Chapter Six

Chapter Six

'Settle down, 9C, concentrate. Take out your Hamlets and turn to page three hundred and eighty. Emily, will you read Hamlet's lines? And, Lauren, please read Polonius'.'

The sporadic noise-level of thirty-two vociferous students soon settled into a monotonous drone, as an unenthusiastic Emily Wright began to read out one of Shakespeare's finest. Their teacher, Miss Granger, sat herself down behind a high, metallic desk and let her eyes wander over the familiar heads, now obediently bowed over Act III, scene II of Hamlet. Satisfied that she had their compliance, she turned her own attention to the speech, currently being butchered by a fourteen-year-old who could no more understand Hamlet's descent into madness than her teacher could pick out a Goth from an Emo.

'Miss!' Hermione looked up to see a hand in the air, striving for attention.

'Yes, Lauren.'

'Did Hamlet's dad really like cigars?'

The classroom erupted into giggles, and Hermione allowed them a two minute indulgence before bringing them back to order.

'If anyone has a sensible comment to make about the Prince of Denmark, please raise your hand. Until then, Emily, please continue.'

'Tis now the very witching time of night

When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out

Contagious to this world...'

Emily's lack of enthusiasm was palpable, yet even that did not deter from Hermione's quiet enjoyment of the beautiful prose, which at once saddened and repelled her. Her sadness was for her reminder of the magical world she had all but abandoned, her repugnance for the Bard's mistaken assumption of the evil nature of witchcraft. Her own wand was tucked away discreetly in the inside pocket of her coat and felt as distant from anything wicked or malicious as a kitten in a pink bow.

'Miss?'

The same voice of classroom rebellion accompanied the same arm: poker-straight and pointing at the ceiling.

'Lauren?' This time Hermione allowed the hint of annoyance to reveal itself in her tone. The classroom rang out with the stifled sniggers of the timid and the unabashed laughter of the bold in response to Lauren's second silly observation of Act III.

'Any more juvenile comments to make before we resume, Lauren?' Hermione enquired.

'No, Miss.'

Lauren and the rest of the class turned their attention to Hamlet's soliloquy once again, but Hermione was too nettled to allow herself the self-indulgent enjoyment of a prose that even the desecrating influence of a reluctant teenager could not usually mar. Instead, her mind wandered away from her current location to her own experience of education. Hogwarts had had its share of the Emily Wrights and Lauren Bankses of the world, but no amount of apathy or dissidence from the students of Hogwarts could detract from the sense of wonder, belonging and contentment she had felt as a child, feeling her erudite way around the world of magic. Hermione thought of Harry and Ron, and of Hagrid, the half-giant. She thought of her teachers: Flitwick, McGonagall, Sprout and, of course, Snape – fierce critic, harsh task-master and, as it turned out, hopeless romantic. She thought of her recent experience of him, as abrasive as ever, but with the promise of something unnameable hidden beneath the surface – like looking at something through frosted glass: blurred around the edges, almost defined, but not quite. She recalled how he had looked the last time she had seen him almost a month ago, leaning against his kitchen sink, mocking her with his censorious gaze, and belittling her with his harsh condemnation; a rejection to be counted as her best yet.

With a start, she realised that Emily had stopped speaking, and with an irritation that only Lauren Banks could provide, she realised why.

'Miss?'

'LAUREN! Will you please...?'

'... Miss, there's a weirdo outside!'

Hermione, who was about to issue her most disruptive student with her first official warning of the afternoon, turned with the rest of the class to the direction she was pointing.

The far window ran the length of the classroom so that the view outside was a panorama of deserted school-yard, playing fields and a haphazard line of tall oaks which stood on the perimeter, indicating the outer edges of Mill Dam woods.

The "weirdo" was standing by one of the oaks. Hermione could see at once why her pupil might label him so, despite her teacher's instinct to admonish Lauren for her rash denunciation of what may be nothing more than a local out for a stroll. Even from a distance of two-hundred yards, the black-clad stature could not be mistaken: the rigid bearing (even as he leaned with folded arms), and the singular intense stare, which seemed to be aimed right into the heart of the classroom, announcing himself present and waiting. Hermione fought to retain her composure as she realised who the intruder was and attempted to settle down the class.

