Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Familiar places, when returned to after a long absence, often seem somehow less than whatever the imagination fashions them into. Rooms are smaller, colours less vibrant. Even the climate of one's remembered past is warmer in summer and whiter in winter than anything possible in reality. Not so Hogwarts. Since arriving at the school gates, everything Snape encountered had actually surpassed his memory and his capacity to create and imagine. The grounds, even in the dead of night, were vaster than he recalled as he swept through them towards the great oak doors. The castle's facade was even more impressive, and the entrance hall itself was statelier than he remembered. But his capacity to imagine had never been called into question more than the vision of womanly perfection which greeted him as he threw open the huge wooden door. Even from across the room, as she edged towards him, she appeared to him like a fairy queen from some once-remembered Muggle fable. He watched the creature in mute fascination: unable to move forwards, unable to speak. She was dressed in silk the colour of storm clouds. The fabric of her robes seemed to pour over her body like liquid, clinching her waist, then sweeping down gracefully to gather in a pool at her feet. She looked as if she had emerged at that moment, newborn and fully-formed, from a lake of molten pewter. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck in an intricate pleat; a few tendrils falling teasingly about her bare shoulders, begging to be touched.

It was only when she turned around and almost collided with him that he realised the "exquisite angel" was none other than his date. It was with great effort that he called upon all his Dark-Lord-deceiving powers of Occlumency to appear unaffected by the sight of Granger in a dress. His facade was inscrutable; but he was grateful for the high collar of his dress robes, which hid the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he swallowed his admiration. When she anxiously asked him if he was prepared to go through with the real couple charade, he almost snorted out loud, just from the relief of knowing he could legitimately touch her. He would berate himself for his foolish weakness in the cold light of day, but for tonight he intended to take what was offered and savour the pleasure it would bring.

He would have interpreted anything she said at that point as an invitation to kiss her, so it was a great relief when she boldly suggested they make extra efforts to ensure their success. And when she called him Severus, nothing could have prevented him from leaning down to taste her. Her response to the kiss was no less surprising than his own; he had only meant it to be a display for lingering guests who happened to turn around and see the return of the spy for themselves – at least that was what he told himself. A peck on the cheek was what he intended. But her skin was like carved marble in the candlelight, and she looked so beseeching staring up at him expectantly. What was a lonely wizard to do when the woman he has come to see as unique, gifted and beautiful parts her soft lips and pierces his soul with her smile? He was not made of cold steel, despite appearances to the contrary. It seemed that she would have been more than adequate in the field of espionage herself. Her response was ardent; it was as if she meant it, as if she had wanted it for some time.

Was it possible that her passion was genuine?

'That should give Minerva something else to disapprove of,' he had said.

His own reckless lust for the girl was beginning to cloud his judgement; he could have sworn he had read disappointment at his words in eyes that mirrored his own desire.

'Who gives a flying ...? I don't give a damn what Minerva, or any of them think.' Defiance and mischief flashed in her eyes. Hermione Granger was full of surprises, it seemed. He found that he had a liking for devil-may-care Granger; it gave her an edge and appealed to the latent fiend who existed in the darkest shadows of his mind and longed for company. He picked up a curl, which lay against her bare shoulder, and rubbed it softly between his fingers, unsure of the meaning of her almost imperceptible shudder in response to the gesture. He hoped it signalled pleasure, but suspected revulsion.

'How long have we been together?' he asked, testing her power to withstand an interrogation.

'Three months.'

They turned together and walked up the stone steps leading to the Great Hall. They stood arm-in-arm, defying the assembly to judge them, as the Master of Ceremonies announced them in to dinner.

'How did we meet?' he whispered in her ear. The announcement of Professor Severus Snape and his partner, Miss Hermione Granger, prompted the room to near silence, and all eyes turned towards them. Two seconds of hush, followed by a return to glib chatter and forced laughter, accompanied the returning witch and wizard as they made their way to their table.

'I sought you out. I had things I needed to talk to you about,' she answered. They nodded and smiled at old acquaintances already seated at their tables.

