Chapter Nine

Chapter 9

Snape was standing in the wake of one of at least two dozen frost-covered Christmas trees. The tall firs edged the walls of the Great Hall, adding to the illusion of nature's intrusion already created by the magical ceiling – now dark, starless and filled with heavy clouds ready to burst and turn the world white. The slender figure of Hermione Granger appeared between himself and a backdrop of music, dancing and chatter. He watched her approach from his new-found sanctuary and found it impossible to equate the elegant, silk-draped woman heading his way with the book-laden, hand-waving girl he had once found only an irritating object of derision.

He was very much enjoying the momentary respite from the unexpected attention he had been receiving all evening. He had anticipated icy politeness and gracious indifference from the wizarding elite, instead of which he had been practically welcomed back as a much missed member of the magical world. His reception had been nothing less than astonishing: he had been sought after, introduced to notable witches and wizards, prominent officials and fellow experts in the field of Potions research. There had certainly been no need to feign a relationship in order to induce interest, although he would never admit as much to Hermione. Their pretence had been something of a revelation to Snape: not only was their supposed romantic involvement accepted and approved of, it was seemingly an event which was looked upon as worthy of congratulations and good wishes.

He had spent almost as much time throughout the evening assuring curious enquirers that there were absolutely no plans to tie the knot just yet, and just as long wishing to be left alone so that he could actually spend some time with his "heavenly vision in silk" as Slughorn had described her. The whole evening was having a strange intoxicating effect on Snape: his warm reception, the familiar ostentatious surroundings, fine wine, plentiful food and the entire room believing the witch on his arm to be his own doting, beautiful angel. As long as he remembered that the "doting" part was a temporary, one-night only arrangement, he might leave Hogwarts this evening in the realisation that this could now count among one of his four most satisfactory days to date.

Snape's one of four seemed about to turn sour, however, as Hermione, having made her way over, now stood before him wearing an expression which was remarkably similar to the one he had seen when she had marched into his hallway, uninvited and dripping wet, all those weeks ago.

'I'd like to dance, please!' she said by way of a greeting. Her voice shook with the effort of maintaining her composure.

'I believe we discussed this,' he replied, unsure of the motivation behind her anger.

'You said you don't dance! You do dance; you just danced with Ava Whatshername. And if you can dance with her, you can bloody well dance with me!'

'Would you mind explaining your petulant behaviour?' Snape asked.

'You told me you wouldn't dance, yet as soon as some witch in a dress that leaves nothing to the imagination shows an interest, you can't wait to throw her around the dance floor. How do you think that makes me look?'

'I can assure you my motives were business related. Ava Hetherington is the deputy editor of...'

'Yes! I know who she is!'

'And I have danced with one woman all evening, whereas you have barely left the dance floor.'

'Well, what else am I to do when you're off schmoozing all evening?' Hermione replied heatedly.

'Making influential contacts was rather the point of this evening and our little ruse if you recall. You are forgetting yourself, Granger. This is not a pleasure trip; we are here for a purpose: my purpose. If I decide to dance a foxtrot with Aurora Sinistra, a tango with Madame Pomfrey and the quick-step with Professor Trelawney, I need neither your permission nor your approval to do it.'

The impulse to add that he would infinitely prefer to manoeuvre around the dance floor with Granger in his arms than any other living soul surprised him, but he had no trouble suppressing that particular troublesome thought; it would not do to incite her antipathy once she discovered his weakness for her. He had imagined her in his arms often enough these last few months, although his imagination had compelled her to do far more intimate acts than dancing. When the fantasies had first begun to prevent sleep from descending, he had made some attempts to refuse them access to his mind. There could be no place for Hermione Granger in the part of his head that enjoyed the heat and touch of a willing, lust-filled woman. She did not belong in the depraved corners of his mind. She was his former student and practically half his age; for the majority of the time he had known her, she had been merely a girl. How could he possibly be having lewd thoughts about a woman who was once a child in his care?

