Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Whose? Hers.

* * * *

'I can't tell you.'

'Why not?'

'Because I don't know. He's not telling me.'

'Neville! This is making me extremely anxious. How can I plan an effective defence if I don't know what to anticipate? Can't you... I don't know... find out somehow?'

Neville takes in and lets out a breath. 'Hermione. If you are asking me to spy on Draco, you need to reconsider that request. If Draco and I cannot trust one another, we're lost. He says it's nothing to worry about, and I believe him. That's all.'

'Oh, god, Neville, you're right, of course you're right, and I'm sorry.' She blows a lock of hair out of her eyes and returns her gaze to the front of the room, where her Shakespeare students are rehearsing a scene from Much Ado About Nothing.

Elsewhere in the castle, she knows, others are practising for the talent show, which will take place the night before the Christmas holidays begin. Groups of students from every house are singing, dancing, playing, planning costumes and sets and makeup.

They're doing it together, Muggle-born and pureblood, Slytherin and Gryffindor, first-years and seventh-years and even some staff. There's a sense of excitement in the air, and it's thrilling to her. It's everything she could have hoped for from this project.

If only she knew what Snape and Malfoy were planning. The Headmaster has been alarmingly quiescent. He hasn't picked a single argument with her since the morning after that night. Indeed, they've hardly spoken to each other in weeks. And now he and Malfoy have actually signed up as an act in the talent show.

What could the horrible man be planning?

At the front of the room, Peter Gwynne puts an arm around Charlotte Felton's waist and says, 'Only foul words, and thereupon I will kiss thee.'

Charlotte wrinkles her nose and pushes him away in exaggerated disgust: 'Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome, therefore I will depart unkissed.'

Hermione sighs. 'Miss Felton, a word please.'

The girl walks back to her. 'Charlotte, please try to relax. Remember, she's enjoying this sparring. She actually fancies him.'

'I know, Professor Granger. It's just difficult. I don't fancy Peter and I don't fancy his arm around me.' She tosses her long blond hair and glances up at Gwynne...lanky, gawky, adorable Gwynne...who is waiting patiently.

'That's why it's called "acting," Miss Felton,' she says acidly. 'If playing this role is so onerous to you, I know Miss Greene would be more than happy to step in.'

'I'll try.'

'Good girl. If it helps, try to think of someone you do fancy, perhaps in secret. You are holding back, dancing around him with your words, giving away only the tiniest glimpses of your heart. But those glimpses are tantalising to him, and to the audience.'

'Casting disaster?' asks Neville as the girl rejoins the rest of the cast and resumes the scene.

'Absolute train wreck,' she murmurs, then calls, 'Better! Much better. You look much more, um, comfortable. Don't let it get too flirtatious, though; she's still mostly very hard on him. Keep going.'

To Neville, she says, 'My fault. I loved Gwynne as Benedick, and Felton seemed a good Beatrice...she's pretty and she's clever...but they have no chemistry. He's the kind of boy that will surprise us all someday in some marvellous, unexpected way, and she's the kind of girl that will grow up and marry a banker and call it good.'

She puts both her hands over her face. 'I can't believe I just said that.'

Neville pats her on the back and stands to go. 'Why don't you come by my rooms when you're finished here? It sounds like we're overdue for a chat.'

She raises her face to his and wipes away a tear. 'Yes, please.'

* * *

'Did you kiss him back?'

She groans. 'I did. I can't believe I did. It makes me dizzy every time I think about it.'

'Dizzy in a good way, or dizzy in a bad way?'

'Bad, Neville! Bad! How could kissing that...that...greasy git be good?'

He shrugs. 'Well, speaking as a gay man, I have to concede he's pretty snoggable.'

'What!'

'Not exactly my type, of course, but absolutely. He's, I dunno, joli-laid.'

'Pretty-ugly? What does that mean?'

'It means someone unbeautiful who's still somehow really attractive. He has something of that. I'd imagine he's a good kisser.'

'Good, bad, indifferent...it's not the point! The point is I have a boyfriend and still I kissed that, that, that Snape. And, yes, fine, it was really good, and I wanted to do it again in spite of everything. Three weeks later, I still want to. And this whole thing is making me look at David and think, oh, why don't I feel like that when I kiss him? I mean, he's the man I love, right?'

She's looking at him as though he can answer that question for her, and being Neville, he looks back at her with too-kind eyes and a silence that says what he won't put into words.

'You think maybe I'm just telling myself I love him when maybe I don't anymore? Or maybe I didn't ever, really?'

He says nothing. She feels like slapping his earnest, patient face.

'Well, maybe we're not all made for the kind of love you and Draco have, Neville. I mean, lifelong enemies who turn out to be soul mates? That's not a model most of us can emulate. Maybe love for the rest of us is less about passion and fireworks and yearning and more about trying to make things work in an imperfect world.'

The more she says, the more miserable she becomes. She stops talking and frowns into her teacup.

Finally, Neville says, 'Life is about trying to make things work in an imperfect world. There's no escape from that. If you imagine every problem Draco and I ever had is solved, you're wrong. Really wrong.

