Digital Quill :: Fiction with Flair

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Harry Potter
The Arithmantic Dating Agency by Shiv5468 [Reviews - 6] [3570 hits]

Do you feel that the world doesn’t appreciate your unique qualities?

Well we do appreciate them.

And we can find someone else to appreciate them too.

They say that everyone has their true soulmate somewhere in the world.

At the Arithmancy Dating Agency we apply the latest Arithmantic techniques to work out what your ideal partner would be like, and then match them to profiles of our members. We arrange a meeting between you, and then let nature take its course.

We are so confident of finding you a perfect match, that we only charge a fee if we are successful.

Your chance at happiness may be one in a million so why leave it to chance?

Simply fill in the attached form and send it back to us. Once we have found a suitable match, we will contact you to let you know who it is and where to meet them.

Satisfaction guaranteed.

Severus Snape had felt more than a little embarrassed when he filled in the form for the Arithmantic Dating Agency. But after all, he reasoned, its not as if all the previous years of working as a spy has given him any chance of meeting someone. This, coupled with his continuing role as nursemaid in chief to Slytherin in particular, and potions students in general, meant that he could do with all the help he could get.

The reputation of the agency had spread by word of mouth. Many a recent marriage, involving some of the most unlikely people, had been attributed to its services. Harry Potter and Millicent Bullstrode sprang to mind as one of the most bizarre couples, but they seemed deliriously happy.

Snape snorted. He didn’t really expect to be deliriously happy, but he had surprised himself with a wistful longing for company. Someone to talk to at the end of a long day that was over the age of seventeen, and below the age of seventy. Sybil Trelawney and Madame Hooch were the only candidates on the staff of Hogwarts. Sybil he had dismissed straight away – not even the prospect of a lifetime in Azkaban could have stopped him from throttling her if he had to spend more than a couple of hours in her presence. Madame Hooch had seemed a possibility. Whilst the way she gripped her broom with her muscular thighs raised all sorts of intriguing possibilities, BUT it had to be said that her hearty manner and incessant chattering about Quidditch were off-putting. Not to mention the serious possibility that she was playing for the other side.

So he had greeted the arrival of the Dating Agency’s brochure with something approaching relief. Here was an answer to his problems. But once he had filled in the form, answering some very odd questions, and sent it off by Owl to the agency’s secret offices, he felt uneasy. It was one thing to sit in the safety of Hogwarts and console oneself with the thoughts that it was merely opportunity that was lacking, but what if the agency couldn’t find him a partner? What then?

He had taken to looking at his reflection, wondering whether there was anything he could do to improve his appearance. Listening to the students had given him clues as to what he needed to do. The teeth were beyond straightening, but he could and did clean them regularly. He had experimented with something called Shampoo, and now his hair was glossy and clean. Even the children had noticed the improvement, and he had overheard some of them speculating that he had a girlfriend. Some muggle term apparently.

He had considered buying new clothes as well, but from what he could gather the first thing any woman did in a relationship was to completely make-over their new possession. So he decided to save his galleons. Besides, he rather liked his formal suits. He just hoped that she liked black. He couldn’t really see himself in any other colour. Perhaps a very dark green, if she insisted. He had to face facts, some sort of compromise in a relationship was inevitable, or so he was told, and if that meant wearing very, very dark green clothes, he would just have to put up with it.

The owl had delivered his reply this morning at the breakfast table. Despite the curious stares of his colleagues, he had casually pocketed the letter and then carefully ignored for the rest of the day. The students had seemed to pick up on his precarious mood, and had been rather better behaved than usual. He had only managed to take a mere thirty points off Gryffindor. Now, dinner was over, with the comically casual queries from Dumbledore about his correspondence, and he was tucked away safely in his quarters. He tapped the envelope on his palm. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened it.

It is with great pleasure that we send you the names of the potential candidates selected for you by our Arithmancy system. Please remember that, although some of these names may seem surprising to you, we ask you to approach this with an open mind.

Many of our clients find that the person selected for them is not someone they would have chosen for themselves, but if they take the time and effort to get to know the individual, they have been pleasantly surprised to find that they are indeed their soulmate.

The person selected for you, as being most likely to be a perfect match, and bring you happiness is:

Severus couldn’t believe his eyes.

