Six: In which Harry isn't Charming

Six: In which Harry isn't Charming

Ministry shindigs weren't really Severus' preferred way of spending his free time, but the general consternation at his continued survival and apparent happiness had been so enjoyable that he was rather looking forward to rubbing everyone's noses in it again. Even wading through snow for hours, poking his nose, wand, and a variety of diagnostic spells at the damaged walls couldn't cool his anticipation of the Boxing Day ball. It would be especially pleasing to be courted by the Department of Mysteries and the New Magic Committee over the rumours he had planted about his work at Hogwarts. He was in the middle of an ongoing argument with Granger about how to publish without revealing too much of what they were doing. It was fun baiting her, too, so he decided to go and do some more of it before heading off.

Although it was only three o'clock, the usual sounds of hammering, grunting and swearing were absent from the forge. It was the first time, too, that Severus had seen the fire so low. The air within was rapidly cooling, and Granger, engaged in sweeping metal filings and ash from the floor, was sporting a heavy jumper against the encroaching chill. Navy blue did not suit her. She looked pale and out of sorts when she looked up to see who was blocking the light.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"Tetchy, Miss Granger. Surely the gates are not finished?" All the tools were neatly away, the plans rolled up in leather tubes to be transported to the security of the Headmistress's office, and the completed sections of the gates were stored at the back of the forge under dust sheets.

"I am being obliged to take a holiday, since it's Christmas," growled Hermione. "Move, would you?" She swiped at his legs with the broom. "And Smith has let McGonagall persuade him to give me some 'well-earned time off'." She mimicked a prissy Edinburgh accent.

"So you are going home to eat mince pies and ..."

Hermione threw the broom into a corner and gave him an evil glare.

"Make yourself useful," she ordered and thrust the plans into his arms while she grabbed her coat and shut the heavy double doors, locking and warding them ferociously. "Thank you," she snarled. Her futile attempt to repossess her work resulted in a brief tug of war and a flounce that Severus, a master of the art, found it in himself to admire.

He followed her up the path, curious as to why she was in such an almighty strop.

She had a good head of steam going and beat him to the gargoyle, though she did stop and wait there. The gargoyle regarded her nervously as she tapped her foot.

The password, "Petticoat tails," came out as the antithesis of twee Scottish dainties. The stairs started to rise with alacrity, and there was a definite cringe from their guardian as Hermione stamped past.

McGonagall's door swung open without any need for knocking to reveal the Headmistress taking a civilised tea with Smith, who looked bizarre in Hawaiian shirt and leather apron, his bulk threatening destruction to a delicate chintzy armchair. The warmth and golden glow of the room were a shocking contrast to the bitter cold of the grounds and the grey chill of the castle corridors. Severus and Hermione both blinked at the heat and the subtle perfume of Earl Grey. The crackle of flames in the hearth and the tinkle of china and silver completed a picture of dainty homeliness that should have brought a smile to anyone's face – but Severus was never one for smiling if he could help it, and Hermione looked as though her teeth were better left un-bared for the present.

"Severus! What a delightful surprise! And Hermione, I'm glad you've decided to join us for tea after all."

Hermione, lips pursed, pulled the plans out of Severus' hands and rounded the Headmistress' desk to drop them in an ornate umbrella stand that already contained a broomstick, a purple parasol with a parrot's-head handle, several bamboo canes, a narwhal horn encrusted with jewels, and a bent poker. The parrot's head blinked as she then stalked to the fireplace and flopped down into a chair, all without saying a word. McGonagall let it pass with a shake of her head and held out her hand to Snape.

"Was there anything in particular you needed to discuss before the break, Severus, or is this purely a social call? May I tempt you with some shortbread?"

"I merely came to wish you a pleasant holiday, Professor," he replied, amused at Granger's evident displeasure with her hitherto favourite teacher. Mention of shortbread had been greeted with an audible snort. "Smith," he acknowledged, nodding to the man.

"But will I not be seeing you at the ball?" exclaimed Minerva, surprised. "And Miss Lapanne, of course?"

"Naturally, but I expect opportunities for civilised discourse will be lacking in the crush." Severus noted that Granger had scrinched herself further down in her chair and stuck her legs out. He waited in vain for McGonagall to tell her to sit up.

"Well, it's nice to see you're learning some social graces at long last," Minerva replied. "Now do have some tea."

