Four: In which Ron discovers that popularity isn't all it's cracked up to be

Four: In which Ron discovers that popularity isn't all it's cracked up to be

Kingsley really had gone all out with the celebrations. Despite the remaining scaffolding, Hogwarts was looking good. The grounds were immaculate and colourful thanks to Professor Sprout and her team of garden elves, abetted by Grawp, who had cheerfully agreed to pull the massive lawn rollers. Not far from Dumbledore's restored tomb, a dais had been erected and decorated with bunting that fluttered and snapped in the brisk breeze. Flitwick was still fussing with the amplification charms the Ministry had demanded for the presentations when the first guests began to arrive. The chatter of voices swelled to drown out the birdsong as people took their places to watch the Order of Merlin ceremony.

In the pavilion set aside for award recipients, Hermione twitched Ron's collar straight.

"Pack it in, 'Mione," he snapped. "You've already straightened it three times. It's straight."

"You don't get to receive an Order of Merlin, First Class, every day, Ronald. I just want you to look your very best," she replied.

"Well, in that case, I don't know why you couldn't have made more of an effort to look the part yourself," he said, looking askance at her defiantly Muggle floral summer dress and linen jacket. "Mum says ..."

"I've already heard your mum's opinion, thank you." She strode off a few paces and took a deep breath. "Several times. But if there's one thing we fought this war for, it's for Muggle-borns to be fully accepted into wizarding society ..."

"Yes, but ..."

"And I think I look nice," she added, examining her reflection in a mirror thoughtfully provided by the organisers.

"You do, dear," said the mirror. "Those colours really bring out your pretty brown eyes."

"Thank you," said Hermione with dignity. "You see, Ronald? Now, where's Ha–"

"You'll never guess who I've just seen!" Harry burst into the pavilion so abruptly that he had to grab Ron's robes to keep himself upright. Hermione sighed. Ron's collar was crooked again, and she was fairly sure she'd heard something rip.

"Hello, Harry."

"Snape!" he said to their astonished faces.

"Bloody hell!" said Ron predictably.

"Are you sure?" said Hermione. "Snape? Oh, that's brilliant! Where is he? I'd heard rumours he'd survived, but then nobody saw him, so I thought they were just rumours, and, oh Harry! I'm so relieved!"

"Why, Miss Granger?" enquired a voice in disparaging tones they all recognised. "Because my continued existence gets you all off a charge of manslaughter by negligence?"

Staring at the outline of the Potions Master framed against the blazing sunlight beyond the entrance, Hermione blushed crimson.

"It wasn't like that," Harry rushed to say. "You see ..."

"Spare me your excuses, Mr Potter. The only reason I refrain from pressing charges against you three is that I would have to endure days, even weeks, facing you across a court room. I had quite enough of that in class."

"Resurrection hasn't changed you, I see, sir," said Granger, sounding oddly pleased about it.

"I still retain all my faculties, if that's what you mean. Stop gawping, Weasley. And straighten your collar." Snape half-turned to look over his shoulder. "Ah, there you are." He stepped back and held the tent flap open wide.

There was no hope for the closing of Weasley's mouth, nor Potter's, as Snape's guest, ducking gracefully, entered. This was a woman who would never simply come into a room. She entered. Hermione's jaw snapped shut audibly. Three pairs of awestruck eyes travelled from the elegantly varnished toenails peeping through high-heeled sandals, up and up and up past clinging white robes to – here Harry's and Ron's eyes came to a halt – a swelling bosom, a perfect column of white throat, and the most beautiful face ever seen on earth, all crowned with a tumble of glorious auburn hair.

Hermione, who until that moment had been feeling tolerably content with her appearance, drew herself up to her full five foot three and made a stab at a social smile. The woman returned a curve of her luscious lips, putting a hint of a dimple in her cheek, just in the place corresponding to where Hermione could feel a spot developing. There was an awkward pause, during which the urge to fidget made itself known. The silence stretched a little longer. Hermione gave Snape an exasperated stare.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said, extending her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms ... ?"