He had tried desperately to rely on his old favourites to keep Hermione out. The witch who sold him potions ingredients at the Apothecary could surely be relied upon to replace thoughts of Granger. Madam Fouracre was an attractive enough witch, and Snape's imagination regularly found the two of them closing up shop early on a Saturday afternoon while she showed him her full range of rare and exceptional goods. Make-believe Madame Fouracre was a filthy little witch who could always be relied upon to drive away any chaste thoughts, should they dare to intrude on his pleasure. Their Saturday afternoons of lust and debauchery usually, and satisfyingly, ended by the shapely witch (now divested of her robes), bending over the shop counter and shouting out her pleasure while raking her long, red manicured fingernails down his sweat-soaked back. He rarely even bothered to cast an imaginary Muffliato, in the trust that all of Diagon Alley would hear his name leaving her lips in a frenzy of ecstasy, along with half a dozen expletives and a fervent plea that he must not stop on any account.

Unfortunately, more often than not of late, Granger had been the witch who greeted him with a coquettish smile and a flirtatious wink when he entered the make-believe Apothecary, demanding to know when his make-believe order for Boomslang Skin would be arriving. Granger was the witch who replied to his serious request by slowly unbuttoning the make-believe buttons of her tight red blouse, which was uncannily like the one she had worn in that Muggle wine bar three months ago. It was Granger who would sashay around the counter, point her wand at the door to lock it, then proceed to perform the most tantalisingly slow, arousal-inducing make-believe strip-tease his imagination could conjure. And it was Granger's warm brown eyes searing into his, once she had made her way down his naked torso: an unhurried, exquisite descent with lips, tongue and hot breath until she reached a very real aching erection.

His success in dispelling her from the part of his mind reserved for gratuitous acts of a very pleasurable nature, had, so far, been unsuccessful. He was very well aware that he was guilty of over-compensating for his nightly romps with Granger by ensuring her distance with an aloofness only he was capable of, but tonight he had been allowing himself just a glimmer of hope. The faintest possibility had been tugging at his shirt-tails all evening. He had observed her behaviour towards him, and even allowing for the fact that she was playing the role of devoted girlfriend, he had to conclude that she was throwing herself into the part with more zeal than was strictly necessary.

Hermione's face betrayed a deep red flush of anger as she opened her mouth to speak.

'Then go and make influential contacts, Professor. Dance the bloody cha-cha-cha with the Minister for Small Business Enterprises if that gets you what you want. I'll see myself home.' With a flourish of escaped curls and the hiss of silk robes, she spun around and left an astonished Severus Snape to contemplate his next move.

He watched her retreat until she was consumed by the crowd. He struggled with the instinct to chase after her, prevent her from leaving, offer his apologies and hope for her compliance. Her behaviour was beyond comprehension. These were the words and actions of a jealous lover, not a reluctant former student with a guilt-fixation.

How was he supposed to even begin to interpret the complexities of her mind? He considered the possibility that in her eagerness to atone for what she believed to be her terrible mistake, she had begun to confuse the idea of penance with affection. He knew what it was to have regret gnaw away all genuine feelings of love, admiration, friendship and romance. Remorse had been his own burden; it had hung about his neck like Coleridge's albatross for almost all of his adult life.

Hermione Granger had wrought havoc on his safe haven of an existence during the past three months. She had brought discord where there was harmony, disquiet where there was calm, and yet, more significantly, light where there was none. The prospect of returning to life without her was now no longer a question of something he would bear and eventually recover from. He did not want to recover; he did not want her gone. But to have a woman in his life who was there only because of her own naive confusion, there as a result of misunderstandings, unrest and delusion, was no better than ensnaring her with a Love Potion. Under such circumstances, she would never really be his. Despite the prospect of losing the only being to show him any real affection, he could no longer let this charade continue. Things had escalated much further than he had ever intended. She must not be allowed to leave without understanding the truth. He made his excuses to the Headmaster, who had just approached him with a request to introduce him to yet another "fellow-enthusiast", and made his way to the Entrance Hall.

***

Hermione had reached the castle gates by the time Snape had caught up with her. In her eagerness to leave, she hadn't even bothered to summon her travelling cloak.