Hermione Granger.

Unlikely didn’t even come close to describe the sheer magnitude of the improbability of having anything in common with that girl. A Gryffindor. An ex-student. And a Know-it-all.

This must be a joke. Someone at the agency obviously thought it was funny that he should be searching for a girlfriend and had determined to humiliate him. Well, that person was going to pay.

Hermione sodding Granger, I don’t think so.

Severus Snape was a man with a mission. He was going to find the oh-so-mysterious headquarters of the Agency, found out who was responsible and make them regret the day they had ever been born.

However, he found that it was surprisingly difficult to find out who was behind the agency. He had found another advertisement, completed it in Remus’s name and then despatched it with a simple tracking spell on the owl. Too simple apparently. Although the charm was effective until the owl reached the outskirts of London, at that point the charm flickered, faltered, and then failed.

So, he had narrowed the search area down to London. He consoled himself with the thought that it wasn’t bad for a first attempt and he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating his opponent again.

As a pleasant little bonus to the whole episode, several days later Remus received a howler at the breakfast table.

Remus Lupin, it shrieked.

How dare you try and breach the security of this organisation, it went. The Arithmantic Dating Agency promises complete confidentiality to its clients. If you ever try something like this again, I will hex your balls off and make sure that you NEVER get another girlfriend for as long as you live.

Remus turned pale at the threat, and stammered out a denial to High Table. ‘But I have never even heard of the Arithmantic Dating Agency, why should they think that I want to do something like that?’

‘Its hardly fair to Miss Wilmott, to try and form another attachment before you break it off with her,’ put in Severus, with manifest enjoyment. Minerva looked disapproving. Severus couldn’t tell whether this was due to Lupin’s perceived infidelity or Severus’s comment, but he thought it was more likely to be her natural expression.

‘But.. but… I didn’t,’ Remus said. He was almost in tears at the thought of losing his testicles, whether to the agency or to Miss Wilmott.

‘It’s more likely to be some sort of student prank,’ put in Minerva.

‘Yes, that would certainly be the line I would adopt with Miss Wilmott. You never know, she may actually believe it.’

‘Really, Severus,’ said Minerva with some asperity. ‘You aren’t helping the situation!’

‘I wasn’t aware,’ he replied, ‘that I was trying to.’

However, the minor satisfaction he had obtained from Lupin’s panic had done nothing to diminish his desire to find and punish the malefactor responsible for his humiliation. Miss Wilmott had apparently been appeased, and the crisis passed, so he wasn’t even to be spared the revolting spectacle of the pair canoodling in public. Any student caught behaving like that would quickly lose house points, if not receive detention. How order was to be maintained in school when the Professors behaved in such a fashion, he did not know.

Still he had more pressing problems in hand than the imminent breakdown in school discipline. He had obtained another form, and was now examining it for charms. The charm to disable the anti-tracking spell was deceptively obvious, but a second glance showed that attempting to remove it would trigger another charm that would turn his hair bright pink and disintegrate the form in an instant. Very clever.

He felt a faint sense of admiration for the mind that had constructed the problem, but he was determined to solve it. In the end, he decided on a charm that would remain passive for 24 hours but then would broadcast its position back to him. That should give the owl time to deliver the reply, but should also mean that none of the parchment’s defences were triggered.

It was with a more than faint sense of malice that he used Minerva’s name to complete this form. He snorted. It would be amusing to see if he could intercept the reply and see who had been selected for her. Ronald Weasley perhaps? It was about as likely as he and Miss Granger.

He idly considered asking Minerva what her erstwhile protégé had been up to since leaving school, but quickly realised that even a passing interest shown in an ex-student, let alone a Gryffindor, would occasion comment.

He sent the reply off using one of the general school owls rather than his personal owl, and settled down to wait. In just over twenty-four hours he would know who he was dealing with.

He was looking forward to the meeting immensely.

Chapter Two

Severus Snape was feeling very pleased with himself.