'Good. The most effective form of deceit is to pepper it liberally with the truth,' he replied.

'Because if I believe it, they will believe it,' Hermione responded.

The Great Hall was set out as it had been for the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament. The four House tables, the symbol of disunity, were gone; in their place were at least two hundred round tables, each with a place setting for six guests. Snape and Hermione were the last two to arrive at their table, which was already occupied by Professor Slughorn and his guest, Wilbert Slinkhard. Professor Vector and her husband, a serious-looking wizard in deep blue robes, were also seated at the table. Preliminary introductions and brief expressions of surprise and pleasure were made, but no further opportunity for enquiries were possible as the Headmaster, at that moment, climbed up a convenient set of wooden steps to enable him to reach the podium. He asked the room for silence and began his welcome speech.

'What do you see in him?' Snape murmured into Hermione's ear.

'Who? Flitwick?'

'Don't be obtuse. They will want to know what could possibly have tempted you to a man who is viewed by most as sinister at best.'

'Oh!'

She picked up her goblet of wine and took a sip before making her reply. 'He makes me laugh,' she said, giving him a sly look before once again appearing to be absorbed in the Headmaster's speech. 'He understands my love of books and my preference for solitude. He understands it because he shares it.' She stopped and clapped along with everyone else at some reference Flitwick had made to the sacrifices made during the war. Then she leaned over and spoke quietly again into his ear. 'No one would disagree that it is easier to see him as the villain of the piece. He has a cruel tongue and an unforgiving nature.'

Her lips brushed his lobe, her breath was warm and enticing, and her words were confounding. 'He doesn't pretend to be nice,' she continued. 'He doesn't pretend to be a hero, even though I know he is. We all know he is.'

Snape tried to focus all his attention on the Headmaster, but every nerve ending was concentrating on the woman whispering her apparent admiration for him in his ear.

'He is the best kind of hero,' she continued, once she had paused for a sip from her glass and a smile of approval at whatever it was Flitwick was saying, ' because he never expected recognition, that wasn't his motivation. He did it for the best of reasons: he did it out of remorse, not for glory or reward.'

He stared diligently towards the front of the Hall, seemingly gripped by the welcome speech. He was far more aware, however, that his partner had just placed her hand gently on top of his own; a futile gesture of affection, in his opinion, since no one could see it under the table.

'And if that doesn't earn him the respect of us all, I don't know what does,' she murmured, almost to herself.

Snape was momentarily stuck for an appropriate answer. He could not afford to succumb to the allure of Granger's pretence, no matter how much his soul yearned to hear it. He turned his attention to the Headmaster's gratitude that so many had been able to attend the ball this year. More polite clapping around the room conceded to his sentiments.

'You seem to have given it some thought,' he replied, recovering himself.

'Yes.' Hermione turned to give him a dazzling smile.

'I suppose if you said it with enough conviction, there would be some willing to believe in your ingenuous delusion.'

Hermione laughed at the joke Flitwick had just made at the expense of the Ministry before turning her attention back to her partner. 'Perhaps you're the delusional one, Severus,' she said.

There was no opportunity to reply, even if something suitably sardonic had come to mind. The Headmaster ended his speech by inviting everyone to tuck in, and the table was suddenly groaning under the weight of platters of dressed salmon, carved turkey, ham and beef. Dishes of piping hot roast potatoes and the largest selection of vegetables that Snape had seen since he had last eaten at Hogwarts over ten years ago, adorned the table, the signal for the commencement of the feast.

***

The occupants of the table, along with the rest of the Hall, erupted into lively conversation as the feast began. Slughorn and Snape soon became embroiled in some potions-related matter, and Hermione was left to answer Professor Vector's curious enquiries regarding her former Potions professor and their relationship. Her questions went very much in accordance with Snape's speculation; she wanted to know how they had met, how they became involved, why they became involved. Hermione was surprised, however, when Professor Vector seemed to receive all her answers with little astonishment, but with what instead seemed to be approval. Hermione had expected condemnation and a certain amount of hostility from his ex-colleagues as well as her own current and former friends. She considered that perhaps Professor Vector had a more accepting nature than most and was unlikely to be representative of everyone else's views.

