Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Hermione felt more phantom than physical as she glided amidst the shocking pinks, emerald greens and midnight blue splashes that constituted the magical guests of the tenth anniversary Victory Day Ball. She felt as if she had tumbled head first, Alice-style, into one of her dreams: every detail seemed real enough, yet she didn't feel quite present. If it were not for the indisputable evidence of her solidity, she would have doubted that this was any reality she had ever been familiar with. But the indication was there – people greeted her, spoke to her, complimented her on her appearance, wanted to know everything about her long absence. She must have replied in kind, because no one, so far, had appeared bemused or affronted.

Minerva McGonagall was the first of the Hogwarts staff to greet her; she had been moved to display two glistening eyes and her assurances that Hermione had been missed and thought of constantly. The Headmaster, Filius Flitwick, was next; he had shaken her hand so vigorously that she had been obliged to ask for it back. Neville Longbottom, on the other hand, had treated her to a breath-stopping bear hug, told her she was the last person he had expected to see, and introduced her to his wife, Hannah. Hermione spoke to Percy Weasley, Ron and Lavender, and Luna and Xenophilius Lovegood. Even Draco Malfoy was present, if not prominent. He and his partner, a tall, thin woman, spoke only to each other and very few other guests. Hermione had never expected to feel anything like pity for Malfoy junior – there had been times when she longed to re-enact the forceful slug she had visited on his smug, pale face in her third year, but all that had changed. She could only see him now as another victim of pure-blood supremacy. She caught his eye as she wandered from former acquaintance to old friend in her dream-like state, and though she didn't quite have the nerve to strike up a conversation, a half-smile and a slight nod, which she was happy to return, felt like more of a resolution than the fifteen minute full-on conversation with Minerva.

The entirety of the wizarding world, at least Hermione's experience of it, appeared to be congregated into the Entrance Hall, waiting for the doors of the Great Hall to be opened: the signal to announce the commencement of the evening's festivities. The notable and perturbing exception to the party, however, was a certain former Headmaster and supposed current escort to Hermione Granger.

Hermione's elation, following her last meeting with Snape, had lasted for forty-eight hours. The expected owl had arrived three days after his somewhat diffident goodbye. It was a short, curt missive, so formal that she would have wondered if it had been sent by some Ministry Official if it wasn't for the signature, which declared itself to be from Severus Snape. The note informed Hermione that he would call on her at 7:45 on the evening of the ball and requested her address by return owl. He had ended the note in the trust that she had suitable attire for a formal function and on the assumption that she had managed to end her friendship with "the Muggle".

Hermione knew she had no right to be disappointed by the dismissively decorous tone of the note. It was not as if she expected him to refer to her as "my love" or to send assurances of his devotion – although thoughts of his sonorous drawl uttering such protestations actually brought a pink tinge to her cheeks. Yet she had hoped for something which would at least reassure her of his acceptance of her friendship. She had replied by sending her address, as requested, as well as her affronted assurances that she would most certainly be suitably attired, along with her hopes that her escort could also make that claim. Her postscript confirmed that the unfortunate Chris Jones had indeed been dispatched with. The only reply she had received to that note had been over a week later. It arrived on the morning of the ball, and instead of the confirmation she had expected it to contain, it expressed a short apology, which stated that, due to unforeseen circumstances, he would not be able to call on her as arranged; he would see her at the ball and trusted she would be punctual.

Her preparations were thrown into turmoil at the prospect of having to turn up alone. She had almost decided to send a reply owl, informing her ungallant escort that she had a caught a cold and couldn't make it, but a severe self talking-to and a couple of glasses of red wine decided her fate. Besides which, she had paid the Muggle hairstylist a fortune to create the elegant pleat which she had needed magical intervention to produce for the Yule Ball fourteen years previously. And she would allow nothing to prevent her from wearing the beautiful charcoal-grey robes, purchased two days previously from Madam Malkin. The finest dress-maker in wizarding Britain had needed no Alteration Charm to compel the robes to caress her figure in exactly the right places. The fit was so perfect and the result so dazzling that they might have been tailor-made for her.

He was twenty minutes late. The guests had been told to arrive at eight o'clock and were packed into the Entrance Hall, chatting, laughing, being reunited with old friends and colleagues – waiting to be called into the Great Hall. Everyone Hermione spoke to had asked after her partner. All had responded with varying degrees of scepticism, incomprehension or amusement when she had assured them that her escort, Severus Snape, would be arriving shortly.

'Severus never comes to these functions,' Madame Pomfrey explained patiently to Hermione.

'Yes, I know he hasn't been to any in the past, but he is coming to this one.' Hermione had noticed the sense of panic in her own voice, as if she didn't quite believe it herself. Madame Pomfrey had given her the look she normally reserved for patients suffering from irreversible magical maladies.