For the first time since the fall of Voldermort, he was actually enjoying himself. He didn’t miss the almost constant terror, the pain of cruciatus meted out by an impatient and unstable Dark Lord, or the inanities of an almost-as-unstable-as-the-Dark-Lord-Dumbledore. There was many an occasion during the war when he had debated with himself the absolute theoretical maximum depth you could insert a sherbert lemon into someone’s rear orifice without the benefit of mechanical aids.

But he did miss the challenge, the excitement of battling with the finest minds in the Wizarding World. He found himself feeling increasingly nostalgic for Lucius Malfoy. A bastard of the first water, but a clever bastard it had been a delight to lock horns with.

Somehow frightening the living daylights out of children didn’t have the same thrill now that he wasn’t skulking, sneaking and spying. He had been aware that there had been whispers of late amongst his Slytherins that he was losing his touch, but how could he explain to a bunch of snotty teenagers the absolute paralysis of boredom that had descended on him. The problem was that he had run out of enemies, and who would have ever thought THAT would have happened.

The Germans had a word for it, as they had a word for almost every condition of misery – weltschmerz. World weariness, fin de siecle exhaustion without the fun of the decadence.

He sighed. In fifteen minutes he planned to confront the owner of the agency, frighten the living daylights out of them, reduce them to grovelling terror, and then apparate back to Hogwarts in time for lunch. He sighed again. After that though, the whole afternoon spread itself before him like a vast desert with only the faint possibility of a – he flailed around for a suitable metaphor – a cactus to break the monotony.

Yes, that summed it up. Tea with Dumbledore, a chat with Minerva, sneaking his overdue books back into the library without being caught by Madam Pince, all cactuses. Even giving out detentions was beginning to pall as an amusement. He rather thought that the day he stopped enjoying detentions was the day that he would retire to his dungeons and do the decent thing. Not that anyone would miss him particularly, but he thought it would be the honourable thing to do.

Resign.

Understandable paranoia had made him sit outside the address he had tracked the owl to for at least fifteen minutes. Although he had appeared to have outlived his enemies, it didn’t pay to get careless. There was always the possibility that he had overlooked someone: one of his school chums, his death eater chums, someone convinced he hadn’t really returned to the side of the Light, or even someone he had taught potions to. In fact, bearing in mind the infantile nature of the humiliation he had been subjected to, it was most likely to be someone he had taught potions to. Which narrowed it down to about three thousand people in all.

The smart money was on a Weasley though. He dreaded the day when the offspring of the last batch of Weasley’s made its way to Hogwarts. Everyone knew that twins ran in the family, and god knew that even without that added advantage a Weasley family tended to run to a Quidditch team. Personally, he considered that rabbits had a bad press – it should be breeding like Weasleys.

Still the scene at breakfast this morning had suggested that the agency was genuine, if completely misguided. Minerva’s reply had arrived by owl to a rather frosty reception. He smiled fondly at the memory.

He recognised the owl straightaway as the one that had delivered his message from the agency. It swooped across the hall and settled delicately on the table in front of Minerva, who removed the scroll from the proffered leg in complete and happy ignorance of the shock awaiting her.

He had hidden his anticipation well, but he was filled with curiosity to see who had been chosen for her partner. He had tried to be as accurate as possible when filling the form in, and he thought he was likely to have got it mostly right. He had known Minerva for over twenty years now. Perhaps her choice was going to be as unlikely as his own.

Apparently so. The last time he had heard Minerva squeal like that – it could only be called a squeal – she had just caught Draco Malfoy attempting to sneak into the Gryffindor common room to plant Dungbombs. He remembered the incident fondly. In his role as spy he could not afford to come down too hard on Deatheater spawn, but Minerva had no such restrictions. Four weeks of detention with Filch, scouring the classroom floors with a toothbrush had been the result of Draco’s ‘youthful indiscretion’.

It was one of his happiest memories of the War Years.

That and the expression of shock when Lucius realised that he had been working as a spy all along.

It hadn’t been necessary to ask Minerva what had caused her outrage, as she was only too happy to communicate it to the world at large, at length and at volume. She had called a staff meeting during the lunch hour, which everyone had attended. Usually there would have been strong expressions of discontent at having to give up their spare time in this way, but they were all agog to see what exactly had rubbed Minerva’s fur the wrong way. Or rather who.