The hand that took hers in a friendly grasp was large, but slim and graceful, with long, slender fingers and soft, smooth skin.

"Likewise, Miss Granger," the woman replied in a sultry voice that sent shivers through the boys. "I am Aph–"

"Affectionately known as ..." Snape cut in abruptly, repossessing his companion's hand. It was so difficult to imagine Snape being affectionate about anyone that the boys came to their senses and paid attention.

"As ..." He frowned for a second but barely missed a beat. "Jess. Jessica."

"Lapanne," he added. "Jessica Lapanne. The lady responsible for my resumed good health, when others were, shall we say, indifferent to its continuation."

"There was a lot going on ..." Harry was flustered. "We thought you were ..."

"You looked pretty dead to me," Ron said unhelpfully.

"And your diagnostic skills are notable, are they, Mr Weasley?" Snape paused. "Nothing to add, Miss Granger? No excuses?"

Hermione thought back to the vicious argument she'd had with the Aurors, battling against their refusal to search further for Snape when she'd discovered his body missing from the Shack. She drove away the memory of shame and disgust at the sensation of cold, half-congealed blood on her fingers as she searched the Shack for clues. She recalled swallowing her revulsion sufficiently to ask Lucius Malfoy to use his resources to look for his friend.

"What would be the point?" she said.

*

McGonagall had to break out her third-best whisky in order to re-gruntle a Minister most definitely disgruntled by having his ceremony overshadowed. It couldn't really be blamed on the people in question, who had behaved in a thoroughly unexceptional manner throughout, but Kingsley was dead set on blaming them, because otherwise he'd have to blame everyone with eyes to see and a tongue to whisper with. Currently, he was also trying hard to blame Minerva, but after half a bottle of the hard stuff, he wasn't sure which of the three or four Minervas he was seeing was the ringleader, so he was leaning (rather more than metaphorically) towards blaming the Fates.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," said a husky voice in his ear. "They're not very good at taking criticism."

He managed to focus sufficiently to recognise Severus Snape's companion, that Miss Something who was definitely at the bottom of all the ... definitely at the bottom of ... definitely ... Merlin, she was gorgeous. How had Snape done it? Kingsley decided to go to sleep. Minerva gently repossessed her bottle from his slack fingers and left him to snore peacefully in the avocado dip.

"Silly boy never could take his booze," said the headmistress, swaying just a wee fraction from the perpendicular. She linked her arm through Snape's and patted his sleeve in the fashion of assertive maiden aunts everywhere. "It's so lovely to see you looking so well, Severus. Just lovely. And I understand we have this charming lady to thank?" She peered up past the brim of her hat at Miss Lapanne, who was sampling the cheese and onion crisps with evident enjoyment. "Lapanne ..." she mused. "I don't believe I recognise the name?"

"No, I don't believe you do," said the lady blandly. "Your castle is most impressive, Headmistress. Do tell me something about it."

McGonagall allowed herself to be diverted, but not into the track intended.

"I can tell you all you wish to know, Miss Lapanne, during the many evenings we will be able to share once you've helped me persuade Severus here to resume his post on the staff ..."

Severus rolled his eyes and tried to repossess his arm.

Some distance away, Hermione and Ginny were observing Snape and his consort converse with the Headmistress. In truth, the girls would have preferred to wander through the gardens meeting old friends and planning the future, but with Harry and Ron apparently transfixed by the spectacle, they were obliged to tag along or feel responsible for their swains doing something stupid and embarrassing.

"How's he done it?" Ron asked for the hundredth time.

"Dunno, mate," Harry shrugged for the hundredth time.

"I mean – he's such an ugly git," opined Ron, for the hundr ...

"Harry, Ron! Stop it! You're acting like she's a bloody Veela or something! I can't imagine the poor woman wants to be stared at constantly by every male in Scotland!" snapped Hermione.

"Oh, I don't know," said Ginny drily.

"And for all we know, she might find an informed mind and intelligence and interesting conversation attractive!"

