Chapter Six

All day, whenever she thought of it, Hermione experienced a jolt of the adrenaline-pumping, stomach-swooping sort: the last class. The last time she would be certain to see Severus Snape. Oh, they might run into each other here or there...though knowing Severus, she rather doubted it...but never again would she carry the simple knowledge that she'd be seeing him that evening around with her in her heart.

It wasn't as if either of them would be signing up for Spring term's continuation of the abysmal excuse for a class. Potage hadn't covered a third of what he'd promised for this term, and she had no illusions that the second half of the course would be any different. And their research... well, their research had drifted down one of those endless corridors of the mind. They could continue poking at it forever, casually tweaking this or that variable, subtly modifying the charms and equations... as if either of them really cared. In Hermione's most candid moments, she wondered if they ever truly had.

It seemed she hadn't understood just how much she had come to rely on their time together, how often she had counted down the days, just to get through the week. This was drudgery, and he had been her reward for surviving it, the bright spot that made everything else bearable. It was... depressing to think of going on without anything to look forward to.

Which was a stupid thought, she told herself sharply. For Merlin's sake, she had plenty to look forward to. The children would be home in less than a fortnight. She was this close to seeing wand restrictions lifted for the Goblin population. She had plenty in her life besides Severus Snape.

Still, the very thought of the final class this evening had sent her heart to fluttering a panicked tattoo against her ribcage at least a dozen times that day, and she had a change of robes packed into her latest beaded bag. It would be nice, she thought, if he remembered her looking smart.

***

As was the custom of university classes (Hermione had discovered), the last day of class was given over to matters of paperwork rather than potions.

Snape grinned nastily beside her as he scratched away at the end-of-course evaluation. She'd imagined the parchment with a glaring T at the top, the margins filled with Snape's spidery red ink, and smiled. Hermione had been slightly more circumspect in her evaluation, though she had ticked each of the boxes in the 'unacceptable' column firmly.

"If you will please Levitate your evaluations to the pile when you have finished," Potage said, holding up a modest stack of papers, "then you may go."

Snape delivered his evaluation with such force that it was a wonder none of Potage's fingers had been severed. Hermione sent her own on the heels of Snape's, allowing it to hover impatiently before the professor as he got a grip on Snape's unruly paper.

"Shall we?" Snape said, indicating the aisle, and Hermione's heart soared for no discernable reason.

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, sweeping up her bag and swishing into the aisle, her head held haughtily as she passed their professor without speaking.

Her shoulders relaxed once they had crossed out of the building. She stopped, turning toward Snape as she always did after class to discuss the evening's events or to agree on a place to meet for drinks. She gave him a happy, end-of-class smile.

"We're out early," she said. "Do you want to go get a bite to eat before we set about obliterating ourselves?"

"I'm afraid I have other engagements this evening," Snape said.

This took Hermione by surprise, but she quickly recovered, deciding not to point out that it was unlikely that he had made plans for the hours they should have spent in class. If he didn't want to eat with her, it was no skin off her nose. He was probably just short of gold.

"All right," she said, affably enough. "Regular time at the Leaky Cauldron, then?"

Snape gave her a sharp, incredulous look, one that she'd seen him use in the classroom, one that said he'd heretofore been unaware that a human being could be so stupid.

"I thought I had made myself clear a moment ago," he said. "I have plans for the evening."

"Oh...I... oh," Hermione said, somewhat lamely, sure that all her hurt and confusion were currently displaying themselves on her thrice-damned Gryffindor face. "Of course. I'm sorry. I'd only thought since it was the last class...well, it doesn't matter." Shut up while you have any dignity left at all, she thought fiercely to herself.

"Surely you have a husband at home who is eager for your company, Mrs Weasley?" Snape said. As if they were strangers.

Once more, Hermione risked a glance into Snape's unreadable eyes. Was he chastising her? Had she been somehow inappropriate or... God forbid, had she said things she couldn't remember having said during their last game of 'Twenty-One'?

There was something mocking in his eyes as he looked back at her, and without thinking, she reacted to it.