Harry and Ginny appeared to be the only ones not to doubt her, which was hardly surprising, as she had informed them a week ago of her plans to attend the ball. Hermione had wondered, at the time, why they had been more surprised when she had told them of her intention to accept the invitation, than when she tentatively admitted who it was she would be going with. She had expected astonishment at the very least. Harry's animosity towards his former teacher had vanished along with his belief in Snape's treachery. Hermione had, nevertheless, anticipated spending quite some time patiently convincing and explaining. Yet both Harry and Ginny had seemed as if it was news they had almost been waiting for, and if they didn't show delight at the information, they certainly didn't show abhorrence either.

'He'll be here,' said Harry, offering Hermione the champagne flute he had just retrieved from one of the silver trays, floating servilely around the perimeter of the room.

'He's cutting it bloody fine,' hissed Hermione, taking it from him and downing a third of the glass in two anxious gulps.

'Why did he say he couldn't escort you himself?' asked Ginny.

'He didn't!' Hermione's head appeared to be on a swivel. Every time the great oak doors opened to admit someone new, her neck craned over the flamboyant head-pieces and coiffed hairdos, in the hopes of glimpsing a pair of supercilious black eyes searching her out. She almost muttered aloud the expletive which had formed itself on her lips when the new arrivals turned out to be only Bill and Fleur Weasley. She berated herself for her lack of charity; she knew she should be pleased to see them; it had been so long.

It was almost eight-thirty. The guests were beginning to glance towards the Great Hall doors in anticipation of the beginning of procedures. This was a formal affair; there was a Master of Ceremonies in attendance. The guests would be announced into the Great Hall in couples with a brief reference to their title and the position they held in the wizarding world. Hermione dreaded the next five minutes – her mind conjured up the unthinkable scenario which awaited her if Snape didn't turn up soon. She envisaged the formal proclamation:

Professor of Herbology, Neville Longbottom, and his wife, Hannah.

Hermione Granger, teacher of Muggle reprobates.

He clearly wasn't coming. The anticipation of her humiliation fuelled her anger. Fury and resentment surged through her veins like cold venom. This whole charade had apparently been some malicious, elaborate hoax, his way of making sure she suffered in the extreme for what she had done. He had meant it when he had called her company odious. The ferocity of his anger at her betrayal ten years ago was obviously far greater than she had believed; he had been looking for vengeance, for a way to see justice implemented. His warped, cruel mind had realised how best to humble and destroy her: have her stand in front of everyone she had ever known or cared about, and let them see her failure; let them laugh at the star of Gryffindor behind her back, or worse still – pity her. The only thing preventing her from actually shedding tears was the small pleasure stimulated by fantasies of how she would get Snape back for this. She imagined him on the receiving end of a Canary Transfiguration Hex and relished the image of him draped in bright feathers and chirping cheerfully, with a very indignant scowl etched onto his yellow face. Or perhaps an Entrail-Expelling Curse would wipe the slate clean, she thought darkly; he may think twice about crossing Hermione Granger once he was wearing his guts as a new set of robes. But no! Personal disfigurement wasn't satisfying enough; she wanted to really see him suffer – maybe she would break into his Potions lab and destroy every last cauldron, vial, instrument and stinking vital ingredient she could point her wand at.

The door to the Great Hall opened. The Master of Ceremonies appeared, resplendent in crimson silk robes, matching wide-brimmed hat, and a full silver beard, almost as long as Dumbledore's. With the use of a Sonorus Spell, he called calm on the room and requested everyone present to form an orderly queue. Hermione politely refused Harry and Ginny's insistence that she go in to dinner with them; she'd be damned if she was going to hide in the shadow of Harry Potter again. She'd had her fill of being friend to The Chosen One – glad though she had been to be there for him when it mattered. Let the congregation know, if they must, that she was Hermione Granger, destroyer of Horcruxes, teacher of Muggles, and owner of two cats. The red-robed wizard could announce her mediocrity to the lot of them for all she cared any longer.

Figures moved around the room, readying themselves for the formalities. Lost partners were searched for and found, others walked together towards the stone steps leading up to the Great Hall doors. Hermione lost sight of Harry and Ginny in the co-ordinated commotion. With a sudden failure of courage, she realised that if she hung back as everyone grouped at the far end of the room, not a soul would notice her absence. The evening was frost-filled and bleak with the promise of snow in the air. Yet even the harsh weather conditions beyond the doors seemed a more welcoming prospect than the certainty of condescending sympathy within.

She allowed the witches and wizards, in all their finery, to push past, letting them get ahead of her while all the time she shuffled slowly backwards, careful to avoid catching the attention of anyone who might take pity on her and insist she accompany them. The gap between herself and the crowd widened as she edged her way towards the entrance door. She took one last lingering look at the brightly coloured throng before turning around to make her great escape.

'Going so soon?' said Snape.

In her determination to leave unnoticed, Hermione had been unaware that the door behind her had opened to admit one more guest. She hadn't noticed that a tall dark figure had been standing behind her and watching her turmoil for several minutes. The great oak doors framed him in shadow against the back-drop of the black night beyond.