"Oh, come on, 'Mione," said Ron without looking at her. "Who could possibly go for that sort of a package?"

Hermione snarled wordlessly and stamped off to appropriate a bottle of the Ministry's champagne. During its perusal, Professors Flitwick and Vector came to her with an appealing proposition that mended her mood sufficiently to compel sharing the news with her friends. She grabbed a fistful of champagne flutes and another bottle and returned to find Harry and Ron no longer just staring at Ms Lapanne but – horror of horrors – attempting to flirt with the poor woman.

To do her credit, she was taking a blow-by-blow account of Ron's try-out with the Cannons in very good part, only yawning slightly, while Snape stood by, gleefully looking as though he was keeping a running total of points lost to Gryffindor. Ginny was stoically squashing every single one of Harry's attempts to elaborate the finer points of Quidditch strategy. She accepted a glass with a grim smile. Hermione served Ms Lapanne with a mouthed "Sorry" before tugging at Ron's sleeve.

"Ron, I've got some good news," she said firmly.

"Just a minute, Mione, I haven't got to the good part yet!" His eyes remained fixed on Miss Lapanne's bosom in the apparent belief that it was fascinated by his seventh amazing save.

"Ron ..."

"And then I ..."

"Ronald."

"Mr Weasley," drawled Snape, "do you really think it appropriate to flirt with my girlfriend when your attention is so clearly required by yours?"

"Oh, it's quite all right, Mr Snape," replied Hermione, bestowing a full glass and a warm smile on him. "Ronald doesn't have a girlfriend." Even Ron noticed that one. "Not any more." She sipped her wine and added contemplatively: "In fact, I'm not sure he deserves any success with women, the way he behaves."

"Do you really believe so?" enquired Ms Lapanne, sounding genuinely interested. She exchanged a glance with Snape, whose lips curled, but before she could say anything more, McGonagall returned with two newcomers in tow.

"Here we are, Severus!" carolled the Headmistress, full of the joys of whisky, tra-la. "These are the gentlemen who are constructing the new gates! Severus has agreed to consult about embedding the protection charms," she stage-whispered to Hermione. "Wasn't that nice of him?"

Hermione thought Snape was looking anything but nice as he went to some pains to ensure even distribution of his sneer at Ron, Harry, and McGonagall's friends. For some reason, the beautiful Ms Lapanne was scowling petulantly at them, too, though for the life of her, Hermione couldn't see why. They looked perfectly friendly to her. Rather on the large and muscular side – prop forward and then some – but one couldn't help the way one was built. They loomed and bulked, taking up half the field while they shook hands and talked about the weather. Hermione decided that her incipient dislike of Ms Lapanne was justified when she snatched her hand away from the one called Elland and wouldn't even say hello to Smith.

"Smith the smith!" said Ron, pleased at his own wit.

"Oh how droll," said Lapanne, getting in a whisker before Snape. Ron flushed.

Hermione couldn't help but agree that Ron was making an ass of himself, but was nevertheless glad that Smith said kindly, "It's funny the first time you hear it, though." She was even more grateful when Snape covered the awkward pause with a query about how the craftsmen were tempering the iron to bear magic.

"Now, now, Severus," said McGonagall. "No shop talk on a holiday. I just wanted to introduce you all. Hermione, I see from the champagne –" Hermione had completely forgotten the glass in her hand "– that Filius and Septima have spoken to you. You've accepted? I'm so glad, dear. Now, Mr Elland, I do believe you wanted me to find Professor Sprout for you."

"She's quite a wench, that one," he affirmed.

Hermione and her friends couldn't help but giggle, and even Snape's eyes gleamed, but Lapanne sneered.

"And you, Mr Smith?" she said coldly. "You have no other ... projects ... to pursue?"

"None, I am sure, to compete with the importance of yours, my lady," he answered. "I am but a humble craftsman."

Snape caught Hermione in the act of raising an eyebrow in tandem with his. He frowned instead.

"Well, if that's the case, perhaps Severus can take me to find some more stimulating conversation," ordered Ms Lapanne.