A lull in conversation brought Hermione and Snape's attention momentarily back to each other.

'Professor Vector seems happy for us,' Hermione said softly.

'Indeed?' Snape replied. 'She grilled you on the whys and wherefores?'

'Yes. Precisely as you supposed. She didn't seem at all surprised.'

'You gave her the hero speech?'

'I almost had to lend her my hanky,' Hermione replied.

'She didn't want to know about the obvious physical obstacles?'

'I don't follow.'

'We are hardly a match made in heaven.'

Hermione was humiliated by Snape's inference that she possessed some physical characteristic which was unappealing enough to expect people to actually comment. She wondered what exactly it was that he objected to and couldn't prevent her mind from wandering back to the conversation she had had with his mirror, who had accused her of plainness and lack of effort. She had never harboured any pretensions to beauty or charm, but being unfavourably compared to a paid tart had been hurtful, nevertheless. Then there was the only other female in his life: the Goddess amongst women, the pinnacle of femininity, the witch who resided at the very top of Snape's pedestal. Hermione had once seen a photograph of Harry's mother. With her beautiful emerald green eyes and her auburn hair, hanging down to her waist, Lily Evans must have seemed like the Lady of Shalott herself to young Severus Snape. Hermione thought of her own plain brown mess, tamed tonight only by the skill of a hair stylist. Her own hair, she had to concede, had always been an object of irritation, ridicule and mirth, yet she had never quite been able to bring herself to have it cut. If Samson's hair was the representation of his strength, then Hermione's was her identity. Without it, she couldn't say who she was: she had always been the bushy-haired know-it-all.

Severus Snape was a man with standards, or so it seemed. He may not be the possessor of good looks or considerable attractions himself, but he evidently prized beauty above all things in others. She turned to glare at him, stung by the implications this revelation had on her own self-esteem. 'You always hated my hair, didn't you?' she snapped. 'I suppose it does have a life of its own, and I know it can be very irritating to be around, but honestly, I do think it rather shallow of you to hold my hair against me – it's only hair, it has nothing to do with the person I am underneath ... '

'Granger! You can't possibly imagine I was referring to you?' said Snape, incredulity matching the amusement in his eyes.

'Oh!' She turned a shade pink at the realisation of his statement. 'You mean yourself?'

'Obviously!'

Hermione snorted with relief as she took a bite from a glazed carrot, dangling on the end of her fork. Snape's attention was stolen once again by Slughorn, while Hermione and Mr. Vector discussed Muggle Christmas traditions versus wizarding ones until coffee was served and the feast was over.

On Flitwick's command, the guests stood as one. With a flourish of his wand, tables glided gracefully to the edges of the room, revealing a raised platform as a stage at the far end and a large expanse of empty marble floor in readiness for musicians and dancing, respectively.

Slughorn managed to scoop some Ministry official, apparently out of thin air in order to introduce Snape to the first of many "people of influence" present that evening, leaving Hermione free to wander off in search of a friendly face. She found Ron and Harry on their way back from the punch bowl with drinks for Lavender and Ginny.

'I told you he'd turn up,' Harry said, grinning. 'Want one?' He offered her a short fat glass filled with some ruby-coloured slop containing several pieces of soggy fruit which floated forlornly on the surface. Hermione shook her head and eyed Ron warily. She anticipated the worst reaction of all from him – at the very least some adolescent explosion in response to the revelation that Snape was her date. She supposed it might have been easier if she had explained everything beforehand, but the opportunity had simply not arisen. She and Ron still maintained their friendship, though it was based on acknowledgment of what once was, rather than anything they now shared. With Harry it was different; their friendship, having never been tested by experiments with romance, had flourished and continued as it ever was. Yet, regardless of whatever difficulties she and Ron had overcome, Hermione could not bear for him to feel either pity for her or revulsion at the choices she had made. She was startled, therefore, when he smiled back at her with what seemed to be a reassuring gleam in his eye.