"And you, Miss Granger?" Severus asked. "Will you be going to the ball?" He deftly picked her pocket as he took the chair next to her, pulling out an invitation badly crushed by its careless insertion.

"I would much rather keep working, as the Headmistress and Mr Smith are both aware," she snapped.

Smith shot her a penetrating look.

"Don't you enjoy Christmas, Hermione?" He sounded merely curious. "Aren't you looking forward to seeing your family and friends after closeting yourself away with your work for so long?"

There was a silence, and it seemed Hermione was not disposed to answer.

"Of course she –" began McGonagall.

"My parents decided to stay in Australia. Grimmauld Place will be full of Weasleys, up in London for the ball, and Molly is convinced that it's my fault Ron's condemned to a monastic life, so I won't be seeing Harry and Ginny. I don't have anyone else who particularly wants to have me intrude into their family circle. Nobody is staying at the school. So what's left?" she asked savagely. "Oh, I know – I'll book myself into a hotel, show my face on my own at the ball just to stop the papers from wondering why I'm not there, and spend the holidays waiting to be allowed to get on with what I actually like doing." She sat up straight, not looking directly at anyone. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I only have a day and a half's shopping left to find a dress I don't need that nobody's going to look at."

She paused.

"See you at the Ministry, Professor, Mr Snape. Have a good holiday, Mr Smith."

"I had no idea," said McGonagall into the silence left by the door's closing. "Did you, Mr Smith?"

"She doesn't talk about herself at all," he rumbled. "Only about the work, her ideas, her research. She's very stimulating to work with ..."

Snape snorted.

"What's so funny, Severus?" snapped the Headmistress. "You find Hermione's distress amusing?"

"That doesn't stir me one way or the other," he answered. "What's truly funny is that you two – particularly you, Minerva, since you claim to like her so much – have been so oblivious to it." He leaned back and sipped from his cup. "She's spent the last three months working her socks off; she hasn't been to visit her friends, nor have they troubled themselves to come here, knowing that she's engaged in work that doesn't leave her much free time. She's nineteen. She should be going out and enjoying herself at least occasionally. She should be looking forward to Christmas, to parties, to fun, to presents. Even I had a bit of fun at her age. She's not just a trophy in the Gryffindor cabinet," he added, just to twist the knife a little more.

Minerva was looking stricken. She got to her feet, but the smith forestalled her dash after Hermione.

"Let me," he said, making a 'sit down' motion with his hands. "She might be better for an evening at a good pub and a game of darts. Sympathy probably isn't the best approach."

Severus was surprised. He'd recognised Granger's anger as a barricade against tears, but the smith wasn't generally known for his perceptiveness. He was also vaguely uneasy. Personal interest from a deity generally spelled trouble for someone.

*

The ball was, as predicted, a crush. Shacklebolt had opened up the entire ground floor of the Ministry and drafted an army of caterers to supply wizarding Britain with a buffet so opulent one might die of starvation still trying to decide what to eat first. The decorations looked like an explosion in a tinsel factory. Even Flitwick was wincing at the gaudiness. Competing strains of music drifted from the different ballrooms into the foyer where they met and battled for supremacy. Severus had spent the first half hour finding the exact spot where it sounded worst so he could talk to his least favourite people there. He edged ever closer to the epicentre of discord, Aphrodite placidly keeping at his side, content to share his amusements. McGonagall found them and winced.

"Have you seen Hermione yet?" she asked without preamble.

"Why should I be looking for her? She's not my little protégée."

"Don't be obnoxious, Severus," McGonagall said without bite. "I'm concerned. I haven't heard a peep from her since she left my office the other day."

Severus rolled his eyes.

"I fail to see why you could expect to hear anything. You made it abundantly clear that her preferences didn't meet with your approval."

"She knows perfectly well that I have her best interests at heart!"

"Like exhausting herself with a double apprenticeship?"

"Anyone can see that she is perfectly capable ..."

Snape was enjoying goading the Headmistress, but at that moment Aphrodite's fingers closed painfully round his biceps.

"Ah! There she is!" exclaimed McGonagall and bustled off.

There she was indeed, looking all grown up and gorgeous in a slinky red dress, her lips shining crimson to match, and her hair confined in a crown of plaits. Touches of gold gleamed in her ears as she turned to laugh at something her companion had said. Her companion being the smith, looking as comfortable in formal robes as he did in those idiot shirts he favoured. His arm circled her waist in a manner that his wife seemed to find entirely too familiar, if her frown was any indication.