"I do, of course. Ronald's been quite jealous...that I've been keeping you all to myself, that is. Everyone's has been dying to see you, you know. He's asked me to invite you to our holiday party." With that, she whipped a quill from her bag and touched it to a bit of parchment, watching as the invitation she'd so carefully copied dozens of times the night before materialized perfectly onto the page.

"Everyone will be there. Do try to come, Professor," she said, forcing herself not to look back as she Apparated away. She was sure that parchment had been reduced to a pile of ash before she had even reached Ottery St Catchpole.

***

Periodically, over the next several days, she wondered what on earth had made her do that. She swung through periods of lethargy and industry, burying herself in a book so as not to have to answer any of Ron's questions about why she didn't want to get out of bed, and then furiously cleaning the house in preparation for the children's arrival and their looming annual party.

It really was a huge to-do, she thought, and she supposed there might be a petty part of herself that had invited him only to remind him how many friends she had, how very full her life was without him. These were the spoils of a public life, she thought, that the Minister made it a point to drop by one's house for cocktails on Christmas Eve. And if he was squirming a bit at all she might have told those friends and associates about him, all the better. But then more likely she'd done it because her home, her marriage and her children, had always remained so private from him, and it had been a chance to remind him that whatever he thought she might have felt, in fact she was the head of a thriving, established household. A happy, warm, party-giving household. Didn't she have a husband eager for her company at home, indeed.

But before she'd even properly worked herself into a full-on, holiday-ruining snit, the children returned from Hogwarts (with all their attendant chaos), and suddenly her life really was the bustling, family-driven, manic burst of holiday cheer that she'd wanted him to think it was.

Rose was mad for the party; she'd invited Simon Brocklehurst (he of the Yule Ball tickets) and his family, and all she could do, it seemed, was lock herself in the bathroom and fuss with her hair. "Argh, it's so red," she could occasionally be heard to exclaim from behind the door.

Fort was constantly underfoot in a state of barely-suppressed canine frenzy. He barked at all the owls, coming and going with their RSVPs and their packages; he ate a bit of garland from the mantle and had to be taken to the Healer; he peed in one of Ron's good shoes.

Hugo was quiet...almost withdrawn...but he managed, each day it seemed, to break some Weasley family heirloom (once a terrible white ceramic Christmas tree that Hermione had always hated...she had longed to simply bin that one instead of casting a powerful Reparo).

But in the evenings, when the furor had died down, she enjoyed seeing the couch full of long legs and freckled bodies again, loved to watch the animation of her children's faces as they described their lives at Hogwarts to her.

"And then Rose made a total idiot of herself," Hugo said, "and asked Professor..."

"Hu-GO!"

"Well, it's true, according to Jamie and Al."

"Hugo, whatever Rose might have asked, isn't it better to ask a question than to miss something important? When I was in Muggle school, the saying went, 'There are no stupid...'"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Mum, no stupid questions, but Rose asked Professor Laurent to dance."

"The man is part Veela," Rose wailed. "I was powerless to stop myself! I think it's hereditary. You know how Dad is with Aunt Fleur."

Hermione gave her a stern look. "Rose, that's no way to talk about your father." Inside, she finished, even if it is absolutely true. She looked forward to telling this story to him later...in great detail.

"You just wait, Hugo Weasley," Rose said. "You wait until Victoire hits puberty."

"Victoire is my cousin," Hugo said with a disdain perhaps only mustered by eleven year old boys.

Rose chuckled darkly. Hugo glowered at her.

"I suppose we'll need to go shopping tomorrow," Hermione said, ignoring the children's argument as a powerful wave of affection for them washed over her. For them, if for no other reason, it was time to put this ridiculous business about Severus out of her mind. "Has either of you even begun to think about what to get your father?"