'If you're expecting the same reaction you got at the last ball we went to, you'll have a long wait,' he said.

'I was expecting worse,' Hermione replied. 'Victor Krum was bad enough but ...'

'... The greasy git is even worse,' he finished for her.

'Yeah! Well, at one time maybe, but ... we've all been through too much.'

'What have you done with Ronald, Harry?' Hermione replied. Ron's apparent unequivocal acceptance was bewildering, but she was relieved nevertheless. 'Is he Confunded?'

Harry smiled and shook his head. 'He can be quite reasonable sometimes,' he said.

'Cheers, mate,' Ron quipped. 'Seriously Hermione, you, of all of us, have never failed to make the right decision. If you think he's worth spending time with ... I mean, as long as you don't invite me and Lavender round for dinner.'

Hermione beamed at her two friends and threw an arm around each of them. 'If we were ever to entertain, you two would definitely be invited,' she said. 'But as this whole thing is just a ruse, you can relax; there will be no "evenings with Severus and Hermione"; we are not an item. We're just friends ... kind of. I don't know what we are, actually.'

'Well, I'm officially lost,' said Ron.

'Oh! It was my idea.' Hermione unhanded the two of them and apologised to Harry for the punch spillage which her affectionate gesture had caused. She pulled out her wand and aimed it at the burgundy stain on his bright white shirt. 'Tergeo! I thought it would be better for him to make contacts and appear as a more reliable business prospect if he were part of a conventional couple,' she explained. 'You know, because everyone sees him as some weird hermit. I thought if he were seen in a different light – with a woman – people of influence would think of him as a standard of normality, rather than a strange recluse to be avoided at all costs. He's been on his own for so long now ...'

Harry and Ron exchanged dubious looks.

'Well, you look like a proper couple to me,' said Ron. 'If it's fake, you're both bloody good at pretending.'

'Just don't let on to anyone else. Please?' Hermione replied.

'Yeah, okay! If you say so. Uh oh! The bat ... sorry, I mean, your boyfriend's on his way over. Catch you later, Hermione. He might be all right, but I'd still rather not have to make small talk with him.' Ron bent down to whisper in Hermione's ear. 'By the way you look amazing tonight. He's a lucky greasy git, fake or not.'

Snape approached Hermione and stood by her side, watching Harry and Ron disappearing into the crowd with the speed of a pair of Seekers after a Snitch.

'Was it something I said?' he drawled.

'More like everything you have ever said.' Hermione smiled at him and took hold of his arm in hers.

'I take it you regaled them with the truth of our situation?'

'I did. But, they were more stunned by the idea of it being a con than the idea of it being real! They didn't seem to have a problem with the "obvious physical obstacles" and quite frankly, I have to say, I find the idea ridiculous myself. I'm not conventionally pretty; you are not conventionally handsome. So far we are matched. And by the way, you look rather, erm ... good tonight.'

She knew she was blushing, but hoped the dim lighting would hide her crimson cheeks. She covered up her embarrassment by filling the would-be profound silence with more profusions of why she considered his statement absurd. 'Tall, dark and mysterious works very well for you.' She ignored the two raised eyebrows that followed her statement. 'Plus, your voice is very, erm ... appealing. And your eyes are rather ... I suppose I'd call them unusual.'

'Unusual?' Snape repeated. He had the look of a man caught in the glare of a cobra: fascinated, compelled and fearful all at the same time.

'Yes. Sometimes when you look at me ...' She stopped, suddenly aware of the surreal turn of their conversation. She was about to reveal that she viewed her former teacher as a man who was capable of inciting appreciation, and not merely as a result of knowing that he hadn't turned out to be a bad-guy after all. The realisation was creating an altogether different physical reaction: her face was on fire, her pulse galloped, and she felt slightly nauseous. There was, however, no way of un-saying what she had just begun to say.

'Go on,' he said, giving her the very look she was attempting to describe.