Severus twisted out of Aphrodite's death grip.

"She has no right!" hissed the goddess. "Little floozy!"

"What's sauce for the goose," he murmured. "I suppose."

"For your sake, because she abandoned you in your hour of need, my dislike of her was pre-ordained," she declaimed, not wavering in her glare, "But now she's really ..."

"Such melodrama," Severus drawled. "People are staring. And besides, you're hardly being consistent, are you, my love?"

"Consistency is a quality highly prized by you mortals," snapped Aphrodite. "Nevertheless, I deem it more politic to choose a better moment to ..."

"To what?" he asked, kissing her fingers and challenging her with a hard gleam in his eye. "To punish someone for doing exactly what you reward me so richly for doing?"

"Don't push it, Severus." She sent one last glare towards Smith and Hermione. "Get me a glass of wine and then dance with me."

"Dance?" He slid his arm round her magnificent form, draped as ever in clinging white. "The horror."

Hermione was enjoying herself. She had an expensive dress in which she looked – if the glances coming her way were any indication – as gorgeous as she felt, she had an attentive and ruggedly attractive date, and she had spent an unexpectedly good Yule with him, Elland, some powerful folk who weren't witches and wizards but were evasive about precisely what they were, and the White Horse chapter of the Hell's Angels. She thought she might come to enjoy riding a Harley, and the episode with the woad was one she would remember fondly for the rest of her life. There had been dancing, and feasting, and talking, and beer, and games, and nobody expected her not to join in fully because she was 'Hermione Granger, Bookworm' – to them, she was just another of Elland's friends, and they all thought her bluebell flames were pretty damn cool, especially for lighting effects on painted skin. Three days of this, and three nights – after a whole thirty seconds' discussion of a pact not to change their working relationship – under the furs with Smith made for a cheerful Miss Granger, ready to take on the world.

So when Harry and Ginny came charging up to her, she hugged them both enthusiastically.

"Wow, Hermione," said Harry, holding her at arms' length and admiring her. "What happened to you?"

"Nice display of tact, Harry," Ginny chided, "but I have to ask ..." Her eyes flicked towards Smith and she raised her eyebrows in a question.

"Smith decided I should meet some of his friends, and we've had an excellent Yule. I feel all refreshed and ready to get back to ..."

"... work!" finished Harry and Ginny for her.

Smith guffawed.

"Come and ask her that after she's been working the bellows for a week," he invited them. "I guarantee you she'll beg to be kidnapped."

"How's Ron?" Hermione asked. "Have you seen him? Did he get my present?"

"He's starting to get his strength back," said Harry. "Still suffering his odd compulsions, as Arthur calls them, but he can at least lift a cup of tea now."

They missed the reproachful look Hermione gave the smith.

"And he's really pleased with the DVD player you charmed to work on magic," Ginny added. "He loves those old comedies you included. Says he spent most of the war feeling like Harold Lloyd."

"Didn't we all?" Hermione said drily. "What's this?"

Ginny had given her a little velvet box.

"Ron's present to you." She watched Hermione's eyes fill as she opened the box to reveal a silver charm bracelet bearing three charms – a book, a hammer and an anvil. "I'm glad you're friends again," she added, "even if Mum thinks it's all your fault, as usual. It doesn't go with your earrings, you know."

"I don't care," said Hermione, fumbling with the clasp. "I like it, and nobody expects me to have any fashion sense anyway."

"Nice workmanship," said the smith, peering closely.

"Well, then – let's show it off on the dance floor!"

The smith attempted to excuse himself on account of his lame foot, but Hermione, abetted by her friends, would have none of it, insisting that there would be smoochy music in at least one of the rooms and all he would have to do was sway a little.

"He never danced with me," grumbled Aphrodite bitterly, watching the smith capitulate with a grin.

"Perhaps the music was never quite right," said Snape. He saw the plump bottom lip swell in a pout and knew dismay. A goddess in a snit could make his evening a living hell. "Won't I do instead? At least I can twirl you without falling on my face."

"So you can, my love. Though your speech is rough and unmannerly, Severus, your strong and supple form always gives delight."

Severus winced.

Two hours later, Hermione was dancing with Neville, close to where Harry and Ginny were shuffling in circles. Her feet were hurting, but Neville had asked so nicely – and his dancing had improved considerably. She complimented him, and he was telling her about the torment of the lessons his gran had imposed on him when Ginny's exclamation caught their attention.