***

She was more or less successful at putting Snape from her mind in the whirlwind of preparations for the party. Even with the use of cleaning charms, which she usually disdained, she was tied up for days in the readying of the house, the dressing of three Christmas trees, and planning with the magical caterer. Thank Merlin for Hannah Longbottom, for if it weren't for their nearly familial relationship, Hermione would never be able to arrange for catering on Christmas Eve. As it was, Hannah set them an appointment each year, directly after the new year, for the following year's festivities, and Hermione needed only to consult with Hannah about the menu, rather than slave away in the kitchen.

Dress shopping with Rose took nearly a full day in itself, but they managed to survive it, both arriving at home with formal robes with a minimum of tears. Ronald and Hugo had no idea how lucky they were, being men.

***

On Christmas Eve, after the rest of the family had been pressed, dressed, and ordered to go sit quietly so as not to wrinkle themselves or break anything...or, at the very least, not to play Quidditch in the snow in their formalwear...Hermione entered the bedroom to dress for the party. The robes she'd chosen were longer than her normal party attire...floor length and slim, made of a heavy burgundy silk rather than the traditional holiday velvet. The front of the robes criss-crossed over her chest and shoulders before opening into a filmy sort of cape over her back. There was surely a word for such a dress, but Hermione did not know it. She had never, in fact, owned anything like it, and she felt a trifle self-conscious as she put it on.

She fought her hair into a loose, almost tousled chignon, the style's carefree charm belied by the industrial strength Sticking Charms holding it in place. The mirror clucked its approval, and Hermione smiled, turning to the side and sucking in her belly to look at her reflection in profile.

She'd rarely seen herself look so glamorous, look so little like a government worker or a mother of two. Even when she had been in school, there had been a weary, bookish look about her face, and later, a kind of bony grief that it had taken her years to shed. But tonight she looked... well, as good as she could look, and she supposed it was time to face up to the idea that she'd dressed this evening for Severus, who would certainly not be here to appreciate it, and would likely not appreciate it...shouldn't appreciate it...even if he were.

She indulged herself briefly in a fantasy of Snape's arrival at the party. In her mind, a glass dangled elegantly from her fingertips, and she turned...oh, Severus, glad you could make it¬¬...before turning back to... well, to whomever. Ginny Potter, say, or Finnegan O'Rourke. He'd stand there, agog, looking at her, and she'd feel his eyes burning over her shoulder blades, her neck, but she would not turn; no, not until he...

"Mum!"

"What?" she snapped back.

"Dad said to tell you that Grandma Molly and Grandpa Arthur are here!"

"Well, go and say hello to them, Hugo! I'll be out in a moment."

She looked back at the mirror as she listened to her son's footsteps thundering down the stairs. "She says she'll be there in a minute," Hugo yelled in the distance. She sighed and suddenly, she saw in her reflection what she really was: a forty year old witch in a dress that was too young and too fancy by far, entertaining herself with ridiculous teenage notions. She turned away. There was nothing to change into, nothing for it but to go downstairs and begin entertaining her guests.

***

When he arrived, she was deep in conversation with Ragnok, her Goblin liaison at Beasts and Beings, and Susan Bones. There was no slim glass dangling from her fingertips, which was a good thing, as she likely would have dropped it when Ron came up behind her, seized her shoulder and hissed, "Snape is in the foyer."

"I beg your pardon?" she said, eyes wide and conversation forgotten.

"I said, Snape is in the foyer. He's asking for you. Did you invite him?"

"Of course I invited him, Ronald! I invited all of our friends, and we've been in class together for months."

"Well, go and take care of him, then. I'm afraid that people are beginning to swarm."

She hurried off to the front of the house, where Snape was, in fact, surrounded and having his hand wrung by Harry Potter. "So good to see you, sir," Harry was saying. "Hermione's mentioned you, of course, but it's just so good to really see..."

Hermione stepped deftly between them. "Hello, Harry, I see you've found Severus." She turned. "Severus! How lovely of you to come. Follow me, please, and we'll get you something to eat."

Her thoughts were reeling as she led Snape quickly through the kitchen and into her study.

"Are you all right? I'm sorry if that was a bit of a mob scene."

"It is a party," Snape said stiffly. "I hardly expected to be the only guest."

