Fifth Year: Crow on the Menu

Fifth Year: Crow on the Menu

In the days following Hermione Granger's wedding-that-wasn't, I managed to convince myself that whatever else she had wanted to tell me was absolutely inconsequential. It couldn't possibly be anything along the lines of 'I've fallen in love with you, Severus'. That sort of thing only happened in Muggle movies or very poorly written wizarding romance stories – or so I've been told. At any rate, when I failed to hear back from Granger in the day or two following the big brouhaha, I cursed myself for being an old fool and decided to get on with my life. I plunged back into my work, churning out more potions than ever and making plans to attend a Potions conference in Rome at the end of September.

The trip turned out to be quite satisfying. The weather was sunny and pleasant and the seminars, stimulating. I also managed to make the acquaintance of a female who was pretty, intellectual, and not completely repulsed by me. Celia Pazzesco was an Italian Potions Mistress ten years my senior who, for some reason, found me fascinating. I had no idea why she should think this, but I chose to enjoy it for the time being.

Celia and I spent a torrid weekend together at the end of the conference. She left me with no doubt that she would very much enjoy spending the occasional weekend in my company, and while I could not picture how Celia would fit into my life in the long run, the 'occasional weekend' was at least a diversion. It rather amused me to think that she saw me as a desirable younger man, and I wondered what Minerva McGonagall or any of the other gossipy old maids at Hogwarts would have said to that.

I thought of Granger frequently. She would doubtless find someone more worthy of her than Weasley, but after running the Hogwarts class lists through my mind more than once, I was quite certain that she would have to go abroad to find him. I then pictured Hermione at her own conference in Italy, encountering a handsome wizard named Angelo who would whisk her away to his villa on the Amalfi Coast, where they would debate house-elf rights until the wee hours of the morning when they weren't making mad, passionate love.

The idea not only failed to amuse me, it put me into a foul mood for the rest of the day.

At Christmastime, I again received a card from Hermione bearing the usual sentiments – wishing me well, informing me that her mother was finally able to return to work, and expressing the hope that we could work together for my final year of my community service. She finished with a rather vague statement about how she hoped we would be able to talk soon. I ignored the comments, choosing instead to send a Christmas card to her parents.

I spent a pleasant Christmas and New Year's in Sorrento with Celia, and she promised to visit me in Britain whenever spring arrived. I pointed out that spring weather was rather more delayed in Britain than what she was accustomed to, and Celia laughed and called me her carino Severo, which I suppose was a good thing. When I returned to Britain, I discovered a note from Hermione in my mailbox: she had come to see me on Boxing Day and was sorry that she had missed me.

I ignored the note as well.

***

Meanwhile, the anniversary of the Dark Lord's defeat was fast approaching, five years since Voldemort was felled by Harry Potter and his own stupidity. Five years that I had managed to live a life under no one's dictates but my own – and the Ministry of Magic and my yearly sentence, of course. In February I received my missive regarding my final year of community service. Surprisingly, it arrived in the form of a personal letter from Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Being as the British wizarding world couldn't allow the five year anniversary to go unrecognized, all manner of events were in the planning stages. They ranged from a somber Service of Remembrance to a festive Victory Ball. I would be working directly with the Victory Ball Planning Committee, Shacklebolt wrote. He went on to offer something of an apology – because, Kingsley said, I was a war hero and therefore an honoree, and to be assigned to plan my own party was rather silly.

I owled him back at once, telling him that having spent the last three years canvassing werewolves door-to-door and picnicking with house-elves, planning my own party struck me as rather dignified.

Despite the fact that I hadn't seen Hermione Granger since that August night at her flat, I couldn't help but feel somewhat disappointed not to be in her charge once more. I would never have guessed that I would come to admire her intelligence and her sheer determination, especially the way she worked at social issues like a dog with a particularly good bone. Then there was that fire in Granger's eyes when she was enthused over something, the way she worried that lower lip when deep in thought, and the enchanting tendrils which escaped the upswept hairstyle she frequently wore to work...

I told myself to think of Celia and stop being an idiot.

***

March came in like a lion and therefore went out like the proverbial lamb. The last weekend of the month was prematurely warm and pleasant, and as a result, Celia decided that the weather was decent enough to make a spur-of-the-moment trip to Britain. She did not like the cold, and I suspected that if we were to continue our relationship, it would remain a commuter romance – with me being primarily the one to do the commuting.