"Harry, just drop it!"

"But Ginny ..."

"I've told you Merlin knows how many times, not yet! I don't want to get married!"

"But Ginny, don't you love me?" Judging by Neville's expression, even to his ears that sounded just a little pathetic.

Ginny stopped moving, though she kept her arms round Harry.

"Listen, Harry. For the last time, 'not yet' doesn't mean 'never'. There's no hurry, that's all. I love you, but I don't want to get married! I'm young! I want to do stuff. And I want to do it with you, yes, Harry, but as a girlfriend, not a wife. Do you understand? A girlfriend is someone you can be adventurous with; a wife is, I dunno, someone you stay at home with. Once you're married, you're waist-deep in babies before you know it."

"But don't you want to have a family with me?"

Ginny huffed. "Of course I do! Just not yet! I've had all I can take of family and I want to be a little footloose for a few years. With you. Footloose but with you."

Harry attempted to draw her closer.

"But family's such a wonderful thing ..."

"Merlin's hairy nutsack!" Ginny wrenched free, uncaring that people were turning to watch. "I sometimes think it's not me you want to marry but my family! You'd marry anyone who'd give you a family. I'm going to get some air – come and find me when you've decided you want to be Harry Potter, not Harry Weasley."

Snape and the Lapanne woman waltzed past gracefully, he merely smirking, she looking like the cat that stole a pound of raw steak and ate it dipped in clotted cream.

*

It wasn't the Prophet that brought the news to Hermione – it was a weeping Ginny Weasley who burst into her morning study hours in floods of tears.

Hermione moved a stack of books and papers off a chair and gently ushered Ginny to sit. She gave her a glass of water and waited for the crying to subside. Then the story came staggering out through the aftershocks.

"But why would he do that?" Hermione pondered. "He's not even particularly friendly with her!"

"Friendly enough, apparently," Ginny said bitterly. "One week, Hermione. One week since the ball and he's off proposing to Parvati Patil."

"Don't tell me she accepted."

"What witch wouldn't accept the great Harry Potter? Her parents have organised a huge party, you know – all the cousins and uncles and whatnot from here and from India, and photographers, and ... Oh, Hermione, I thought he loved me! Me, you know?"

"I'm sure he does, Ginny ..."

But this produced such a storm of sobs that Hermione could no longer make herself heard. She let Ginny cry herself into exhaustion, then tucked her into bed to sleep it off. She closed the door to her quarters with relief and set off early for the forge. It was unlike Harry to be so mean-spirited. He must have been more deeply hurt by Ginny's refusal to marry him than anyone realised – and he'd always been impulsive. But honestly? Tying himself for life to a girl he barely liked? Hermione decided she would consider what to say to him while she prepped some of the iron for the first level of strengthening charms in the new sections. Smith would be glad of an extra pair of hands for the morning's work.

Hermione didn't manage to see Harry before the party, but as it turned out, events rendered irrelevant her carefully-prepared and diplomatically worded arguments. What a good job it was that Mr and Mrs Patil had paid for photographers, otherwise the Prophet (uninvited to the event) would never have obtained a full-colour record of both Patil sisters screaming and hexing Harry Potter, who had proposed to the second at the celebration of his engagement to the first.

Half a week later, he was spotted down on one knee in a restaurant, proposing to Cho Chang.

Next in line: Pansy Parkinson.

The Parkinsons declared war on the Bulstrodes the following Tuesday, but by then Harry had already moved on.

Hermione sent owls to him but he didn't reply.

"I think he's been cursed," she said, watching yet another photo of Harry down on one knee, this time being laughed at by everyone else in the frame. He had become a national joke in a few short weeks. "First Ron, now Harry. Someone's clearly got it in for us – again – but who? Death Eaters still? I suppose I should ask Kingsley to put the Aurors on it. What do you think?"

This was addressed to Severus, who was foolishly waving his wand and thereby floating six thick slices of bread at the optimum distance from the coals. They were on the cusp of February and the weather outside had gone from snowy and bitter to dank and bitter, and even in the forge there was an area to leave muddy shoes. Within, all was warm and welcoming. Charts and plans were back on the walls, the work benches were strewn with tools and books, there was now a tall cupboard in the corner from which Smith was excavating plates, knives and jam, and Hermione had her very own anvil to perch on.