'It doesn't do my already dubious image any favours if my partner runs away,' he said as he approached her. 'What are you doing out here in the cold without a cloak?'

Her wand was out and pointing at the enormous metal chains which coiled around the iron gates. She reeled around suddenly at the sound of the unexpected voice and cast a hasty Lumos charm.

She threw him a glare. 'My partner won't dance with me,' she said, 'and I can't seem to tear him away from his adoring public.' The first delicate flecks of snow were beginning to descend, falling on head and shoulders, only to evaporate at the merest suggestion of warmth. Snape noticed Hermione's shiver against the biting touch of the cold night air and unbuttoned his jacket deftly; shrugging it from his own shoulders, he placed it around hers.

'My actions tonight have been nothing more than attempts to secure my prospects, as we both agreed.' He was pleased to note that, despite her grievance and attempts to make a dramatic exit, she still accepted his chivalrous act of exchanging his comfort for hers. He watched with jealous eyes as she nuzzled her cheek against the velvet collar of his jacket, and drew the sides tightly around herself.

'You disappeared with Professor McGonagall. How could she assist you with your endeavours?' she asked.

'She had things she wished to say to me privately.'

'So she said,' Hermione replied. 'What things?'

'She felt she needed to apologise.'

'For what?'

He paused, reluctant to divulge the contents of his conversation with Professor McGonagall. 'For her behaviour towards me during my tenure as Headmaster. She was, shall we say, disruptive.'

Hermione laughed. 'I bet she was! But how was she supposed to know you were working for Dumbledore? How else should she have acted under the circumstances?'

'As I explained,' Snape replied.

'So she wanted your forgiveness?'

'I did not see that there was anything to forgive.'

'You were ages with Professor Flitwick too.'

'We had a remarkably similar conversation,' he explained with a deep sigh.

'And Arthur Weasley?' she asked. 'What was he burdened with?'

Snape hesitated and considered reminding her coolly that his private conversations with the rank and file of wizarding society were none of her business. But he had not rushed out into a freezing cold December evening like some lovesick romantic to antagonise her at the first hurdle. He chose, for once, to indulge her instead. 'He too was remorseful for having thought me a murderer and a betrayer. He also wanted to thank me for the part I played in preventing his son's demise. Apparently, he felt the loss of an ear to be a small price to pay.'

'So... you forgave him as well?' she asked.

'He seemed to need me to say it, though I hardly saw the need.'

Hermione shivered, despite the extra layer.

'Then you have been busy forgiving everyone? Everyone except me. Apparently I'm the only one whose behaviour was too reprehensible to expect it. Have I still not done enough? Can't you just say the words to me?' she responded. He could hardly stand to see the look of hurt and disappointment in those gentle, pleading eyes.

'To you? No. I will not.' She flinched at the directness of his refusal and turned away from him as if her tears were too shameful for him to see. Her head drooped and her shoulders shook, but she remained silent, seemingly unable to trust herself to make a reply.

He took a step towards her and made to place a hand on her shoulder before recollecting himself and withdrawing his arm at the last moment. 'You remember that I questioned your Sorting?' he said after a moment's pause. 'I don't doubt it any longer; you were well placed. Ravenclaw insight eludes you still in favour of Gryffindor recklessness.'

'Please don't blame my own shortcomings on my House,' she managed to reply, taking a step away from him so that she was now standing beside the castle gates. Snape watched as she gripped the metal bars and stared out into the dark like a hostage contemplating her freedom.

He couldn't help wishing his arms were still encased in the jacket that comforted her without compassion.

'You misunderstand me. I thought you would have worked it out by now,' he said.

'Something else I've missed?' Her laugh was mirthless. 'Well you know me... if it isn't in a book...'

He ignored her reference to his attack on her two months ago. 'You know, I suppose, that after every traumatic event comes the inevitable fall-out of self-examination?'

She shrugged.

'It is often the case,' he continued, 'for those involved, once the intensity of the event is over, to find their survival inexplicable when so many friends, family and colleagues were not so fortunate.'