They were to be disappointed in large measure. Whilst she was keen on the malefactor being tracked down and ritually disembowelled in front of the whole school she was less interested in revealing her dark secret. Her temper having cooled in the interim, she had been faced with the sheer horror of telling her colleagues the identity of the man selected for her. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak, on the nature of the letter, but she could at least draw a discreet veil over the identity of her paramour. Bitter experience indicated that there would be precious little sympathy forthcoming. Indeed, money had already exchanged hands on the issue.

It was those with wagers who were the most disappointed by Minerva’s characteristically tight lipped refusal to discuss matters. Severus had been most amused at the way Minerva had cut off Sybil’s attempt to name names with an abrupt, “Yes, I’m sure you can see the answer in your teacup, Sybil, but if you don’t want to be picking splinters out of your arse for the next month I suggest you shut up before I shove your crystal ball in the orifice you usually talk out of.”

The teachers exchanged glances. Minerva was rarely crude, so this meant that whoever it was it was very bad indeed. There was a subtle flurry of betting as people changed horses in mid-race.

“And if any of you buggers are thinking of trying anything to find out who was nominated to be the love of my life, let me remind you I am in charge of the upcoming review of salaries.”

The teachers had filed out, having assured Minerva to a person that she could rely on their support, muttering under their breath about miserable cows and trying to cancel the wagers.

She stopped Severus on his way out of the door. “Speaking of the salary review, Severus. I was wondering if I could persuade you to do me a little favour.”

“Gryffindor sublety yet again, Minerva. I presume you want me to find out who is responsible?”

She nodded, biting back the angry reply trembling on her lips.

“You know that I will need to see the scroll?”

She nodded again, and reluctantly handed it over. “You will be discreet about this, won’t you Severus?”

What he had wanted to say was that it was a little late for discretion when you had announced your displeasure to everyone within a five mile radius but curiosity had overridden his natural tendency to sarcasm and he had uttered the necessary assurances to make Minerva hand over the scroll. It wasn’t that she believed him, but he was the best choice for the task.

He had waited until Minerva had left before opening the letter.

It is with great pleasure blah blah blah open mind blah blah not chosen for themselves blah soulmate blah perfect match is….

Severus had strolled off to his dungeons with a beatific smile on his face. It seemed that their beloved caretaker had also decided to venture into the perilous seas of love.

It had made Hermione Granger seem almost …pleasant.

He looked at his pocketwatch. He had another five minutes to go before storming the Agency buildings.

He allowed himself to wonder what the Gryffindor Know-it-all was doing now. He wondered if she had ever managed to tame that truly appalling mane of frizzy hair.

Four minutes.

Everyone had expected her to take up with either Weasley or Potter after the war, but it seemed that she too was looking for a companion.

Three minutes.

He wondered what on earth the Agency thought they had in common.

Two minutes.

He wondered what she’d be like in bed.

One minute.

Where on earth had that thought come from?

Time up, he crossed the street to the door. The locking charm was complex, but he managed to break it. The door opened onto a grey, institutional office containing cheap furniture. He slipped through the door and his suspicions were confirmed. The only splash of colour in the room was the occupant, whose flaming hair proclaimed them a Weasley.

“You!” he said in tones of absolute loathing. “I knew it!”

Ginny Weasley.

He felt an immense surge of gratification. The old instincts were still there and peacetime had not dulled them too much. He had thought a Weasley the most likely candidate, and it was indeed a Weasley. He conveniently ignored the fact that he had expected it to be Fred and George or, as an outside chance, Ron.

Ginny, judging from her wide eyes and gaping mouth, was shocked to see him. You underestimated me there my girl, he thought with grim satisfaction.

“P…professor Snape! What are you doing here?”

“As if you don’t know Miss Weasley. Playing dumb, although a role naturally within your reach, will not benefit you right now.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she stuttered.

Severus felt his tenuous grip on his temper fail entirely. His carefully prepared speech fled from his mind, and he abandoned silky sarcasm in favour of outraged volume.

Hermione’s formidable powers of concentration were disturbed by the sounds of shouting from the next room. She was on the point of casting a silencing charm, when she thought she recognised the voice. Curiosity over why Professor Snape found himself outside her office overcame her reluctance to break an interesting line of work.