"Potter's not in any danger," Severus pointed out as he flipped the toast over. "I hardly think Shacklebolt's going to put resources into sorting out the boy's love life."

Hermione pushed open the door just wide enough to rescue the butter from the box outside. She shivered in the chill.

"Still sleeting?" Smith asked. "We could do with some decent hail – hailstones have some interesting properties."

"I read about that in the Norse scrolls Elland sent up," she replied. "But what concerns me most is the element of compulsion. Nobody could find anything like an Imperius or Confundus charm affecting Ron, and I dare say it'd be the same with Harry, but I still think he's got the same kind of curse. It's magic, but not our kind of magic, or there would be something to identify, even if we didn't know what it was. I wish I could talk to him about it, but I don't want to have to sit through an impassioned proposal... Ah, here it is." Hermione pulled a wooden case out from underneath a bench and knelt to open it and look inside. "Hail, hail, hail, ah! Hailstones – this is the one. Did it look like hail to you when you were at the gap?"

Severus had been spending a great deal of time at the place where the walls had been smashed to ground level by giants. He put the toast on a wooden board and started to butter it.

"Granger, ever since I got conned into working on this project which, by the way, I would have abandoned if I hadn't in turn conned McGonagall into paying me extremely well, I have been forced to spend much of my time in conditions that lead me to wish fervently and constantly that the sky would not devote so much of its time throwing wet stuff at me. I don't look up."

"Bollocks."

Severus scowled. "Language, Granger."

"No – not you. Though what you said is bollocks – you've got better antennae than ... a thing with very good antennae. This is bollocks." She scooped up a couple of lumps of scrap iron to hold the scroll open and poked her finger at the passage that was annoying her. "There's no way hailstones have any of these properties."

Smith and Snape both leaned in to scan the crabbed runes, squishing Hermione.

"Oy," she said, pushing back.

"Merlin, Granger, are those muscles? So feminine ..."

"Oh, grow up, Snape, and apply your mind to the problem."

"You're spending entirely too much time with Smith," commented Severus repressively and bent over the parchment again.

"No! Harry! Never mind the scroll. Whoever wrote it was clearly barking."

"Elland will be delighted to hear your opinion, Hermione," laughed the smith.

"Oh, shut up. Listen, Professor Snape – Harry's under the influence of coercive magic, and that's Dark. I know you can't stand him, but I hate to think of him being the victim of such a nasty sense of humour. I don't know anyone who's better qualified to find out what it is, or at least work out where to start looking. Would you? Please?"

Severus stood back and folded his arms. He glowered at Hermione for hitting his weak spot. He met Smith's challenging look. Yes, if there was anyone who knew how Harry had been cursed, it would be Severus.

"Don't you have any Marmite in that cupboard?" he demanded.

*

Harry went into hiding shortly after the first rumours that he'd proposed to a house-elf began to circulate. Hermione fretted, and used her precious hours off trying to locate him, to no avail. He'd learned how to hide, and it wasn't until mid-March that Severus found him and hauled him off to see Hermione.

The forge doors were flung open to admit the watery spring light. From within, they could hear a rhythmic TAP, tap-tap, TAP, tap-tap of hammer on metal. Snape silenced Harry with an abrupt gesture as they approached and saw that it was Hermione at the anvil, one gauntleted hand holding a piece of glowing metal in a pair of tongs, the other wielding a heavy hammer with surprising strength and precision, while she frowned in concentration and muttered incantations. Dressed in a grimy t-shirt and jeans under a leather apron, her hair in a messy pony-tail, smuts on her sinewy forearms and sweaty face, her conker-coloured eyes alight, Granger looked good. Smith stood to one side, observing the work closely. Flitwick, too, was there, his eyes flicking between Hermione and the anvil while he took rapid notes on a pad of parchment. All of a sudden, for no reason the two at the door could discern, Smith's stance lost its attentive poise, and Hermione stopped hammering. She lifted the curl of iron so she could examine it from all sides, then flung it onto a heap of scraps in the corner.

"Damn, damn, damn," she said disgustedly. "I lost it again. Again."

"You got further this time, though," Smith said. "You'll have it soon."

"Soon on whose timescale? At this rate I'll be dead before I master the basics."

"Hardly. You learn faster than any apprentice I've ever had."

"It's a highly unusual technique," Flitwick said. "I must say, Miss Granger, you have developed a remarkable facility with wandless magic in a very short time!"