'Call the police, Miss!' suggested a voice from the back.

'He's probably a paedo!' shouted another.

'He looks a bit tortured,' observed Emily. 'Someone should go and see what he wants before we call the police.'

'Do a bit of torturing more like,' scoffed a dark-eyed boy behind her. 'He looks like Vlad the Impaler!'

'Or a vampire,' said Lauren. 'That's probably why he can't come out of the trees into the sunlight.' The class erupted into laughter again, and the dark-haired boy made a gurgling vampire noise and pretended to bite Emily's neck.

'EVERYONE BE QUIET!' yelled their teacher over the din of excited speculation and welcome distraction. The class obeyed immediately. Miss Granger rarely raised her voice. She didn't need to. Somehow the pupils in her classes always behaved; they knew there would be consequences if they did not. Not that anyone had ever received a punishment more significant than an official warning or some other vague threat, but there was always the feeling that there was only so much rebellion she would tolerate.

'Sorry, Miss, but he is weird though. Are you going to call the police?'

'All of you continue reading your Hamlets. I'll go and have a word with our visitor. Now settle down, or I'll be handing out detentions!'

Hermione was aware that the whole of 9C, and probably every other classroom on this side of the school, was now pressed up against their window. She picked her way between thick brown patches of mud, lying in wait like booby traps as she crossed the playing field towards the unexpected intruder.

He had been watching her approach from the safety of the oaks, but as she got closer, she saw him straighten up ready to greet her; his eyes maintained their scrutiny until she stopped abruptly with a gap of two feet between them. Her racing pulse did nothing to soothe her anxiety, but she was determined not to make it easy for him. Let him speak first; he owed her that much.

His unyielding gaze and persistent silence were starting to make her angry. She was glad of the feeling; it was easier to deal with than apprehension. She had almost decided to turn around and leave in frustration without a word having passed between them when he finally spoke.

'You said you were taking a break from the Ministry,' he said, glancing beyond her and towards the uninspiring grey school building.

'A permanent one,' she replied, pulling her coat tightly around her middle to keep out the biting December breeze. 'What do you want? You're scaring the kids.'

'What do you know about teaching Muggles?' he asked.

She swallowed the desire to question his right to interrogate. 'Quite a bit actually. There's more to life than turning teapots into turtles.'

'There's more to magic than turning teapots into turtles,' he replied.

She didn't answer but noticed through her quiet anger a look of trepidation waver across his face. She had not forgotten the intensity of his look, but her memory had shrunk his nose to a more pleasing size. She almost smiled at the trick she had played on herself.

'How long?' he asked.

'How long what?'

'How long have you been a teacher... here?'

She wanted to yell, none of your business, but instead found herself saying, 'Five years.'

'Why the secrecy?'

'Why do you think?' she replied.

'And what is it you think you know enough about to teach Muggle children?'

'I teach English Literature, and I happen to know a great deal about it.'

Snape looked over her shoulder, and she noticed him tense. 'We seem to have company,' he said.

Hermione turned to follow his stare and, with a mixture of irritation and amusement, saw one of her colleagues making his way over to lend his support.

Chris Jones, the Head of IT, joined the two of them in a matter of minutes. 'Can we help you?' he asked Snape curtly.

Snape let his indifferent gaze settle on the new arrival. 'I very much doubt it.'

Chris Jones glanced at Hermione, cleared his throat and continued. 'You're aware that you are trespassing? This is private school property,' he said.

Hermione cringed at her colleague's feeble attempt to gain the upper-hand. The paleness of Snape's skin was almost translucent under the ineffective wintry sun – no wonder Lauren Banks had termed him a vampire – he did appear like some strange creature of the night. Chris Jones, in comparison, was several inches shorter, with a stockiness that could only be achieved by a regular gym membership. His bright complexion and the gloss of his wavy brown hair were those of a man who eats five a day and cycles to work whatever the weather. She could sense his apprehension, nevertheless, and so could Snape, who looked as if he would gladly and ably stick a knife into the gut of the new arrival. Hermione watched their stand-off with fascinated unease. She would have sniggered like a school girl if it wasn't for the knowledge that Snape was quite capable of casting a retaliatory Confundus Charm if riled.