"He seems to be very well-trained," observed Smith as Severus offered his arm.

"Merely well-mannered," snarled Snape as rudely as he could.

"Perhaps the little boys can tell you all about Quidditch," added the lady. "I understand some people enjoy that sort of thing." She yanked Snape round and the pair of them stalked off.

"Well!" said the Headmistress.

*

Hermione might have regretted the passing of something in her life, had she not been too busy to notice that she had seen nothing of her friends since the day of the awards ceremony. For two months, she had been up to her eyebrows in a programme of advanced studies in Charms and Arithmancy, specially designed to catapult her straight into the Masters programme at Flamel College, Oxford. A few hours acting as teaching assistant to her mentors were as nothing compared to the load of research work they piled on her, augmented by her special project – aiding the smiths with the new school gates. At first, she was a little nervous of them, bluff and enormous as they were, but she soon forgot her qualms in the joy of calculating the exact temperature fluctuations during forging to temper the metal to flex with the enmeshed defensive magic in such a way as to render it stronger under attack; or the effort of weaving the subtlest of distraction charms into the subatomic structure of the iron. She came to appreciate the artistry with which the two men blended beauty and utility. And, though she referred to them as men and interacted with them as she would with any wizard with whom she worked, she was doubly intrigued because she was very sure they weren't actually wizards. As to what they were, she had suspicions, but the right moment to ask never seemed to materialise.

It was an evening in early November and Hermione was helping Smith clear up the day's detritus. Elland had been dismissed to bid a prolonged and probably x-rated farewell to Professor Sprout before returning to his business in the south. Darkness had fallen and the night air was frigid, but Hermione was warm, replacing a selection of tools in their racks near the fire. She enjoyed the clink of each chisel and hammer settling into place, like a melody against the accompaniment of hiss-and-crackle from the flames. She slipped the last pair of pliers into its holder and turned to find Smith watching her intently.

"You're getting it," he said. "I'll start teaching you how to inlay the filigree tomorrow."

Hermione beamed at him.

"Really?" Every part of the gates was to be inlaid with elaborate designs built from fine wires, themselves complex structures of many metals and incantations – coils of them, the product of Hermione's own painstaking labour, were stacked on the benches at the side of the barn-like structure the Headmistress had had erected for the work. They gleamed in the shadows. "Oh, Mr Smith! This is so ... so ... brilliant! Thank you!" She bounced up and down in her excitement.

"Such a display of maturity, Miss Granger."

Smith turned a grinning face to greet Snape, who stepped into the warm forge-light and stripped off his gloves. He held his fingers near the fire for a minute, then started to unwind several feet of scarf from around his face and neck.

"I like to see an apprentice show enthusiasm for her work," rumbled Smith. "I was just about to heat some spiced wine, if you want to join us? Miserable climate to be out working on the walls."

Miserable was indeed how Snape looked as he began to divest himself of his layers. Hermione hung his scarf, hat, cloak, coat, underneath coat and fleece jacket on a peg and set two stools near the furnace. She herself preferred to perch on the anvil when it wasn't in use. Smith warmed a jug of wine by the simple expedient of thrusting a red-hot poker in it, and doled out three mugsful. Snape wrapped his fingers round his drink and inhaled the fragrant steam. He raised an eyebrow.

"I added more cinnamon and sugar, and reduced the cloves," said Hermione. "As you suggested." She sipped. "Though personally I think this amount of sugar gives a pronounced caramelised taste after the poker goes in, and I'm not sure I like that. And I think next time I might try some cardamom, too."

"Stop trying to impress me, Miss Granger," said Snape without rancour, for a change. "You're not my apprentice."

"Don't flatter yourself, sir. If I were your apprentice I'd probably be spicing it with arsenic."

Smith guffawed. Snape hid his nose in his drink, though Hermione thought she might have seen a bit of a kink to his thin lips.

"So how is the inspection coming on?" Smith asked.