And the word 'romance' itself made me uneasy.

Celia and I slept together and talked potions together, but that was the extent of things. What we had was convenient sex and a common interest in magical potions, but it was not what I would call a romance. Something was missing, something I didn't want to investigate too closely, given my cynical nature. The lack of heartfelt involvement in our relationship only added to my belief that whatever romance truly was, it was not something that would happen to me.

When Celia arrived, she was quite keen to visit many of the wizarding sites in Britain. The final day of her visit, she insisted on seeing Hogsmeade, but I was less than enthused. It marked the first time I had been that far north since the final battle, and the mere idea that Hogwarts was just down the road gave me chills. For that reason, I was more than ready to leave as soon as Celia and I had done a few shops and eaten dinner at the Three Broomsticks. There were simply too many painful memories there and not enough pleasant ones to balance things out, I decided. We were just about to leave the wizarding pub when a pair of new customers walked in.

Hermione's escort, dinner partner, whatever, was a gray-haired man whom I judged to be a good ten years older than me. Had she indeed gone abroad to find a new lover, or was he merely someone ahead of my year at Hogwarts? And why on earth did she choose someone that old? I was so busy scowling that I nearly missed the introductions.

"Hello, Severus. How are you?" Clearly unnerved at the sight of me, Hermione recovered quickly, glancing from me to Celia and back again, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

"Quite well, thank you, Hermione." I forced a pleasant expression onto my face. "May I present Celia Pazzesco, a friend and professional colleague? Celia, Hermione Granger."

"How do you do, Celia?" Granger smiled and extended her hand.

"Pleased to meet you, dear," Celia said. She shook Hermione's hand and then, in a gesture of ownership that must be recognized by females the world around, slipped her arm through mine and hugged it to her side. I was seized by a sudden desire to remove her arm from my person and shove her bodily beneath the nearest table.

Celia's action did not go unnoticed. Hermione turned pink and sidled half a step closer to her escort.

"This is Cyril Hart. He's new in my department at the Ministry," she announced. "Cyril, this is Severus Snape."

"Hello," Cyril shook my hand vigorously. I wanted to hurl him underneath the nearest table along with Celia. "I've heard of you, of course, Severus. It's an honor to meet you – war hero and all."

"Being a war hero is high overrated, I'm afraid."

"Yes, but what an honor. You'll always be able to look back on that with pride."

Exactly what part of my sordid past did the twit think I was proud of? The already-frozen smile on my face stiffened even further. The four of us exchanged a few more stilted remarks that no one truly meant, and then Celia and I left the Three Broomsticks behind.

We returned to my home in Spinner's End shortly thereafter. Celia had intended to depart for Italy that night, but she appeared in my parlor with her bag packed much sooner than I expected. Before I could ask why – her reservation at the International Floo Port wasn't for another three hours – she merely smiled and kissed me gently.

"My poor Severo," she said, placing a hand against my cheek. "How long have you been in love with her?"

Taken aback, I stared at Celia, my jaw dropping slightly. There was no need to ask who she meant by 'her' or how she had known this. Surely peacetime had softened my ability to school my features, or I would have seen the green light of the Dark Lord's displeasure early on.

"A while," I managed to say.

"I thought so. It was so very obvious. We Italians invented the amore, you know."

"Obviously we Brits have managed to get a grip on it as well. Miss Granger clearly has affection for her friend Cyril," I said in a pathetic display of self-defense. It was a good thing, I thought, that Celia and I hadn't been wildly in love with each other; she could be trying to hex me into oblivion at this very moment.

"Obviously not," Celia protested at once. "She cares for you, too."

I began, "I don't think –"

"Severo!" Smiling, Celia thumped a hand against my chest. "You know so much about the external alchemy and nothing about the internal alchemy. I suggest you make your move before your Miss Granger decides that ugly Cyril is the best she can do, eh?"

I nodded dumbly. Celia kissed me once more, thanked me for the lovely dalliance we had shared, and Disapparated on the spot.

***

Two weeks passed since Celia Pazzesco Disapparated from my life with her parting words about Hermione, and during that time, I did nothing about following her advice. I told myself that I needed to determine whether my fascination with Granger – which I'd managed to tamp down between work and sex with Celia – was a result of Celia's observation or my own imaginings. And frankly, it seemed better to wait and do nothing than leap into the fray and make a fool of myself.