"It was either that or grow a third arm, Professor," she said, stretching, and then doing a perfect double-take.

"HARRY!"

She dashed round the anvil.

"Professor Snape! Thank you so much for finding him! Harry! Where the hell have you been? We've all been worried sick!"

"Speak for yourself," muttered Snape.

Harry backed off, hands raised.

"Hermione, would you put down the hammer? And you'd better not come too close ..."

"Don't be silly, Harry. I don't fit the pattern. No family. I take it they've all accepted? How many women is it? What are you feeling when you're under the compulsion? Is it at all like the Imperius curse?"

"Hermione!" Harry bellowed. "Snape's already asked me everything, and I'm none the wiser. It's just like Ron – no traces. I'm doomed." He scrubbed at his hair with his hands then raised them defensively again as she moved in for a hug. "Hermione – put down the hammer."

She lifted the tool in surprise. It felt almost like part of her arm.

Snape and Flitwick escorted Harry up to the school to see Madam Pomfrey and any of the other professors they thought might have ideas to contribute. They gagged him and kept a firm grip on his arms, just in case they should come within shouting distance of any over-age girls with large families. Hermione promised to join them once she and Smith had tidied the forge. They worked companionably, setting tools in racks, sweeping the benches and the floor, tidying scrolls and books away. Smith raised his mighty arms above his head and indulged in a bone-cracking stretch.

"Are we finished for the day?" he asked.

"We are," smiled Hermione, giving him her hands. "Playtime. Or, at least it would be, if it weren't for Harry ..." She bit her lip. "They're not going to find anything – are they?"

"No. Clever though they are, this is beyond their skills. I could do something, if you like."

"What? The way you did for Ron?" She folded her arms.

"Hardly my fault if I assumed you would have friends who matched your own calibre."

Hermione got a delicious shiver from the way he was looking at her.

"Flatterer."

"You will want to spend some time with your friend," he stated. "Shall I see you at Elland's place this weekend?"

"I wouldn't want to miss my share in the Equinox preparations, and besides which, Nobby said he'd let me have a go on his Harley. I'll come down on Saturday evening."

"Then kiss me, wench, and go and see your Harry. I'll see if I can come up with something to help. And yes," Smith added, forestalling her, "he will be able to remove it without unduly taxing his brain."

*

From The Daily Prophet

Your reporter is pleased to announce that Mr Harry Potter has come out of hiding. Mr Potter, last seen in early February apparently suffering from the mysterious "Romeo curse", has invited all of the young ladies who accepted his proposals of marriage to a meeting to be held at the Ministry of Magic tomorrow. We believe that it is Mr Potter's intention to clarify the matter of exactly whom it is he wishes to make his wife. The Prophet has obtained access to the event and will bring you photographs in Sunday's edition.

From The Sunday Prophet

Mr Harry Potter (18), escorted by his former teachers Mr S. Snape (39) and Professor M. McGonagall (73), Headmistress of Hogwarts, and by his friend Miss H. Granger (19), and taking the unusual precaution of wearing a gag to prevent further accidental avowals of undying love, yesterday confronted the fifteen women, three house elves and one lady centaur who consider themselves to be his affianced brides. Also present was Miss Ginevra Weasley (18), accompanied by her parents. At Mr Potter's urging, Miss Granger explained to all present that Mr Potter was now in possession of a certain ring which was Charmed to fit the finger of the one woman whom he truly loved – and only hers.

Mr Potter has retired to St. Mungo's to keep his friend Ronald Weasley (19) company, away from the presence of women for the foreseeable future."

*

Hermione and McGonagall trailed Snape out of the hospital after dropping Harry off with Ron. They had taken Ron's rapturous account of his last brilliant match in the spirit in which it was delivered and left with the firm intention of finding a stiff drink.

"It was worth a try, I suppose," Hermione said. "At least we haven't made the situation any worse."

"I'm not sure about that," McGonagall mourned. "Miss Weasley made a good point, I thought, about the quality of Harry's love if it could only be revealed by tawdry knick-knackery."

"I was attempting not to think about that bit. I feel utterly dispirited."

Snape however, sauntering along the pavement ahead of them, seemed positively jaunty. If Hermione hadn't known better, she would have sworn that he was humming ABBA under his breath:

Love me or leave me, make your choice but believe me

I do, I do, I do, I do, I do...

*