She opened the door to a scene familiar to her from potion’s classes. Ginny was pinned between Snape and the desk. He loomed over her, using the advantage of his height to force home his points.

Hermione to the rescue again she sighed.

“Professor Snape,” she said warmly, “how nice to see you again. How are you?”

Severus had not anticipated this. What was he to think? This could hardly be a prank now. His bemused mind seized on and discarded a series of explanations, which became increasingly bizarre as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

It was a prank played by one of the Weasley brothers on Hermione. It was a prank played by Ginny on her boss. It was Ginny trying to matchmake. Hermione… he gulped… Hermione had a crush on him.

Good god, that must be it! Hermione had a crush on him and had taken the opportunity that the letter had afforded to put herself forward instead of other, obviously more suitable candidates.

He allowed himself to be drawn into Hermione’s office and prepared to let her down gently. She was, after all, a very powerful witch and who could predict what her reaction to rejection would be?

As Hermione ordered tea, he examined her for signs of lovesickness. There were none of the usual symptoms he had observed in others – no inane grin, no dopey expression, no flustered fussing round the teapot, and no fiddling with her hair. Mind you, any attempt at mock grooming would probably result in her hand becoming permanently attached to that frizzy mass. There was no apparent loss of intellect at all, which led to one of two conclusions. Either there was no crush, and Ginny was responsible, or she had had a lot of practice in disguising the symptoms.

Perhaps from potions classes?

He shuddered at the thought of being the object of some pre-pubescent schoolgirl’s fantasy. How demeaning. He rather thought not though. He had become adept over the years at spotting the pupils – make or female – labouring under the misapprehension that beneath these black robes beat a tortured soul who only needed true love to achieve happiness / equipment to make a donkey envious / a slytherin sex god of unparalleled kinkiness / delete as appropriate. Not that he was denying the last two, but he was hardly likely to be interested in sharing that with spotty teenagers.

His ruminations were interrupted by Ginny bringing in the tea things. He was pleased to note that the tea had been properly prepared in a pot. Leaf tea too, judging from the strainer on the tray. He was surprised. Even pureblood wizarding families had succumbed to the lure of convenience and now brewed up using a teabag in a mug.

He accepted his cup of tea – a touch of milk, no sugar – and sipped it in silence. He was surprised to find it was a delicate blend of rose pouchong and Earl Grey that was rather pleasant. He made a mental note to try the blend at home. He sipped his tea in silence. It was time to force her into making a move.

Predictably enough, she did. Gryffindors really were no challenge at all.

“So, what brings you here, Professor Snape?”

Rather than launch into a long and tiresome narrative he simply handed over the piece of paper electing Hermione Granger as his one, true soulmate.

He watched her eyes flick across the paper until they came to the final sentence. He sat back in his chair in anticipation of a demonstration of the fiery Granger temper. There was none of the outrage he had expected, just a peculiarly thoughtful expression settled on her face.

Her eyes abruptly focussed on him, and he was treated to a leisurely but thorough examination of his person in a manner rather reminiscent of Voldemort searching out a spy or Mrs Norris on the hunt.

He barely resisted the urge to shift awkwardly under her gaze. Some conclusion was obviously reached, and she leaned forward to say in the blandest tones possible, “Your … eagerness to arrange a date is obviously flattering, but surely an Owl would have been sufficient?”

It seemed Miss Granger wanted to play games. He hoped she was a good loser.

“Indeed, Miss Granger. But I was so - eager for your - company, that I couldn’t help rushing here to - arrange our first meeting.” She flushed, and he didn’t think it was because she was flattered. She had never been stupid.

“I am gratified to hear it,” she shot back. She had certainly developed more of a backbone since Hogwarts, or perhaps it was just that she no longer felt constrained to be polite to him now that he could no longer deduct house points. “Although I suppose the more interesting question is how you managed to find me. The anti-tracking charms should have prevented you.”

“Time delay,” he said simply.

“Really? That’s very impressive.” He couldn’t detect any sarcasm in her voice; she seemed to be sincere. He preened himself slightly. It was true, it was a very remarkable piece of tactical thinking, but it was nice to be appreciated.

“You must tell me all about it. Perhaps over lunch? My treat.”

