that she had been expecting. Could this hunk really be the man who had saved her son?

'The pleasure is all mine... Ginny.' Snape paused, as if tasting an unfamiliar food. His deep Cornish accent was a surprise to him, and yet it was not unpleasant-sounding. But it did feel strange to refer to Ginny in such informal terms. 'And you must call me Alfric, of course.'

Snape followed Ginny through to the frosty little courtyard at the back of the offices where she had arranged a Portkey to take them to the stadium. As they walked, Ginny apologetically explained that she would need to rush off for ten minutes before the match, in order to meet with the Head of Magical Games and Sports and other tedious guests as part of protocol, but she promised she wouldn't be gone for very long. Snape was only half-listening to Ginny; the rest of his attention was taken up by noticing just what a beautiful woman she had grown into.

Snape remembered how the youngest of the Weasleys had looked at school: flaming red hair, a smattering of freckles on her nose, and skinny to the point of worrisome, all elbows and knees. The only thing that seemed to be the same about Ginny now was her vibrant hair. Other than that, her skin was milky-white, her eyes a deep chestnut colour, and her figure was now rounded and womanly. He wondered idly if child-rearing had anything to do with it or whether it was simply the inevitability of Molly's genes. Either way, he approved of Ginny's shapeliness and wondered just when she had turned into such a beautiful witch. He also pondered on whether she had felt the same shiver when their hands touched.

He soon shook away this foolhardy thought; surely it was nothing more than the effect of being in close proximity to an attractive witch. He'd been without female company for so long that it was highly likely that any contact, even the briefest of handshakes, would stir him. Steeling his thoughts and mentally berating himself for ogling Harry Potter's wife, he joined Ginny in taking the eighteen-minutes-past-seven tattered sock to the Quidditch stadium.

After engaging Snape in polite conversation and making sure he had a glass of expensive wine and canapés, Ginny excused herself momentarily whilst she went to meet and greet the big names attending the game tonight. This did not bother Snape; on the contrary, it gave him a chance to check out his surroundings. The press box itself was long and narrow, right at the very top of the stadium with spectacular views across the whole pitch. He wasn't expecting it to be so plush. Instead of the usual benches that surrounded the rest of the stadium, the box was adorned with two huge squishy leather sofas. It had a table laden with wine, champagne, beer and nibbles of all descriptions to one side, and the walls were decorated with portraits of famous Quidditch players throughout history, who were now currently huddled together in the closest picture frame, eager to get a view of the game.

Snape also wasn't expecting the press box to feel so private. He supposed the roar of the crowd would still be deafening from up here, but it felt somehow secluded, and he could not help but approve. The sheer amount of food and drink on offer felt rather decadent and excessive, seeing as it would be just the two of them watching from the press box tonight, but Snape supposed it was all part of the hospitality that Ginny had alluded to in her letter. Taking a sip of the elf-made wine and finding it to be exceptionally good, Snape began to appreciate the effort Ginny had gone to this evening.

True to her word, Ginny was back within fifteen minutes, by which time Snape had made himself at home on one side of an enormous, comfy sofa.

'Sorry about that, Alfric,' Ginny began, helping herself to a glass of wine and sitting beside him on the sofa. 'It's something of a ritual these days to have to meet and greet before the big games. I find it terribly boring.'

Snape watched her closely before replying. 'I am sure meeting tedious people comes with the territory of fame.'

'That is one aspect of it, yes,' Ginny agreed. 'But I am lucky enough to meet interesting people too. Like yourself.' She smiled then, before taking a delicate sip of wine.

'Whatever makes you think I am in the remotest bit interesting?' Snape enquired slowly.

'I'd say a man who has revolutionised Wolfsbane and was one step ahead of the St Mungo's Healers in diagnosing my son's illness is very interesting indeed.'

Snape said nothing to that, instead noting with astonishment the mischievous twinkle in Ginny's eyes. Was she flirting with him? He took a sip of his wine, merely for something to do.