'Am I?' said Snape, who somehow managed to make the two inconsequential words sound like an invitation to a pistol duel at dawn.

'It's fine, Chris,' said Hermione quickly. 'This is... a friend of mine. He's going now. Everything's fine. I'll be back inside shortly. Would you check on 9C for me?' She flashed a broad, confident beam at her colleague, who responded with a softening of his expression.

'A friend?' said Chris Jones.

'Yes. From way back. He just wants a quick word, then he'll be off. Honestly, Chris – please go back inside,' Hermione pleaded.

Chris Jones eyed Snape warily. The dilemma of making the right decision without compromising his authority was palpable. It was there to see in the set of his jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders and the hesitancy of his movement.

'Please,' Hermione pressed. 'I'm fine.'

Her final entreaty seemed to be the deciding factor. With another suspicious glance at Snape, he nodded, warned Hermione not to take too long and made his way back across the field to the school building.

Snape watched his departure and snorted. 'And now you're seeing a Muggle?'

'What? How could you possibly conclude that from such a short encounter?'

'He touched you on the arm... twice; a gesture of intimacy rarely seen between mere colleagues. I'm quite sure I never touched Minerva on the arm in all my years at Hogwarts.'

Hermione grinned. 'She'd have hexed you into next week.'

'Yes, I've been on the receiving end of Minerva's hexes and she was surprisingly spry for her age,' he smirked.

'I still don't see how two arm touches concludes a relationship.'

'He was your Knight in shining armour, anxious to save you from peril. And he responded too easily to your suggestion of checking on your class to be anything less than enamoured.'

'He's not enamoured, he's just a friend. Alright, a good friend. Alright, we've been on a couple of dates. Not that it's any of your damn business.'

He was beginning to try her patience. She could feel a hundred pairs of eyes watching her as she stood out in the cold, indulging Severus Snape, who was here to...?

'What is it you want?' she repeated, irritated that somehow he was making her do all the work, despite her determination to play the part of a spurned heroine and watch him squirm. 'You treat me abominably, throw me out of your house, ridicule me, and now you turn up at my place of work to what? Gloat?' She saw him flinch as if her words were a physical assault. 'And what if I am seeing him? He happens to be attentive, and thoughtful, and kind and...'

'Have you told him?'

'None of your... NO!' she spat. 'What do you want, Professor? Only if I don't seem to be making any headway at persuading you to leave, they will call the police!'

'Is that supposed to be a threat?'

No! I'm just impressing on you that we don't have much time, so if you only came here to see my decline for yourself, might I suggest you leave – you've seen it now, I've failed in the wizarding world, but I have a perfectly nice life in this one... the real world, so I'll say goodbye.' She pulled her coat tighter still and turned to tread the boggy path back to her classroom.

'I have a proposition!'

Hermione stopped. She turned around to face him but kept the extra distance between them; she felt the gesture gave her a small advantage.

'I've heard your propositions before. I'm not your type, remember?'

His expression had a trace of shame in it. 'A different type of proposition. However, in view of your current relationship status, I rather think this a wasted trip.'

'I'll decide what my relationship status is, Professor! What type of proposition could you possibly have in mind to include me? You said I bored you.'

'I said no such thing.'

'Yes you did.'

'You misunderstood my meaning,' he said.

'Uninteresting, tiresome, dull, dreary, tedious! How did I misunderstand your meaning, sir? Is your dictionary different to mine?'

'As none of those adjectives accurately describes you, perhaps you should conclude that the context, not the word, was misunderstood.'

Hermione almost faltered in response to the nearest Severus Snape had ever got to offering her a compliment, but the advantage was hers and she knew she was unlikely to be given the chance to hit back with a crippling put-down again.

'I don't care anymore,' she said. 'You're not worth it. I think I can learn to live with the guilt.' She saw him receive the words like a physical blow and relished the smug feeling of superiority as she registered her triumph. She wondered if that was the reason for Snape's savage behaviour – the digs, the jibes, the hurtful remarks – did they give him tiny stabs of pleasure, knowing that he had the power to wound?