He had been so busy congratulating himself on a job well done, that it took several seconds for his brain to catch up with outside events. So it was a slightly bewildered Severus who found himself being firmly escorted from the premises and into a restaurant a few doors down. It didn’t look particularly salubrious from the outside, but the interior was incredible: all red plush, spindly gilt chairs and glittering chandeliers.

“I know,” she said, “it’s terribly Gryffindor, isn’t it? But I promise the food is worth it.”

He was surprised to see that she was smiling warmly at him; like a friend, as if they shared some sort of secret understanding. He cautiously smiled back. This certainly wasn’t the way he had expected things to go when he set off this morning; she seemed to be taking seriously the idea that they should become romantically involved, which he considered to be very peculiar indeed. He was determined to get to the bottom of this little mystery, collect his free lunch, and then be on his way.

It’s a shame he’d never heard the muggle saying there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

The waiter recognised Hermione; clearly she came here frequently. They were ushered to a table hidden discreetly in an alcove, and the waiters bustled around with menus, and napkins and little bread thingies in a basket.

Whilst they were contemplating their choices, the waiter handed Severus the wine list. He eyed the list; he had contemplated ordering the most expensive item on there, until he had seen the price of the cheapest bottle. Good God. That was at least a month’s salary. He looked up, surprised to feel a slight twinge of guilt. Surely Miss Granger had no idea what the prices were like in here, or she would never have suggested it. He was wondering how to break the bad news to her gently, so that she wouldn’t faint or burst into tears, when she noticed his unease.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can afford it.”

“You CAN? The Agency does that well?” he blurted out, before he could stop himself. Asking questions about someone’s wealth was very vulgar, but how on earth had she become that rich?

“Gracious, no. Not the agency. The real money comes from an investment business I run, playing the muggle stock markets.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple,” she said. “I use Arithmancy to predict the movements of stocks and shares, and make investment decisions based on those predictions. It’s very easy really.”

“But that’s illegal,” he said, not that that was intended as a criticism at all; he was, if anything, impressed. “If the Ministry ever found out what you were doing, you’d be in terrible trouble.”

“I know. That’s why I started the agency.”

“How so?”

“I use it to cover my tracks. Because all my clients are supposed to be anonymous, it’s easy to slip a fee in here and there. In the muggle world, it’s called money laundering: making dirty money clean.”

“So let me get this straight. You run a dating agency that takes advantage of unsuspecting witches and wizards solely for the purpose of covering up an illegal operation that manipulates the Muggle stock market to make you fabulously wealthy. Hermione, are you sure you weren’t mis-sorted?”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that!”

“HOW would you have put it then?”

“I run a dating agency that brings happiness into the lives of many … in order to cover up an illegal operation that has made me fabulously wealthy and hasn’t done any harm to anyone. Well, apart from the slight world recession I created last year, but I am fairly certain I have the formula sorted out now.”

He just looked at her in amazement. He had always thought of Hermione Granger as a rule-obsessed, know-it-all with no sense of humour. She still appeared to be a know-it-all, there appeared to be signs of humour, but by God, she was running roughshod over the Ministry of Magic. She had obviously overcome her desire to obey authority; Potter’s attitude had obviously rubbed off on her.

The long dormant part of Snape, that had wanted to rule the world, woke up and took a long, hard look at Miss Granger and decided it liked what it saw. Given the right encouragement it would be perfectly happy to kiss the hems of her robes. Or perhaps elsewhere…

It wasn’t the money that interested him, although money was nice: something you quickly realised on a teacher’s salary. What was attractive, seductive even, was Hermione’s attitude. Somewhere along the line, she had turned into a powerful and determined young woman, and Slytherins found power very sexy.

So it was that he ordered the second most expensive bottle of wine on the menu to go with their food – no point in being flashy – without a qualm. The waiters were polite without being obsequious, and almost invisible, and he barely noticed as their lunch was served.

He did notice that it was all Hermione had promised; the food was worth putting up with this garish décor.

“So you own the agency?” he asked, more for something to say than anything else; it was obvious she ran the place.

“Mostly. Ron and Harry own 5 % each. Of course, they only get a share of the agency income, not the rest of it. They didn’t want to take the risk.”

“Risk?”