'If you are talking of "Survivor's Guilt", there is really no need to bother; I'm quite aware of it. It is a well documented Muggle psychological response to a shocking event – a negative reaction based on a mistaken and irrational perception of wrongdoing during the traumatic event. Why do you bring it up?' She turned around to face him, her back now resting against the iron bars of the gate.

'I was not aware of the term, but yes, your definition is, of course, almost word perfect.'

'I haven't been reading up on it if that's what you think,' she replied, half expectant of another insult aimed at her book-reading prowess.

'My point relates to the events of this evening,' he answered.

'You think there are people here experiencing survivor's guilt? Yes, I suppose many are.'

Hermione was aware of the snow, now beginning to fall with more confidence. It settled on Snape's hair and shoulders, yet he hardly seemed to notice the vast approaching arctic conditions, studying her face as he was, with an intensity that was both disconcerting and rather thrilling. 'Perhaps now that you have absolved them from their imagined guilt, they can move on.' Her reply was churlish, but she couldn't banish from her thoughts the idea that she was about to have her terrible wrong-doing dissected and evaluated without mercy.

'It is not of their conduct that we are speaking; it is yours,' Snape replied.

Hermione bowed her head and waited for the assault.

'It is true,' he continued, 'that there are many unable to scrutinize their actions during times of conflict and feel pride at their deeds or misdeeds.'

'I know this,' she replied, interrupting his attempts at explanation. 'You think I don't know? I... '

'Hermione!'

She had often imagined how her name on his lips would sound. And though she had used every grain of imagination she possessed to recreate the exact timbre and intense quality of his voice, the fantasy had fallen short of the reality. It was as though she had never heard it spoken before. The hush of an orchestra to allow the deep, rich note of a cello to soar into the dark could not have sounded more melodic.

She was silenced at once.

'You will let me finish!' he said, betraying a note of exasperation at her interruption.

He paused, and his eyes, usually so guarded, revealed only compassion and sincerity.

'You, however, cannot be counted amongst them.'

She opened her mouth to protest and was silenced with a look.

'Your conduct during the whole was exemplary,' he continued softly. 'If there is anyone who should feel pride for their behaviour, it is you.'

Hermione was unable to answer immediately. Once her mind had processed the unthinkable, impossible notion that Snape, in just a single sentence, had exalted her to the highest cloud in the sky, she was so dumbfounded that brain and mouth refused to work together. It was barely conceivable that, rather than view her as the girl who did not care enough to help him when he needed it most, he perceived in her nothing less than a shining example of the consummate crusader.

'But I left you,' she mumbled.

'I was dead.'

'No!'

'I was dead!' he insisted. 'At least, I was beyond the skill of even the most able of Healers – certainly beyond anything you could have done.'

Hermione shook her head and swallowed the hard lump that was forming in her throat. 'How can that be true? You are here.'

She tensed as Snape walked towards her and reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. He took out his wand and flicked it in no particular direction. She watched his body visibly relax and knew he had just cast a Warming Charm upon himself. He tapped his wand against his palm and seemed to be lost in thought. Hermione was silent as she watched his actions.

'I am here as a result of the tears of the Phoenix,' he finally said.

'Fawkes?'

He nodded. 'The only possible remedy to the injury I received.' He paused again and sighed as if he had made some momentous decision that gave him no pleasure. 'As I was losing consciousness, my thoughts were of ... her ...' He stopped. Even the use of the objective pronoun in place of her name seemed to trigger the need to collect himself. '... Of the hope that I had done enough for Potter to do what he must. Then I thought of Dumbledore and his sacrifice ... it was those thoughts that earned me the loyalty of Fawkes.'

'Then it was your own loyalty that saved you,' said Hermione.

'Perhaps.'

'I should have stayed with you.'

'You had work to do. A Dark Lord to defeat.'