'Well, it's quite ...' She suddenly became fascinated with the clasp on her silver bracelet. '... intimate. More of touch, almost, than a look.' She risked a side-long glance and wished she hadn't; the intensity of his gaze had increased, if anything, but she detected amusement behind the severity of the stare. 'And at other times,' she continued, 'you look at me, and it's as if I'm not even there, or you're not. You go blank, but that only makes the other times more ... stirring.'

Snape appeared to have been shocked into silence; a silence which threatened to turn an uncomfortable pause into a humiliating duration. Hermione desperately rifled her depleted stores of awkward moment fillers. She contemplated opening up a discussion on the weather, but dismissed it as too dull. She thought about asking him how it felt to be back at Hogwarts, but rejected that as insensitive. Only the deepest agitation, and a wish for an end to the unease, drove her to ask him to reciprocate.

'Of course, you may very well be asked the same question,' she said. They walked arm in arm away from the dance floor, towards a less crowded area and found a clear space to stand and watch the dancers and other guests. They stood by a table piled high with golden goblets, perfectly arranged in a pyramid, magically charmed to cascade like a waterfall, filling the goblets with wine the colour of blackberries as it flowed. They each took a glass from the bottom of the ornate presentation, but rather than teeter and fall, the glasses were immediately replaced, restoring balance to the display.

'I seriously doubt that question will come up, Granger,' he replied.

'Hermione. Who calls their girlfriend by her last name?'

He ignored her request. 'And I have no doubt that not a soul will question me on my choice of partner.'

'You can't possibly be sure of that. Draco might. He's here with someone. What if he wants to know?' Hermione persisted.

'What Draco Malfoy does or does not think is of no concern to me; he needs to worry about his own questionable reputation.'

'Someone else then.'

Snape sighed. 'Very well, if, in the unlikely event that someone wants to know what on earth I am doing wasting my charms and virtues on an impressionable witch, I will tell them it was either you or the Flesh-Eating Hag from Wakefield, and you have your own teeth.'

Hermione giggled and slapped his arm in mock annoyance.

'Git.'

'Know-it-all.'

You can't think of a single reason? Not even in the spirit of "what if"?'

'On the contrary, there are many.'

'Name one.' She raised a hand to Luna, who was on the dance floor doing a very strange version of a waltz with a wizard Hermione didn't recognise.

'Don't rush me,' he said, appearing to concentrate very hard. 'I'm sure I can think of some thing.' He tapped a long forefinger rhythmically against his thin lips and made several noises which sounded like 'Hmmm.'

'Think quickly or I'll tell everyone your nickname for me is ... Mimi,' she retorted, raising her goblet to her lips and quirking an eyebrow at him.

'You wouldn't dare.'

'Try me.'

'Granger, I always wondered why you weren't sorted into Ravenclaw; now I see it is Slytherin who was cheated,' he replied.

'Is that the compliment?'

She had no opportunity to hear his reply as the moment was lost to the first interruption of the evening.

'I hope I'm not intruding on a private conversation,' said the Deputy Headmistress, whose approach had been unseen by Snape and Hermione.

They both answered at once. 'Of course not! Not at all!'

'I just wanted to thank you for coming, Severus.' Professor McGonagall continued. 'I have hoped to see you every year. There are things, you see, which need to be said.'

'Minerva ...' Snape began.

'I know it is presumptuous of me to expect you to listen, but I only ask for five minutes, Severus.' Professor McGonagall sounded uncharacteristically ill at ease, but her determination and sincerity were obvious.

'If it is past grievances you wish to discuss, I can assure you, Minerva, that no discussion is necessary,' Snape replied.

'Perhaps not, but would you deny an old woman five minutes?' she replied. Professor McGonagall seemed to relax a touch when he gave his assent with a curt nod. 'Hermione, I apologise for stealing him away from you, I'll be as brief as possible.'

Hermione watched in astonishment and disappointment as Professor McGonagall and Snape walked towards the doors which led to the entrance hall for their private tête-à-tête.