I went to my first committee meeting at the Ministry with rather low expectations. It was too much to ask, I suppose, to have been assigned to work on something less frivolous than a ball. I had simply been promoted from picnic planner to party planner – the only distinction between the two, as near as I could tell, was that the Victory Ball would be held indoors and there would be no three-legged race.

The Victory Ball Planning Committee was scheduled to meet at ten. I arrived right on time and found that the conference room was already quite full, the huge round table which dominated the room already surrounded by at least a dozen witches and wizards. I made my way to one of the Perpetually-Brewing Teapots stations that could be found in almost every room at the Ministry, poured myself a cuppa, and then found a seat. I was just taking my first sip of tea when I glanced up and discovered Hermione Granger's brown eyes regarding me from across the wide conference table.

I've heard that clichéd phrase 'my heart leapt at the sight of him or her' many times. As any imbecile knows, hearts do not leap. Still, when I saw Granger sitting there, I wouldn't have been surprised to find my heart dancing a jig in the middle of the enormous wooden table had my flesh and bone not been there to restrain it.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," I said, nodding my head.

She didn't speak, only studied me with something akin to curiosity before turning away to focus her attention on the chairman.

I didn't have time to speculate on her strange behaviour. The chairman was already calling the meeting to order, acknowledging my presence and welcoming me to the planning committee.

That done, I amused myself during the meeting by mentally calculating the number of minutes in two hundred hours – twelve thousand, actually – until my community service sentence was completed. I also spent the time discreetly scrutinizing Granger, an easy task since she seemed disinclined to look in my direction. I had forgotten just how attractive the woman was when she was totally absorbed and involved in what she was doing. By the end of the hour I truly had no idea what was discussed, because I had paid absolutely no attention whatsoever.

As soon as the meeting ended, I tried to corner Granger to talk to her. Unfortunately, a number of the committee members had plans to corner me, and the last I saw of Hermione was her bushy hair disappearing through the doorway while old Hamish MacFarlan talked my arm off about a special Quidditch event to be held as part of the anniversary celebration. It took a good ten minutes to extricate myself from the conversation and make my way to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I found Hermione standing in her cubicle with her back to me, her arms overflowing with parchments.

"Hello, Hermione," I said quietly.

Granger spun around at once, the parchments spilling willy-nilly all over the floor. As she bent down to pick them up, I crouched down to help.

"I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to startle you," I said.

"I should know better than to try to carry that many parchments." Hermione glanced up at me. "How are you, Severus?"

I paused in the midst of picking up parchment and looked into her brown eyes. They were not, I realized, quite as warm as usual. "I am well. And you?"

"Fine."

"How is your job going?"

"Fine, thank you."

Unless I was very much mistaken, there was a definite chill in the air.

"I was surprised to see you at the Three Broomsticks," I said, picking up one last parchment and then climbing to my feet.

"Really? Why should that surprise you?" Granger, already standing, turned to dump the parchments onto her desk. "I've been known to eat before."

Ouch. The atmosphere was worse than chilly; it was downright artic.

"Is there something wrong?" I probed carefully.

"Wrong? I don't know, Severus, you tell me."

"I don't know what you're getting at."

"No?" She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Why were you nice enough to send a Christmas card to my parents, yet I didn't rate a single 'happy Christmas' from you? And then I came to see you on Boxing Day, and you weren't there."

"I was out of the country," I began.

"I left you a note," Hermione continued coldly, "yet you didn't care to acknowledge it."

Well, one thing was certainly clear: Celia was dead wrong. Obviously, Hermione Granger could not care less about me.

"You're correct," I admitted with some reluctance. "That was not the best choice I could have made."

"And why did you leave my flat last August? I needed to tell you something, and when I came back, you were gone!"

There was an almost palpable hurt in Granger's voice. I tried to explain – at least partially – what I'd been thinking that day.

"You had company," I said. "Potter and his wife. Surely you did not want them to find me there."

"Why not? You're my friend!"

"Yes, well, that's the problem, isn't it?" I snapped. I don't want to be your friend, Granger. I want to be so much more...

Hermione stared at me, and I could almost see her brain working furiously. I did not want to get into this discussion in front of an entire department of Ministry lackeys. Already, I knew eyes would be peering around cubicle walls and ears would be straining to hear.

As if on cue, Cyril Hart stuck his head around the wall of the cubicle. "Hermione, do you have a mo? Oh, hello, Severus. Nice to see you again."