There were so many emotions to deal with at once. The revelation that perhaps she could now count herself as absolved from blame was not an easy concept to process. She felt relief, excitement, and a sense that freedom from this burden was hers for the taking if she could only bring herself to believe him. But there lay the conflict: she was eternally grateful that far from forgiving her, he had never blamed her from the start; nevertheless, she knew that forgiving herself would be a longer procedure. There were many restless nights yet to be spent debating the subject of her own absolution, but at least she now had the chance to begin.

'If all you say is true, then why leave it until now to tell me?'

'Because it was not my clemency that you were in need of, it was your own. I hoped you would come to realise it without the need for my intervention,' he said.

Hermione stared at him. 'How was I supposed to do that?'

Snape gave her a look that seemed to wonder at her inability to see what should have been obvious.

'Exposure,' he said.

She returned his look with a mixture of exasperation and genuine curiosity.

'Exposure to the object of your supposed guilt,' he continued. 'Distance can increase the intensity of an emotion.'

'I don't see how,' she replied, determined to absorb everything he had to say for fear of this uncharacteristic candour being some once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

'Haven't you heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder?' he asked. 'The same can be applied to any strong feelings: hatred, anger, jealousy, guilt ... love. All increase if the subject is no longer visible and no longer able to act as an influence to assuage those emotions by their actions.'

'But surely no one can feel anger indefinitely; not without reason. Over the years if there is nothing to fuel it, it becomes less intense, until there is little left of the original emotion.'

He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. 'On the contrary, without the presence of the person we feel anger towards, the emotion festers and multiplies because their absence gives them no chance to prove themselves otherwise.'

Hermione did not need to ask if this was how his love for Lily had survived for so long without an object to give it sustenance or encouragement. What was now so stark and manifest had never before occurred to her: Severus was a man of unwavering sentiments. Once his sensibilities had been stirred, he was resolute to the point of fanatical.

'I don't suppose "out of sight, out of mind" is a concept that troubles you much then?' she retorted. 'Your theory sets me up for life as a bookish over-eager child who gives you nothing but grief, asks too many questions and tries too hard to be accepted.'

'And then you returned as a woman: a woman who carried an unnecessary burden, a woman barely recognisable, with her enthusiasm and boundless energy all but gone, yet still wearing her principles like a protective shield.'

Hermione couldn't quite determine why it was that her stomach lurched excitedly just because he had referred to her as a woman. It seemed as if he were elevating her to the status of grown-up, which despite their faux-kiss earlier in the evening, she had never really felt. In his company she was awkward and self-conscious, and she had no idea whether to blame it on their former relationship or her current feelings. There existed a new level of awareness now, however. Now she knew that he had never viewed her as the unfeeling monster at the beck and call of Harry Potter. And if he had never considered her in need of atonement, then why would he willingly suggest spending so much time together just so she could "make amends"? And why did he put such an abrupt end to their encounters without giving an adequate explanation? A possibility niggled at the back of her head. She dared to consider the idea that he actually liked her company. Perhaps even more than that: was it possible that he felt something for her too?

Hermione felt far removed from the Muggle teacher with a cross to bear as she stood before her former professor dressed like a princess, armed with a newfound freedom from remorse and immersed in hope. She felt as if anything could be possible tonight. Severus Snape had kissed her; it had felt unfeigned, and she was starting to believe that it had been as significant for him as it had been for her.

'My principles have always been my guide,' she answered.

'Or your crutch.'

'It doesn't matter which; they have kept me from becoming ... lost.' She flinched at her own melodramatic confession.

Snape shook his head. He appeared to have a great deal more to say on the subject, but for whatever reason, he chose not to pursue it.

'We will be missed,' he said instead, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the castle. 'We both disappeared without explanation.'

'They'll probably think we couldn't wait to find some cosy corner to sneak off to,' said Hermione. 'In case you hadn't noticed, everyone seems absolutely fine with the two of us as a couple, despite your fears that we would be condemned as a pair of oddities.'

'I am happy to be proved wrong,' he said.

Hermione's smile was as hesitant as her composure as she shuffled her feet, stared at the glistening white path beneath them and cleared her throat. She hoped that the suggestion she was about to make would sound like some blasé idea which had only just popped into her head. 'Since everyone thinks we are together anyway, perhaps... '

He gave her an incredulous look. 'Perhaps what?'