***

The next hour dragged on relentlessly for Hermione as she had no further opportunity to return to her partner. Snape's attention was required by everyone, or so it seemed. She saw him in conversation with several wizards she was unable to identify as Neville whirled her around the dance floor with an enthusiasm she could not match. She and Snape made eye contact briefly at the end of her waltz with Neville, but Snape and the wizard he was in discussion with seemed too engrossed to give Hermione an opportunity to join in. She did, however, manage to murmur in his ear a reminder that he owed her a compliment. 'I'm still waiting, Severus.'

Snape found the opportunity to reply some minutes later as she stood at one of the drinks tables. He disengaged himself from a stout, balding wizard long enough to mutter in Hermione's ear, 'You were right, Granger. Damocles and I were just discussing the properties of Wolfsbane Potion, which I'm sure you are aware he discovered, when he changed the subject from the correct brewing temperature of the second stage of the process, in order to ask what in Merlin's name I'm doing wasting my time with the young witch with whom everyone seems to want to dance. I told him that my book collection was in need of reorganising and I couldn't afford a librarian.'

'I take back the hero stuff,' she retorted.

Her amusement was short-lived, however, as the aforementioned Damocles, famous inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion, interrupted their banter by reappearing at Snape's side with yet more enlightening reflections on the minutiae of the brewing process. Hermione excused herself once the conversation reached a point which highlighted her own neglect of the subject. She walked away, wishing she had thought to bring a copy of Advanced Potion Making with her, and vowing to seek it out as soon as she returned home.

She accepted Percy Weasley's invitation to sit beside him while he apprised her with latest Ministry policies and procedures. She barely heard his animated description of the part he had played in the new Muggle-born Discrimination Act; she was too distracted by the sight of Snape standing at the other side of the room in deep conversation with an attractive witch in elegant, emerald green robes with whom he had just been dancing.

'Who's that with Severus, Percy?' asked Hermione, rudely interrupting his flow.

'Ava Hetherington ... and it is now unlawful, unlawful mind, to discriminate on the grounds of blood status.'

'Who is Ava Hetherington?'

'Some Daily Prophet reporter, I think ... so discrimination is now a punishable offence, not simply an undesirable one.'

'Oh, really? That's nice.'

'Hermione, are you listening to me? I thought you, at least, would be interested in laws to prevent intolerance and prejudice.'

'Oh! I'm sorry, Percy. I am interested, really interested,' she replied. 'Would you excuse me though? There's someone I have to ... sorry, Percy.'

She had noticed Snape standing alone for a moment and could not let the opportunity pass. If she didn't get to him quickly, some other person of note was bound to steal him away from her again, and she had no intention of allowing that to happen. She had spent most of the evening watching the wizard, whom she knew to be cold, distant and silent, in animated conversation with the "Who's Who" of wizarding society. It seemed that the man once shunned, despised and feared was now at the very top of everyone's "must be seen with" list.

Hermione was overjoyed for him; proud of his seemingly successful return to the magical world he had spurned for so long. At least, they were the feelings she knew she should be experiencing. If she was truly the friend she had intended to be for him, pleasure and delight should be radiating from her very toes and fingers. Instead of which, she was aching with a sensation she hadn't experienced since Lavender Brown first threw herself at Ron in their sixth year. Every time she watched Snape's growing ease, she felt her own tentative connection to him fading just a little more. Why should he now care about her need to hear his forgiveness; her wish to make reparation for her negligence ten years previously? She had approached him in that Muggle wine bar with some vague belief that he was in need of a fairy-godmother: some benevolent entity who could walk into his life and soothe away his ills with a kind word and a cheery smile. How could she have been so deluded? He was essential to her; it had never been the other way around. The only company he had ever really needed was the sort that could be procured for a fee. She had learned from his bathroom mirror that he made full use of the services available to wizards with the means to pay for them. How could it be that she felt less desolate at the idea of him with his hired whores, than she did as she helplessly observed his triumphant homecoming? He would never need her now; he was no longer the Death Eater-turned-spy, the hated murderer or the brutish teacher without mercy or compassion. He was the returning hero, the brilliant Potioneer – and God help her, but his nose didn't even look so much like a grotesque beak anymore. He was a catch, and someone else was bound to snare him soon.

***