"Well, no, I suppose not," Hermione said, the words but why are you here? hanging unspoken between them.

"I believe you offered me refreshment?" Snape said after a few moments of tense silence.

She shook her head a bit wildly. "Yes, of course. Come with me. I think I saw my son, Hugo, in the kitchen as we passed. I'd love for you to meet him."

Hugo had gone by the time they reached the kitchen, so Hermione urged a plate into Snape's hands. She looked quickly through the crowd and spotted Rose, whom she disentangled from Simon Brocklehurst.

"Rose," she said, "this is my friend, Severus Snape. He was a professor of mine at Hogwarts. I'm sure I've written you about him."

That sounded wrong to her ears, as if Snape were a distant acquaintance or, conversely, as if she'd been writing long letters to her daughter about him. What on earth was she supposed to do with this man in her house?

"Hi," Rose said.

"Miss Weasley," Snape replied, holding his plate of hors d'oeuvres in front of him like a shield.

Hermione cast a sharp look at Rose while she continued scanning the party for Hugo.

"So what did you teach?" Rose asked.

"Potions," Snape said, the boredom in his voice almost matching that in Rose's. "I suppose Draco Malfoy teaches potions at Hogwarts these days."

"Yes, Professor Malfoy," Rose said. "That's who I've got."

"I see," Snape said, and both he and Rose turned to look at Hermione, as if expecting her to extricate them from this stalled conversation.

"Hermione! The Minister is here!" Hannah Longbottom called helpfully over the din.

"Oh, bugger," Hermione said under her breath. "Severus, Rose," she looked at them apologetically and shrugged. "Do your best."

She took off into the crowd to greet Kingsley, and then there was a minor mishap with a sconce that lit the wall on fire (honestly, could no one else cast an Extinguishing Charm?) and then Hannah needed her again to instruct the servers.

By the time she managed to return to the kitchen, neither Severus nor Rose was in evidence. Hermione swept the room with her eyes, but saw no cluster of heads that might have indicated that he was surrounded again, nor any sign of Snape himself. She sighed. More than likely, he'd gone. It wasn't as if she'd made him feel particularly welcome. Well, what did he expect? she thought angrily as she made her way back into the thick of the gathering. It's a party. I have guests. I can't handhold him every minute.

It was hard to focus on the conversations going on around her, and Hermione drifted through most of the rest of the evening feeling oddly like a guest in her own house, a spectator, the friend of a friend.

Around half ten, when things had begun to thin out a bit, she noticed that Hugo had secreted himself away somewhere. She was sympathetic, of course. The boy was eleven...dress robes and awkward conversations with adults who only wanted to exclaim over his growth were hardly his preference...but she expected him to be here tonight, not hidden away in a book, no matter how much she wished she could join him. Quickly, she slipped upstairs and knocked on the door to his room. A few murmured words would bring him back down among his cousins, and he'd be there to see the rest of the guests off.

"Come in," Hugo said.

Hermione opened the door, expecting to find him on his bed, propped up with pillows, his good robes in disarray.

Instead, she was astounded to see him seated at his desk beside Severus Snape, a cauldron bubbling away in front of them.

"Hello," she said. It was all she could think of to say.

"Hello," Severus said.

"Mum!" Hugo said, "look...Mr Snape and I made Forgetfulness Potion!"

Hermione stepped into the room for a closer inspection. "That's wonderful, Hugo." She shot a look at Snape. "Forgetfulness Potion was on my first-year exam."

"An exam I compiled," Snape said, staring right back at her. "I'm sure Mr Malfoy has other ideas about which potions make good end-of-term examples."

She nodded. "I'm very glad that you two were able to find something useful to do," she said in a faintly bemused way.

"Mum...we made the equation, see? And now I understand how the Arithmancy goes with the potion making...it's in the reactions. If you can predict the reactions, you can see how each stage of the brewing..."