Damn it to Merlin's piss-pot and back! Were we never to have a complete conversation without interruptions?

"Bugger off," I snarled in Cyril's direction. Sweet Merlin, it felt good to have some of the old anger surging through my veins again! When I turned back, Hermione was looking at me with a curious expression on her face. Exasperated, I demanded, "Is there somewhere more private to talk in this ridiculous place?"

"Later, Cyril," Hermione said to her coworker, her eyes still fixed on me. She beckoned to me to follow her as she led the way to an actual office with four walls and a door. She waved me inside, then closed the door behind her.

"Now then," she said carefully and deliberately, "what is the problem with you being my friend, Severus?"

It was beginning to dawn on me, now that the flash of fury was dying down, that I was mucking this up big time.

"Just tell me," I urged, my voice low, "why you asked me to meet you at your flat last summer. The evening of your wedding."

"To explain why I couldn't marry Ron," Hermione began.

"You told me why. He behaved abominably that day. But there was something else you wanted to tell me," I reminded her.

Granger gave me a withering glare before retorting, "Yes, there was. What I wanted to say was that I couldn't marry Ron because I was in love with someone else. Evidently, however, I was sadly mistaken!"

There was a ringing silence in the room.

"Are you certain that you were mistaken?" I breathed finally.

She looked at me, studying me, calculating. "Tell me about Celia."

My heart sank slightly. "I met Celia in Italy last September at a Potions Conference."

"And?"

"And we had a brief fling and there was nothing more to it than that."

"Really?" Granger was trembling now and trying hard not to show it.

"Really."

"Why didn't you get back in touch with me? Or answer my Christmas card or my note?" The hurt in Hermione's voice was quite clear.

"I was afraid," I blurted honestly. "I was afraid that you saw me as nothing more than an Agony Aunt or a kindly uncle figure, or – or something."

"A kindly uncle figure?" Granger giggled now.

"Or something," I repeated, scowling, annoyed at having to bare my soul like this. Discussing my feelings did not come naturally to me, nor was it ever likely to. "So tell me – there are no Potters at the door now, I presume – you said you couldn't marry Weasley because you were in love with somebody else. Who?"

Time slowed to an absolute crawl. It seemed to take years before Hermione ventured an answer.

"You," she whispered. "You."

And suddenly, I was engulfing Hermione Granger in my arms and the world was totally, utterly transformed. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of her wonderful, ridiculous hair.

"It will not be easy," I murmured finally, "to be involved with me. There are still people who loathe me and wish me dead – which likely include the Weasleys, once they find out."

Hermione lifted her face to gaze at me. "Don't sell them short. They're reasonable people."

"Does it matter to you that I am twenty years older than you?" It was one of the reasons I had believed for months now that Granger couldn't possibly have fallen for me.

A smile quirked the corners of her mouth. "Does it matter to you that I was once your student?"

I tried again.

"Does it matter to you that I used to be a Death Eater?" Surely Granger could not ignore that dark aspect of my life.

Another wry smile. "Does it matter to you that I'm good friends with Harry Potter?"

I groaned aloud. "Well, there you have me. Potter and I have maintained a truce for five years now, but I don't know that his tolerance of me extends to this."

"Don't sell Harry short either," Hermione murmured. "He's left a lot of his anger behind, just as you have."

"Hmph," I said to this dissection of my character, although I was smiling. "Will you forgive my deplorable lack of manners these past eight months? It was self-defense, I assure you."

"You're forgiven."

The expression on Hermione's face was one of pure joy. She seemed lit from within, and suddenly I wondered what all the fuss had been about. Obviously being in love was not nearly as difficult as I'd always believed.

"I was wondering," she went on, her cheeks a most becoming shade of pink, "if you possibly escort me to the Victory Ball? Cyril keeps asking, and I keep putting him off."

"I would be honored and delighted to escort you to the Victory Ball, as well as anyplace in the known world that you would wish to go," I declared lightly.

"Excellent. And do you have any plans for dinner tonight?"

My mouth was dry as I whispered, "All my plans now include you, Hermione Granger – for the rest of the day, the rest of the month, the rest of my life."

There was no need to say more. I placed a warm hand against Hermione's face and pressed my lips to hers.

***

VICTORY BALL SHOCKER: GRANGER AND SNAPE ENGAGED!

--Rita Skeeter, your On-the-Spot News Hound