'Oh!' she gasped, the dilemma of whether to react with outrage, relief or jubilation, rendering her inarticulate.

He glanced towards the rear of the thinning crowd and raised an eyebrow. 'You were leaving?'

'I thought you weren't coming,' she spat.

'Why would you think I wouldn't come? I informed you I would be late. You received my owl I take it?'

She nodded feebly, feeling foolish for her earlier self-pitying doubts and misgivings.

He continued, 'My supplier of Ashwinder eggs from Angora was in the country. He rarely makes contact – meeting him was essential – then, of course, the eggs...'

'... needed to be frozen, yes. I understand the urgency, I just... panicked.'

He didn't look much like the greasy git from the dungeons, standing there before her. His travelling cloak was folded neatly over his left arm; he wore velvet robes so black that all his previous outfits seemed a dull grey in comparison. His hair was tousled from the cold night air and swept back from his face instead of hanging down limply over his pale cheeks, and he smelled of cauldron smoke, winter evenings and soap.

He held out an arm. 'Shall we?'

'Once more into the breach,' she muttered as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, relishing the feel of slippery soft velvet and the joy of relief.

Walking arm-in-arm across the stone-flagged floor, Hermione glanced up at him. 'You never gave me an answer,' she said.

He quirked an eyebrow.

'Are we going to dupe them all or not?' she continued.

He let go of her arm and moved to stand in front of her. 'Are you prepared for the attention it will bring?' he asked.

'Are you?'

'I have endured worse. I believe appearing in front of the school as Headmaster, when most believed I murdered the last one, was more gruelling.'

'Yes, I suppose it was,' she answered. 'And I've already spent half an hour suffering their patronising kindness. It was obvious no one believed you were coming: either with me or without me.'

'It will be worse than that when they think I have either deceived you, or you have deceived yourself. I doubt they will believe you could ever form real feelings of attachment towards your old Potions master.'

Hermione's smile was mischievous. Snape's timely arrival had not only removed her fears, but it had also ignited a tiny flicker of an almost forgotten emotion. Elation sparked in her gut. Perhaps it wasn't the kind felt by fairytale princesses, enchanted by love's first kiss, but it was the beginning of something good, something that didn't feel bitter or cynical or wretched. A glimmer of optimism warmed her spirit like the smallest present under the Christmas tree. It gave her a powerful feeling that anything was possible, and nothing was insurmountable. The feeling of recklessness made her reply more flirtatious than she had intended.

'We'll just have to try extra hard to make them believe it then... Severus,' she said, making to grasp his arm again.

Snape's expression showed signs of bemusement, but he smiled, nevertheless. He lifted his head to look towards the doors and the handful of guests waiting to be announced into the Great Hall. Some of them turned around to see who was dragging behind, their surprise on realising the newcomer obvious.

A look of intent flashed in his eyes seconds before he bent towards her. She held her breath as his eyes sliced into hers. A burning sensation seared into her skin: the reaction to his fingers lightly tracing a path from her bare shoulder to the curve of her chin. His thumb brushed her lips in one seductively deliberate stroke. Nothing else existed when she parted them, as if compelled by magical force to accept the anticipated kiss. His head dropped to hers, his mouth touched her own, an achingly soft pressure just for one brief moment before forcing her lips apart with his and turning the kiss into a deep, forceful act of possession. She felt his tongue slide into her mouth, and his hands gripped her shoulders as if she would fall to the floor like a marionette if he let go. She clutched at his waist to steady herself and responded with a stifled groan of suppressed want. If she had been harbouring any doubts about her own feelings towards him, she now knew that whatever she felt emotionally or intellectually, the fact remained: her physical response to him was unashamed pleasure.

She was kissing Severus Snape. Not some chaste, sweet act of friendship, but a fierce, impatient lover's embrace. And though every bit of reason she could summon cried out in revulsion, every inch of flesh craved for more attention. She didn't want to feel his hands on her shoulders; they should be caressing all of her: her arms, her waist, her breasts, her hips. And his lips – she wanted them to move down to her throat – to feel teeth, tongue and flesh tear across her skin. She wanted his passion and his anger, his bitterness and resentment; she wanted to feel what he felt and she wanted to be naked beneath him when she did.

He withdrew from the kiss unhurriedly, loosening his grip on Hermione's shoulders and moving his hand up to the nape of her exposed neck. He pulled her gently towards him and lowered his face to her ear. She could smell him, almost taste him; she could feel the coarseness of his jaw scraping against her soft skin, sending currents of desire pulsating along her spine. His hawk-like nose nuzzled into her hair, and she prayed for him to move a little lower. She wanted to feel his heavy breath on her skin and hear deep reciprocal sighs of pleasure as tongue and teeth moistened the soft flesh of her ear.

Every nerve-ending shivered with pleasure in response to his warm breath on her skin; but Hermione's shameless enjoyment was short-lived when, instead of more kisses, he muttered in her ear, 'Well that should give Minerva something else to disapprove of.'