"Slowly. Some of the damage goes foundation-deep, and it's causing some unraveling of the original wards. I'm going to have to do a lot of research ..."

Hermione leaned forward eagerly.

"Not enough on your plate already?" Snape asked sarcastically.

She was spared answering by an unexpected interruption.

"Oy, Snape! There you are!" Ronald Weasley practically fell through the doorway in his hurry. "They told me up at the school you might be here. I need your heelllllpp ..."

Snape was winding up for a really choice put-down when Weasley suddenly caught sight of Hermione and a peculiar change came over his face. Nobody in the forge had ever seen such a clear superimposition of eagerness over despair – it was a painful sight. Weasley was plainly struggling not to say another word, but at the same time he barreled forward in an embarrassingly puppyish fashion and seized hold of Hermione's hand, managing to spill half her drink.

"Ronald! What?"

"Hermione!" He cast a pleading look at Snape before his eyes were forced back to Hermione's disapproving face. "I have to tell you ..." He tried to clamp his teeth together, but the effort was too great. Hermione tried to free herself and back away. "Mione! I ... I played really well for the Cannons reserves last Saturday! I made a few good saves, but one was absolutely spectacular, you see, what happened was ..."

"You came all the way here after more than two months of silence just to tell me about Quidditch?" Hermione was disgusted.

"You should have seen me, Mione! The Quaffle was coming in a curve – really deceptive – and had a really wicked spin to it, and ..."

"Ron, you have no idea just how not interested I am," said Hermione stiffly. "I'll be off up to the castle now, I think," she informed the other two men.

"Don't forget to have a bath before dinner, Miss Granger," said Snape. "You look like ..."

"A blacksmith!" finished Smith.

"I'm honoured!" she smiled. "Ron, if you can find another topic ..."

"And I cleared it with a sweeping kick," said Ron, tears standing in his eyes.

"Ron?" Now she was concerned.

Snape was looking closely at the boy. "This may be a matter for me to deal with," he murmured. "A curse of some kind, I think."

"A curse? Ron, who ..."

"Mione, you should have seen my team-mates!" he sobbed. "They think I'm a genius!"

"Go, Miss Granger." Snape bundled her out of the door into the bitter night.

"Oh, thank Merlin!" she heard Ron say. That hurt, she had to admit to herself, as she turned her back to the wind and allowed it to push her back to the castle.

Nevertheless, she sought out Snape after dinner. He wasn't best pleased to be accosted before he returned to wherever it was he went when he wasn't inventing sarcastic put-downs to Minerva's continued efforts to re-recruit him.

"What?" he snapped.

"Well, what's Ron's curse?"

"On preliminary examination, Miss Granger, I'd say, his curse consists of limited talent in most areas of life, a nosy ex-girfriend who sees him as little more than an interesting experimental subject –" Hermione coloured at that. "– an enormous family who forget he exists most of the time, too much fame with too little cause, and someone's made sure that all he can do when there's an eligible young female in the vicinity is talk about his sporting achievements. It's quite clever, really."

"Oh, Merlin. Poor Ron – he's not really all that good at Quidditch. So I understand why he wants help, but why yours? He can't stand you. No offence."

"Plenty taken."

Hermione grinned.

"It seems he's managed to confuse the entire MLE, and he's on the run from the Unspeakables because they want to dissect him. Well," Snape added, "those he hasn't bored to tears want to dissect him; the rest just want to stuff a Beater's bat sideways up his ..."

"And you're his last hope."

"A vain one, I am not exactly devastated to admit. But your friend Smith seems to think he can help a bit and has taken young Mr Weasley under his wing. Fortunately for me, as the less I have to do with your little friends the better."

Snape finished fastening his layers of outdoor clothing, crammed his balaclava over his head and opened the wicket door. An icy blast whistled through, and Hermione hurried to shut the panel behind him, wondering when it was he'd become quite so nesh, where it was he went, and why these were yet more questions she somehow never got round to asking.