'I'm so pleased you agreed to come tonight,' Ginny continued. 'I really cannot thank you enough for what you did.'

'You do not need to thank me,' Snape replied coolly, expertly brushing off her praise. 'It was a professional challenge for me. My pride was at stake.' He hoped this would be the end of it; he had no desire to elaborate further.

Ginny, however, clearly wanted answers. 'I have been wondering how you knew about the allergic reaction. I thought maybe you might be a distant relation, or you had once been a Healer...'

Snape turned to Ginny now and his blue eyes were as hard as stone. 'I did not come here to discuss my methods,' he said in a low, warning voice. 'How I knew is irrelevant. I have no wish to talk about it any further.'

Ginny looked taken aback by this curt answer, and she cast her eyes downwards in chastisement. Of course, he was a very private man; he wouldn't share his secrets with the potioneering community, so why would he share them with her? 'I'm sorry,' she whispered, her face flushed with embarrassment. 'Forgive my intrusion.'

Snape realised just how harsh he had sounded and regretted making Ginny feel so discomfited, but at least this way there would be no further awkward questions. He understood why she was curious, but still, it was not a topic he wanted to talk about. He tried to smooth over his indiscretion and the following uncomfortable silence by saying, 'Let us move on. I have been very much looking forward to the match tonight. Tell me, who in your opinion are the stronger team?'

Relieved that the gauche moment had passed, Ginny was back on to a subject that she knew intimately, and her eyes lit up with fervour. 'Well, France should definitely not be underestimated tonight, even though we have beaten them in the last four out of five games. Their newest Beater, Pascale Chenevoy, is like a demon on a broomstick. Seriously fast and dangerous. But that said, we've got Oliver Wood, and he is a first-class Goalkeeper. Not to mention some amazing Chasers. So, my money is on England. Not that I'm at all biased, of course.'

Oliver Wood. Now, that name certainly rang a bell to Snape, but he wasn't at liberty to discuss what he knew of his burgeoning career. At the mention of Chasers, Snape recalled that this was the position which Ginny herself had played, at Hogwarts, during her time with the Holyhead Harpies and also professionally for England.

'Do you miss playing Quidditch, Ginny?' he asked after a moment.

Ginny's face fell a little, and Snape noticed how her body language became defensive and tense. 'Yes, I miss it very much. But when you're a mother, your priorities have to change. And that's all there is to it, really.'

Now it was Snape's turn to feel rather rebuked; the uncomfortable silence resumed after Ginny's somewhat irritable response. He'd obviously touched on a sore spot, just as she'd inadvertently touched on his. As he watched her take a hurried sip of wine, he considered how badly the evening was going, and the match hadn't even started yet! Maybe coming here was a bad idea. He'd never been one for small talk in his previous life; it was clear that he was just as inept as ever.

'It looks like it's my turn to apologise,' he began, placing his goblet on the little glass side table. 'It seems I've spoken out of turn.'

Ginny looked up, and a sheepish smile crept across her features. 'No, really. It's a perfectly acceptable question. It just touches a nerve, I guess. I shouldn't have snapped at you, though.' She sighed and gazed at him forlornly. 'Well, we seem to have got off on the foot, haven't we? Can we just forget that the last five minutes ever happened and start all over again?'

Snape considered this and paused for a second, before extending his hand with a smirk. 'Alfric O. Nobel, PhD. Potioneer and socially inept raconteur.'

Ginny laughed before taking his hand. Once again, the strange shiver passed through her as she appreciated his size compared to hers. 'Ginevra Molly Potter. Senior Quidditch Correspondent for the Daily Prophet and insufferable nosey nuisance. But you can call me Ginny.'

Snape also felt the shiver pass between them as her soft, pale hand took his. 'The pleasure is all mine, Ginny.' And, for the first time that evening, the smile that crept across his lips was completely genuine.