'Well, would it be so bad?'

Snape's snort was hardly surprising, but it was not the reaction she had hoped for. 'What is it you are proposing, Granger? Friendship? A working partnership? Marriage? I should perhaps inform you that I am not looking for a bosom buddy, I don't need a business partner, and you and I as a romantic prospect is absurd.'

'I don't see you as a friend either as a matter of fact,' she replied heatedly. 'And you may recall that I have a job that I'm perfectly happy with. As for marriage... I hardly think so.'

She stopped and shivered, pulling his coat closely around her. The wintry conditions seemed to be having a numbing effect on her brain as well as her finger tips. It seemed that the two of them had reached a point whereby the only course to follow was no longer one of pretence and dread of rejection. Hermione could not endure another moment of uncertainty. He would hear her out, and to hell with the risk of humiliation. 'Why not a romantic prospect? It's not such a bad idea.'

'Granger! Didn't you hear a single word I have just said? You are guiltless, no longer bound to me. Yet still you are confusing remorse with affection?' he said, a touch of his former impatience revealing itself in his reply. 'Time to move on. I'm certain the Ministry will be more than willing to welcome back their protégée. You will find some fresh-faced, Ministerial over-achiever, no doubt, to sweep you off your feet.'

'Percy is taken,' she retorted.

'There are always more Weasleys.'

'I tried a Weasley; they're not for me!'

'Then try elsewhere,' he answered with annoyance. 'You will soon come to realise what a great mistake you almost made tonight.'

'Don't you dare say that!' Hermione replied. 'I am perfectly capable of understanding my own feelings.'

'Feelings?' he dared to repeat the word with a sneer in his tone.

'Feelings, yes! Oh, fuck!' She took a step towards him. 'I'd like to see a Ravenclaw admit this: I don't want anyone else. I want you, Severus! If you don't feel the same way, well just have the decency to say so instead of using me and my insanity as an excuse to keep me at bay.'

His expression did not alter, his arms remained by his side, but his eyes were alive with conflicting emotion. Hermione took advantage of his silent agitation and laid a hand tentatively on his chest.

'Why?' he said, neither responding nor preventing her action.

'Why?'

'It is a reasonable question. I have never incited affection in anyone before. I have given you no special treatment.' His chest rose and fell heavily beneath his shirt, and she felt his heart pound out a steady rhythm against her hand. 'You yourself have described me as harsh and unforgiving, which I do not deny. You will forgive me, therefore, if I am suspicious.'

Hermione felt as if he had just given her the all-clear to make her pitch. This was her one chance to convince him of the absolute sincerity of her feelings. She had thought about it often enough; she was prepared for this moment – had rehearsed for it mentally for weeks now just in case the moment should ever arise.

'I don't have much experience of love or romance,' she said, withdrawing her hand and rolling the chain of her silver bracelet between finger and thumb. 'There was Viktor Krum when I was fourteen and Ron when I was seventeen. Viktor and I tried again for a time after Ron, but it didn't work out. Since him, I've never been able to feel an interest in anyone else. There have been some opportunities, the occasional date, but nothing of significance.'

She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts, unwilling to allow this moment to pass by without giving it her very best attempt. 'I came to realise that in all that time, the one presence, the one influencing factor in my life, has been you. I have feared you, respected you, craved your approval, hated you, cried for you, and longed for your forgiveness. You have always been there, like some shadowy and foreboding guardian angel, pushing me to do better by your indifference or your contempt, forcing me to use my wits rather than relying on books.

'I have enjoyed your company more than I could have ever imagined possible. I have come to understand your disposition, sour and unaccommodating as it has often been. I like your dark humour and your cynical view of the world.'