'The nightmares have gone away then?' His answer caught Hermione off guard and rendered her speechless. 'I thought not.' He appeared cheerless, however, as if the news brought him so little pleasure that he was no longer able to enjoy his small victory. 'You look as if you haven't slept in a month.'

His observation of the outward signs of her weariness fuelled her resentment. How dare he notice her exhaustion, he was the cause.

'If you came here to get your insult fix, I can tell you I'm not in the mood,' she bit back.

'It's a fact, not a slight.' His tone was almost conciliatory.

'If you have something to say, I suggest you say it as I escort you through the school grounds to the gate.'

'Before the cavalry turn up again?' Snape replied.

The two made their way around the edge of the perimeter towards the far school yard, and the path leading around the building towards the entrance gate.

'Well?' prompted Hermione when they had reached the gate.

'You received notification of the date change of the Victory Day Ball?'

'Yes, not that it affects me. Why?'

'The ball will now be held two weeks from now.'

'I can read.'

I have been considering your proposal of a month ago... that we go together.'

Hermione gave no indication that she had heard him.

'Perhaps I should say, reconsidering.'

'How did you know where I work?' interrupted Hermione.

'You are not the only one with influential contacts.' Snape cleared his throat apprehensively. 'Well?'

'Why now?'

'For a variety of reasons; mainly because it would be advantageous to both of us.'

'How so?'

'I have decided that returning to the wizarding world would have, shall we say... beneficial aspects. My research has reached a stage which requires more legitimate business associates in order for it to progress. I need to be remembered. Visible. Known again. And I can't do that from my current anonymous position. The ball will attract the most influential figures in the wizarding world: Ministry officials, representatives from the press as well as my old colleagues. Slughorn is still there. I have need of his... input.'

Hermione felt a familiar rush of adrenalin surging through her veins as her mild annoyance became sheer indignation.

'And you are telling me this because?'

'Well I can hardly go alone. The invitation specifies a guest,' he explained.

'And you couldn't think of any other unattached witch desperate enough to accompany you to a social function in order to advance your career?'

Snape let out a long, irritated sigh as if her resentment was beyond his comprehension. 'I presumed you would want to go. The situation would be mutually beneficial.'

'A month ago I did think it would be a good idea. I thought we were beginning to... get used to each other. You soon cured me of that.' Hermione dug her hands deep into the pocket of her thick, mauve winter coat and turned away from him to face the school.

'We had an arrangement,' Snape said to her back. 'Our meetings had a purpose. They were not intended to be "get to know each other" sessions.'

'But they were. And we did. Intentional or not.' Hermione had spun back round to face him. 'I confided in you. I told you things I've never told anyone else. And I was getting to know more about you. Apart from the black-wearing, insult-hurling ex-teacher, I found out that you prefer tea to coffee, firewhisky when you want to get drunk and bitter when you don't. You have a weakness for Muggle literature, a wicked sense of humour, a surprising appreciation of Pre-Raphaelite paintings and you can quote Shakespeare, Dickens and George Eliot. We were becoming...'

'What?'

'Friends,' she muttered to the pavement beneath her feet.

'We were not friends, Granger.'

'I know that now. I'm just telling you how I saw it,' she hissed. 'You found me no different from my thirteen-year-old self: irritating, full of annoying questions and...'

'Desperate for my approval.'

Hermione's scowl could have rivalled one of his best. 'I should have known I was asking for the impossible. You found my company annoying.'

'On the contrary, I found your discourse surprisingly agreeable and your observations, for the most part, not unintelligent. If it were otherwise I would not be standing here making this futile proposal. My reasons may not be noble or altruistic, but the outcome would be no different from your own proposal four weeks ago, so why you should now find the idea an excuse to take offence, I am unable to comprehend.'

Hermione barely registered the second almost compliment; her mind, for the moment, was on retribution. 'You turn up here looking like a sinister bad guy from a Muggle movie, you tell me you've changed your mind so that you can reacquaint yourself with anyone who can help you with your dubious research! On top of that, you tell me that you are asking me because I'm available and not as annoying as I used to be, and I'm supposed to be grateful?'