'And I'm not comparing you and David to us anyway. David's a nice bloke. He seems to care about you, which bespeaks his excellent taste. It seems like the two of you could make a go of it. But you're the only one who can decide if that is what you want.'

'What about Snape?' she whispers, half to herself.

'Sort David first,' says her friend. 'Snape's relevance now is this: is your kissing him a symptom of what's happening between you and David? Or is it,' and he smiles, 'the beginning of a whole new disease?'

* * *

Filius finds Rolanda on the Quidditch pitch.

'What are you quoting now on the shagging?'

She shakes her head. 'No more odds. It's a pool now. Don't worry, your original bet is still good. But if you want more action, you have to pick a date. Ten to get in, winner takes all.'

'Damn!' he says. 'What d'you still have open?'

She turns to the appropriate page in her notebook. 'December 18, 21, 30. January's wide open from the fifth. So that's good, anyway...looks like you'll make the spread on your first bet.' She smiles at him reassuringly.

'I suppose. Okay. I'll take 18 December.'

She notes it. 'Done. Good luck, Filius.'

* * *

'Merlin, that was fantastic!' Hermione's hands sting from clapping.

Neville's shakes his head in appreciation. 'Who'd think Portia Creevey would be such a sultry crooner? She's going to be getting some unaccustomed attention from now on. And Sybill on piano? I had no idea.'

'Neville!' she turns to him, grabs both his arms. 'This is going so well! I'm so happy!'

'I know. You should be happy, and proud. It's a complete success.'

'Just the one act to go,' she says. 'The mystery act. And, Neville, I don't care! Nothing he could do now could ruin the night. I win!'

There's a lot of movement now at the front of the hall. 'What are those?' she points to a couple of tall black boxes that some of the fifth-years are rolling on to the stage from the wings. 'They look like...'

'Speakers,' says Neville.

'But those are electronic! And look, look! That's an electric bass and an electric guitar! Two electric guitars! And amplifers! Those are microphones!'

Draco walks out from behind the curtain. He's dressed in jeans and black work boots and a faded black t-shirt. The students roar at the sight of him. He smiles and bows and raises his wand. Cables snake around him, hooking up mikes and amps and speakers. Sybill's piano is Transfigured into a bank of electronic keyboards. A chair upstage becomes a drum kit, with 'The Joneses' scrawled on it.

Draco adjusts the central microphone and says, 'Good evening, Hogwarts. Hope you're having a fine time.' Cheers and applause erupt and surge as four more people walk onto the stage.

Sybill, out of her concert black and into her usual shawls and baubles, steps behind the keyboards. A skinny man with black hair and wearing a t-shirt that says 'Metallica' takes up one of the guitars. Aberforth Dumbledore takes the seat behind the drums. And Snape, his white shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up, slings the strap of the bass over his shoulder.

'Check check check,' says Draco into his mike, and the band take it in turn to check their sound levels, with Draco giving 'up,' 'down,' and 'okay' signals to someone offstage.

'Oh. My. God. Neville! How?'

Neville's smiling fondly. 'I don't know. He's just really, really good at Transfiguration.'

Snape raises a finger and the audience lights dim. Spotlights hit the band. And they start playing: a clutch of single guitar chords punctuated by drums, a ripple of bass, then the stranger really starts playing his guitar, Aberforth takes up the beat, and Draco sings:

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour but heaven knows I'm miserable now

His gaze brushes over Neville, and he smirks.

I was looking for a job and then I found a job and heaven knows I'm miserable now

The students are screaming and clapping and now most of them are on their feet, surging towards the stage, carrying Neville and Hermione along with them so that the two of them are just feet away from the band.

She stares up at Snape, whose hair is tenting his face while he concentrates on his instrument. His long, strong hands with their bony wrists are made to play the bass. Who could have guessed?

On the line 'What she asked of me at the end of the day, Caligula would have blushed,' he looks right into her face for a moment and smiles his unsettling smile.

She blushes. Trouble. This is big, big trouble.

They launch right into the second song from the first.

The boy with the thorn in his side, behind the hatred there lies a murderous desire for love

Neville's shining eyes are on Draco, who is dancing around the stage like a teenager. Hermione sways in place beside Neville, occasionally clutching his arm, and lets the loud, shimmering music shake every column of air in her body.

How can they look into my eyes and still they don't believe me

How can they hear me say those words and still they don't believe me

They sound so good. The guitar player is amazing. Aberforth and Snape hold the rhythm like they've been playing together for years. Sybill's mostly done percussion so far; maybe she has more to do later in the set. Draco's brilliant on vocals...Portia Creevey's not the only singer who'll have a fan club after tonight.

And when you want to live, how do you start, where do you go, who do you need to know

Six songs. Two encores. Tears slide down Neville's cheeks during some of the songs. Hermione can hardly take her eyes off Snape throughout the set.

Both band and audience are sweaty and spent by midnight, when a muttering Argus, a happy Poppy, and a yawning Hagrid organise the prefects to get everyone to their dormitories.

'See you at Horace's?' says Neville, on his way backstage.

She smiles weakly and nods.