I like the way your eyes soften when you think I'm not looking, and the way you try not to smile when I say something amusing. I love the way you hold my wrist so carefully when you cast a magical message onto my palm, and I hate it when you let go. I love your scowl and your smile, rare though that is. When I say goodbye to you at the end of a meeting, I feel bereft of your company within minutes, and I have literally counted down the hours until I see you again. These were the things that couldn't be said out loud. They had seemed possible at four in the morning as the birds were starting to sing, but alone in the dark is a different prospect when feet away from Severus Snape's adrenalin-inducing presence.

'I feel different around you: safe, contented, happy ...' she admitted. Her voice trailed away as she saw the look of astonishment on his face. It was clear that he had never considered the possibility that she had slowly and completely been falling for him for some time now. His dark eyes, however, showed no look of pleasure at her heartfelt admission. His brow furrowed in agitation, and it was all she could do to resist telling him how much she liked that too.

'It doesn't matter,' she said, smiling weakly. 'I know it isn't the same for you.' She sighed heavily as she came to her decision. 'I barely exist, do I?'

The fall of heavy snow seemed unlikely as the flakes lessened in intensity, drifting idly to the floor without a sense of purpose or direction. A thin covering of white lay over every surface, appearing more like a fragile gossamer veil than a thick winter blanket. She shrugged his coat from her shoulders and handed it back to him, oblivious to the abrupt change in temperature which gripped at her bare arms. Hermione's unsuitable little heels barely made an impression on the icy ground as she spun around to make her escape. Her only thoughts were to put as much space as possible between herself and the insensible object of her admiration.

She berated herself for her hopeless belief that he might feel something for her in return. Severus Snape had only ever cared for one woman, and it was not Hermione Granger.

The padlock fell open at her command, and the chains slowly uncoiled, until the gates were free from their restraints. She pushed them forward, acutely aware that the man behind her had still not moved a muscle or uttered a sound. A sense of futility accompanied her as she made to pass through the gates.

'You danced four waltzes.'

His unexpected statement halted her progress.

'You danced the first with Charlie Weasley,' he continued. She caught the slight tremor in his tone which was usually so detached and guarded. 'He held you so tightly I wondered how you were able to breathe, let alone answer all of his constant babble.'

She didn't trust herself to turn around.

He paused before resuming as if he needed to collect himself.

'The second was with Ernie McMillan who was in danger of having his wandering hands hexed into withering stumps, and if he ever comes near you again, I swear I will do it.'

She tried to concentrate on her breathing and willed herself not to speak.

'Longbottom was a great deal more respectful. He held you at arms length and spoke only occasionally.' Snape paused momentarily as if he was waiting for her to reply. When she did not move, he went on.

'You danced the fourth with Potter. He at least was in no danger of a curse. You spoke to Flitwick, Slughorn, Malfoy, Percy Weasley and McClaggen. McClaggen was fool enough to put his arm around you, a liberty for which I intend to see him pay, believe me.'

Hermione's heart hammered, her head ached and her stomach clenched. She was too afraid to turn around in case her sick mind had conjured up this scenario to ease her pain. If she looked at him, he might disappear, or stop, or sneer.

He was still there when she plucked up the courage to face him. And though he had stopped speaking, there was no sneer and no scowl; his expression was as fearful as hers.

'Barely exist, Hermione? You are all that exists.'

It felt as if the moment demanded a fanfare at the very least. Surely a choir of angels should be appearing right about now to give the moment its due reverence? But there was only Hermione Granger, Severus Snape and the air between them, thick with hesitation.

It was the moment of recognition: the moment when one becomes aware that feelings of attraction are reciprocated, as tangible as words scribbled on a piece of parchment – now obvious to both, realisation takes the place of cringing uncertainty. Two outcasts who have shared little more than barbed insults – given by one, tolerated by the other, locked in a moment of mutual understanding. Yet it seemed to be the greatest of all leaps to take the plunge and change their footing from clumsy strangers to intimates.

Neither spoke as they walked back towards the castle. They didn't know what to say or how to say it – silence seemed the safer option. Hermione, having no intention of relinquishing either her status of plucky Gryffindor or object of desire, slipped her hand inside his and smiled to herself as she felt it accepted with a firm pressure.

A/N Only one more chapter to go. Thanks to everyone who has stuck with it so far.