*

Three weeks later, Hermione hurried down for her afternoon session at the forge with that day's edition of the Prophet tucked under her arm. The work she was doing was certainly changing her, she reflected, jogging the half mile easily. She was fitter than she'd ever been, stronger because the smiths insisted that she do some part at least of the heavy work as well as the painstaking filigree, and less obsessive about spending every spare minute with her nose in a book. Sometimes, what a problem needed was that one should simply take the time to look at it, rather than haring off to find answers before one even had the questions properly formulated. She would never admit it to anyone, but a few months wielding a hammer had probably taught her a more important lesson than seven years of school work.

All of which was why she had spent her lunch hour staring silently at the photos in the Prophet's society pages.

RONALD WEASLEY: THIS SEASON'S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR announced the headline, above pictures of Ron with assorted girls, posing with two Veela draped round him, sharing cocktails with Pansy Parkinson, of all people, and in the latest shot, looking vaguely hunted while the opposition's cheerwitches jostled to be closest to him in the photograph.

Your faithful reporter, Rita Skeeter, has been wearing herself to the bone trailing the ever-more-popular friend of The Boy Who Lived from one nightspot to the next. Young Mr Weasley has become quite the hit this autumn, always willing to share his tales of Quidditch prowess – and what other kinds? - with his adoring fangirls. Mr Weasley, we find, has blossomed into a young man of great charm now that he is out from under Mr Potter's shadow.

Rita finished by promising her readers a full-colour account of her exclusive interview with Ron, to be held over drinks and dinner at a popular London restaurant.

Clearly, Ron was still talking about his sporting exploits. Equally clearly, something had happened to tweak the curse sufficiently to make him a babe-magnet. Snape was consistent in his denial of any knowledge or responsibility, even on the evening when he finally declared she'd got the spice mixture just right. So the answer obviously lay with Smith, who was good at not answering questions. Spreading the Prophet out on his work bench just got her a humorous look and an irresistible distraction in the form of a technique for blending ancient languages while setting the charmed inlays so that attempts to break the spells would be thwarted by the hypercomplexity of their construction. They were deep in a discussion of the possible extension of the theory to include simultaneous casting by more than one magic-user using interwoven cadences as well as languages when Hermione became aware that the last of the newspaper was curling into black ash on the fire. By then, it didn't really seem to matter.

She thought Ron looked very tired in the Sunday supplement's feature.

At the winter solstice, Minerva came to witness the planting of the gateposts and to set the Head's seal on each one. She was quite entranced with the spoken music of the incantations and went on at length about publications and kudos for the school until Elland, who had returned to Hogwarts for the occasion, begged her to take him up to the school to see Pomona. They had moved off a few paces when she stopped, pulled a copy of the newspaper from her cloak pocket, and walked back to hand it to Hermione.

"I'm so sorry you won't be able to visit Mr Weasley in hospital over Christmas, my dear," she said sympathetically.

Hermione grabbed the paper.

"Arthur's ill?" she gasped. "Oh, no!"

"No, it's Mr Ronald Weasley who is unwell!" McGonagall was surprised. "Didn't you know, Miss Granger?"

Hermione flushed. "We don't have that much contact these days, Professor," she said, hunting through the paper. She couldn't see much in the December dusk, so she returned to the forge, where she finally found out that Ron was in St Mungo's being treated for exhaustion and stress, and was not able to receive any unmarried female visitors. Or, apparently, wizards of a certain persuasion – as had been discovered thanks to an unfortunate incident shortly after admission. Mr Weasley was under strict instructions to avoid all relationships of an intimate kind for the next six months to one year.

Snape and the smith were celebrating a job well done when Hermione carefully laid down the paper. She turned to face them, her hands on her hips. She ignored the glass of scotch that was offered to her.

"Okay, Smith," she said. "What did you give him?"

"Just a belt," he replied with a shrug. "A simple belt."

"Simple."

"With a pretty buckle. It's hardly my fault if he couldn't work out how to take it off, is it?"

Snape was quick to catch on. "Poetic justice, wouldn't you say, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, stop sniggering!" Hermione snapped. "Both of you."