Hermione felt so much in the moments that her son explained Arithmantic brewing to her that it was impossible to say anything coherent: chagrin that it had not been her but Severus who managed to explain this in a way that Hugo could understand; wonder that he'd gone to Severus at all...she'd been gently trying to get him to tell her the problem he was having with Arithmancy all hols; pleasure at seeing him working so happily, combined with vague regret that she would have to drag him away from this to say goodnight to his aunts and uncles... and then, too, a feeling nearly debilitating in its strength...something that she could not, would not examine right now...she just had to get them out of that room.

"Hugo, your Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny are leaving. And I think your Uncle George has brought you something from his shop. But I want you to promise me that you're not going to use whatever it is until..."

"Wicked!" he exclaimed, leaping up from his seat and running toward the door. At the threshold, just as Hermione was suffering an inner wince at his rudeness, he stopped and turned back. "Um, thanks, Mr Snape. It was fun. And I get it a lot better now."

"You are quite welcome, Mr Weasley," Snape said, and Hugo took off again.

Which left Hermione standing awkwardly alone with Severus in her son's bedroom. She could not stop her hands from wringing slightly.

"Thank you, Severus," she said.

"Whatever for?"

"For coming. For helping him. I knew there was something wrong, but he wouldn't tell me anything."

"In my experience, young boys do not wish to bring their academic struggles to the attention of their mothers. Particularly mothers who have a reputation for brilliance."

She shrugged, still not knowing quite what to do with herself. "I suppose. Still, I wish he would come to me."

"Well," Snape said, standing and smoothing his robes.

"Yes, well, it was good of you to come."

"Mmm. See to your guests, Hermione. I'll tidy up here."

"Oh, leave it, Severus. You don't need to clean up! I'll send Hugo back up later..."

"Have you lost your mind? And leave a Forgetfulness Potion simmering?"

"No, of course, you're right. I'll handle it."

"Hermione. Go."

She acquiesced with regret, knowing that by the time she made it back to this room, he really would be gone, and there was nothing for her to impulsively and irately invite him to now. This time, he would be gone for good. She looked back over her shoulder.

He was staring right back at her. She nodded and hurried from the room.

***

That night, after the guests had gone (some of whom were drunk enough that Ronald had to escort them through the Floo) and the empty glasses and plates had all been banished to the kitchen, after Hannah's staff had left and the lights had been turned off, after Hermione and Ron had sent the children's presents soaring down the stairs to rest under the tree...finally, she was in her own bedroom, exchanging her robes for her sleeping tee shirt and uncharming her hair. And it was there, in the dark and safety of her own room, that she revisited the scene in Hugo's bedroom, and allowed herself to feel for the first time that she loved Severus Snape.

Severus Snape, who hadn't really been able to leave things as they had been, who'd given up his solitude to see her on Christmas Eve. Severus, who treated Hugo with such kindness that Hugo had confided in him... Hugo had called his interaction with Snape fun! Hugo liked him...Hermione did not want to examine too closely the reason that this filled her with such elation, but it was true all the same: Hugo liked him. And if his interaction with Rose had been a bit stiffer, well, Rose was a teenage girl, and they were difficult at the best of times. It might be that in time...she cut that thought off.

"I love him," she said so quietly that it was barely a breath.

Suddenly, despite how hard she'd worked that day, she was too agitated to sleep. She slipped from the room and made her way down the hall to Hugo's door.

Something caught her attention in the hallway. It was an odd Concealment Spell...one that seemed to want her to notice it. She bent and felt around the floorboard until her hand collided with a rough, papered package. As soon as she touched it, the spell fell away. It was possible that this was a gift from one of the children, that Hugo or Rose had hidden it here until morning, but somehow she was certain that Severus had left this here for her to find. She sat down on the floor with her back to the wall and carefully peeled the brown paper away.

It was a replica of The Fountain of Magical Brethren, one of the cheap little brass ones that they sold in the Ministry gift shop. She'd passed them every day of her life; she could have had a hundred of them, if she'd wanted. And yet, somehow, the gift seemed to her the best she had ever received, and she cried, not for the thoughtfulness of the gift, but for what it cemented, the feeling that she was being seen at long last.