'I am trying to point out the advantages, but as your pride has been dented and your ability to see a project to its completion questioned, I see that I am wasting my time.'

'What project?'

'I believe I was your project.'

'You told me to go. Quite forcefully! I don't think I misunderstood that!'

'You give up too easily.'

Hermione was momentarily stunned. She had gone along with his assertion that they meet up regularly. She had turned up when and where he had stipulated, even left work early on pretence of a migraine on the one occasion when he had wanted to meet on a Wednesday afternoon. She had put up with the variations in his temper, never knowing how his mood would be when they met, demonstrating the patience of a martyr in the face of his ill-humours and episodes of sullenness.

Forcing herself to bang down his door and demand entry in response to her dismissal was hardly the action of a spineless apathetic, lacking backbone and resolve. She felt a petulant resentment rise in her chest at the unfairness of his careless words. She bit back the girlish desire to prove him right by marching back inside with her nose in the air to accompany the witty retort she had yet to compose. She would show him the meaning of dogged determination, even if the cost was compromising her pride.

Or perhaps it was the bleak look in his fathomless black eyes, which compelled her to answer with, 'Ok.'

She noticed a fleeting moment of relief in his expression, but it was soon concealed beneath his inscrutable mask.

'Good,' he said. 'Then you will tell the Muggle that his services are no longer required?'

'What?' Hermione replied heatedly. 'Why would I do that? You said this was a practical arrangement.'

'Nevertheless, I am not escorting a woman to a ball if she is attached elsewhere.'

Hermione's will was barely her own. Severus Snape was asking her out on what was very nearly a real date. The added beats to her heart evoked by that notion, combined with the giddy anticipation of what on earth she was going to wear, rendered her incapable of doing much beyond blind acceptance. She told herself that it was all part of the bigger plan: that she was duty-bound to submit to his whims; after all, it was the least she could do. He was a hero, a brave and true soldier in a war against evil. He had suffered for the cause, put aside peace of mind and personal safety forever. He had barely cared for his own life, his own happiness or his own wellbeing. Voldemort's demise and Harry Potter's safety had been his driving force. And she, Hermione Granger, hadn't even attempted a Tergeo charm to help him as he bled. How could she now refuse this request? It was hardly unreasonable.

'Fine! If you can call two dates an attachment.'

The ghost of a smile played about the corners of his mouth, but he only nodded his satisfaction. 'There are certain conditions you need to understand before we proceed,' he said.

'You mean apart from dumping the first boyfriend I've had in a year?'

He folded his leather-gloved hands in front of him. 'I do not dance.'

'Won't be much of a ball then.'

'You may dance if you must, as long as you limit your dancing partners to personal friends.'

'I suppose so,' she agreed, glancing over his shoulder towards the school, almost afraid that Chris Jones might show up again with reinforcements. But the school grounds remained deserted, despite the uncomfortable feeling that the building itself was watching her betrayal of the Head of IT.

'Secondly,' he continued. 'I shall not be prevailed upon to sit for an evening in the company of any former-student other than yourself. No Potter, no Weasleys, no Lovegood and certainly no Longbottom.'

'Sounds like it's going to be a fun evening. I suppose you know that Neville is the Herbology Professor now?'

'Merlin save the dunderheads from the dunderhead. At least he is as far away from the Potions Lab as geography allows.'

'Any other conditions I should know about? I take it I'm allowed to talk to my friends?

'You may speak with whomever you chose. Within reason.'

'Too right I may,' she replied. 'Well in that case, I have a few conditions of my own.'

Snape raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

'First of all, I would prefer it if you call me Hermione. It is my name, after all.'

'Unacceptable,' he replied. 'You will be Miss Granger in public and Granger when we are alone.'

'You could at least think about it,' Hermione retorted. 'I agreed to your unreasonable requests.'

Snape appeared to be contemplating. 'I shall consider it,' he conceded.

'Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. 'I won't hold my breath. Secondly, I won't be your escort for the evening just to be ditched as soon as we get there so that you can work the room. You have to at least make it look as if we are a legitimate couple.'

Snape's expression was unreadable again, but he took some time to answer. 'You want our former friends and acquaintance to believe we are... together?'

'Well, yes. I assumed that was the plan. I mean as friends... not together in the... romantic sense. It would lessen your credibility as a business prospect if everyone in there is wondering what the hell we are doing together. Don't you think?'

'Agreed,' he replied. 'However, it will be difficult for them to accept. Many may find the idea of the two of us happening upon each other and becoming bosom buddies difficult to swallow.'

'You have your Slytherin guile and I have my Gryffindor guts – between us, I'm sure we can make them believe anything we want them to.'

Hermione had never seen his smile reach his eyes before, she was transfixed by the momentary softening of the scarab black orbs, usually so remote.

They suddenly became aware of the distant steady drone of a bell over the sound of passing cars.

'It's lunch time,' said Hermione, looking towards the school and observing the slow trickle of bodies emerging from various doors placed around the building.

Another sound – a high-pitched tone which seemed to spring from Hermione herself – caused Snape to jerk his head in surprise. She delved into a deep pocket in her coat and retrieved a small, black oblong tablet, which she slid open and pressed to her ear. She turned away from him as she spoke into it.

'There really is no occasion to worry,' she insisted. 'Please inform everyone that I am absolutely fine. I'll see you shortly in the staff-room. Yes I know that, but there's really no need.' She replaced her mobile phone in her pocket and gave him a look which dared him to mock.

'You really have embraced Muggledom,' he said. 'I take it your Knight was checking up on you?'

She nodded and glanced quickly at the growing throng of figures now dotted about the school grounds behind them.

'Come on,' she said, grabbing his hand suddenly. 'I'll walk you to the bus stop.'

'Bus stop?' he asked, once they had negotiated the traffic and reached the other side.

'It's a euphemism for a good spot from which to Disapparate,' she explained, smiling. 'Down here.' She slotted her arm into the crook of his and guided him through the wooden stile which guarded the entrance to a narrow path lined with trees and hedgerows. They walked along the dirt-track for a few hundred yards, avoiding puddles and sticky patches of mud until Hermione tugged at his arm and led him through a gap in the brambles into a small clearing.

A light mist of rain began to fall, and the ground between the trees was black with the glistening damp layers of dead leaves which sagged beneath their feet. Hermione detached herself from Snape's arm. 'This is a good place,' she said. 'I sometimes use it.' She walked towards a fallen tree trunk, perched herself on the edge and took out her wand.

'You have Muggle repellent charms in place,' said Snape, walking towards her.

'For extra precaution, yes.'

He nodded his approval as he joined her on the tree trunk. 'You had better not tell Arthur Weasley you have one of those Muggle contraptions; he won't leave you alone all night,' he observed drily.

Hermione turned to him and smiled. 'I thought you would be more disapproving.'

'You are playing the part of a Muggle. I would expect you to embrace every aspect of all that it entails.'

She took out her phone and slid up the lid. The artificial light it emitted was harsh in the dimness of the wooded clearing. Her phone in one hand and her wand in the other: the physical representations of her magical abilities and her Muggle background.

'I'm not "playing the part of a Muggle",' she said. 'It's part of who and what I am.'

'You are deluded, Granger.'

'Stop telling me I'm delusional.'

'Then stop deluding yourself. You are a witch. You cannot escape the fact. You do not belong amongst Muggles.'

'I am a witch. I love being a witch, but I don't hate my Muggle side either. It's quite possible for the two to work together,' she replied.

Snape took out his own wand. He pointed it languidly at the branch of a tree and blasted it with a Severing Charm. The branch fell to the floor with a dull thud.

'Not in my experience,' he said.

Hermione took a chance. 'Your parents?'

Snape nodded and prepared to attack another branch until Hermione's hand gently grasped his wand arm and guided it back down to his side.

'I knew nothing but their conflict,' he said, allowing her intervention. 'I learned from an early age that magic and Muggles should never mix.'

'I don't believe that,' she replied softly. 'Maybe your experience of a mixed marriage was unhappy, but there are good and bad people in both worlds.'

'I'm well aware of that, yet I found precious little of the former in either.'

This was the nearest Snape had ever reached to sharing anything from his past, and Hermione was damned if she was going to let a little thing like responsibilities of work get in the way. Her thumb discreetly found the off button on her phone and she stowed it away in her pocket. She held her wand in both hands, twisting it through her fingers as she spoke.

'But some,' she said gently. 'You did find some.'

'Yes,' he admitted. 'But never for long.'

She was surprised when he allowed her to take a gloved hand in hers, and even more so when no objections were made to a head tentatively leaning into his shoulder and resting against it with a deep sigh.

They remained like that for minutes, Hermione constantly expecting him to pull away and make a curt exit at any moment. But although he didn't exactly relax into the gesture (his hand did not curl around hers, nor did his head tilt in response to her movement), he seemed intent on remaining so – barely a muscle moved as they sat in silence in the cold, damp clearing.

It was Hermione who broke the spell.

'You know, it might be fun to make them think we are a proper couple,' she said lifting up her head.

He turned to look at her. 'It would provoke even more attention than we can already expect. Perhaps even animosity. That is, if anyone would believe it possible.'

She smiled. 'We could make them believe it.'

'They would think you Imperioed, or under the influence of Amortentia.'

'Honestly, Professor! You and I as a couple isn't that much of a stretch,' she replied, letting go of his hand.

'I am surprised at your naivety. I am twenty years your senior, with neither good looks nor charm to recommend me as a romantic prospect. Tell me, Granger, if not via the Dark Arts, why else would anyone believe Hermione Granger happy to settle for Severus Snape?'

Hermione was too stunned by his answer to reply immediately. She stood from her position and took several steps into the middle of the clearing, her back to Snape, her head bowed, contemplating the comforting familiarity of the wooden instrument of magic in her hands.

She thought of her failed, brief romance with Ron – more anticipation and expectation than an actual relationship once they had finally declared themselves a couple. She considered her recent love interest with Chris Jones, who was all the things she had declared him to be: considerate, compassionate, attentive. He had the good looks denied Snape: a wholesome, sun-kissed, white-toothed kind of handsome which always made her feel like she should try harder with her own appearance. Yet thoughts of him never raised her pulse rate – not even by a single beat per minute. And when she lay awake at night, it was not his voice caressing her thoughts with his silken vowels and velvety consonants.

Snape's proximity had always provoked a physical reaction; as an eleven-year-old hopeful, it was trepidation. But that soon turned to a reverential respect, though it was still coupled with the same tinge of fear. By the time she had reached the end of her penultimate school year, and discovered him to be a traitor, the respect had turned to disappointment, anger and a sense of betrayal. She had believed in him, dared to see past the brutish aspect. She had known, with a sense of certainty, that he was no self-serving, power-hungry Death Eater in search of glory – he was above all that. Then, when the final battle was won and Harry had shared all he knew of Snape's true loyalties, her disappointment and anger were turned on herself. She felt ashamed. She had been right, after all, to give him her faith. Right to chide those who doubted him; yet Hermione, who prided herself on insight and wisdom, had believed him capable of betrayal, murder and cowardice. She despised her own cowardice, her own failure to see beyond the sneer when it really mattered.

Snape had moved to join her. He was standing directly in front of her with his back to the sunlight so that his features appeared in shadow. Hermione looked up at him and felt such a rush of compassion for his self-doubt that before she had time to debate the wisdom of her actions, it was too late.

If he was surprised by her kiss, he didn't show it. His lips, she discovered, were cool and soft beneath her own. His body was tense, and his arms remained by his side. But later that night, when Hermione went over it for the hundredth time, she was sure he had lowered his head and parted his lips just a little. She let go of his coat lapels and broke the kiss, suddenly saturated with a sense of awkwardness and hesitancy at her own audacity. His expression didn't change. There was no smirk and no look of revulsion. It didn't appear that he was about to attack her with a vicious put-down or a spiteful retort. The two eyed each other warily for longer than comfort could endure, until Snape finally ended the torture.

'I will be in touch,' he said softly. 'Expect an owl.'

'Right,' she replied. 'An owl.'

'With details,' he explained.

'Details, yes.'

'Arrangements.'

'For the ball, yes,' she replied.

'I'll say goodbye then.'

Hermione's smile remained in place for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. The following day she woke up with it plastered across her face and wondered if she could ever feel miserable again.