“Of going to Azkaban; well, and of losing all their money. It was a little disappointing really.”

“And is there a serious risk of going to Azakaban?” he asked.

“Not really. I shouldn’t think that there are more than three people in the world who would understand the Arithmancy involved, and all of them are purebloods, so they would be at a complete loss when it came to understanding muggle economics. The chances of anyone being able to understand the fusion of the two are negligible to the point of impossibility.”

Almost despite himself he found he was interested; he had never really thought Arithmancy was that useful, and making money was certainly useful. “So how does this apply to helping people find romance?”

“The big problem is that what people need and what people want is very different. They have these fixed ideas in their head about who they want to be with, whether it’s a blonde or someone with large breasts; they keep choosing large-breasted blondes and wonder why they aren’t happy. Take Harry and Millicent, everyone’s wondering what on earth those two see in each other.”

Severus nodded. He had often sat and watched them at the occasional party or reunion with bemusement. They appeared to have nothing in common and yet were apparently very happy. It made him feel … wistful.

“What’s Millicent’s defining characteristic?” asked Hermione.

He thought about it. She was lumpen, bland, and unremarkable: nothing in her to catch the eye of a man who had ladies swooning at his feet once the war had ended. The only thing he could remember about her with any certainty was her complete lack of physical coordination. “She’s very clumsy,” he offered, but that couldn’t be it? Why would someone find that attractive.

“Exactly. And what’s Harry’s defining characteristic?”

“Hero Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World?” he sneered.

“Precisely. Put the two together and what do you get?” He shook his head; he couldn’t see the connection. “Someone who needs to be saved, oh, only in a little way, but someone who needs to be saved every day and someone who needs to be a hero.”

He looked at her in dawning understanding, “So he gets to feel important and needed every day?”

“And what’s more potent than that?”

But what then, came the question, could Hermione possibly need from him. Not money; she had plenty of that. Not position; the glamour of a pureblood family would mean nothing to her. Not associating with a hero, for what that was worth; she was a heroine in her own right. None of the things he thought he could offer to a woman would appeal to Hermione. What was left then? Not good looks, not a pleasant disposition, and surely there were others as intelligent as him that she could choose.

He suddenly felt very old and tired. He hesitated, and then asked, “Why do you think we would be suited to each other?”

“I can’t say for sure; I haven’t and I won’t look at the file to find out. That’s the point of a courtship: finding out about each other. I will say this though: my name shouldn’t have been on the database; I thought it had been removed after the initial trials. Over 580 Wizards have been on my books and that’s the first time my name has come up. I suspect you’re the first one who has ever indicated that you might find intelligence attractive. Frankly, I find that more than a little depressing.”

“There has to be more to it than that,” he said impatiently.

“Of course there is. I want someone who finds my intelligence attractive but who sees me as something other than just a bookworm.”

“But you just said you wanted to be appreciated for your intelligence,” he said, amused.

“I’m a girl Severus; I’m allowed to want two mutually contradictory things,” she said smiling slyly. “Do you think there is much more important than being liked for who you really are?”

He flinched at that a little; it was too close to the bone. “You’re sure that this isn’t some dreadful mistake?”

“Of course, I’m sure. I wrote the calculation. I don’t make mistakes.”

He smiled; he liked self-confidence, when it wasn’t in his classroom anyway. They sat in silence for a while, before they reached some tacit agreement: that topic was closed, for now anyway.

“So,” Hermione said, “you were going to tell me about the tracking charms you used…”

He accepted the new topic of conversation gratefully. Now it was his turn to show off; so he did. So he told her about his first attempt in Remus’s name and how that had failed; and he told her about his second attempt, and the time delay on the locator charm, and how that had succeeded; and then they had another bottle of wine; and he told her about Minerva and Filch; and she was impressed and amused by turns, and he felt a warm glow of satisfaction; and then they had dessert; and then they had a spirited discussion on how to improve her defensive charms; and then they had cheese and port; and then he was surprised to find that they had been there for four hours; and then they had some coffee and petits fours and he was sorry to realise that the whole, wonderful afternoon was coming to an end.

He was stirring his coffee, wondering how on earth he could persuade her to have lunch with him again, when her hand came to rest on top of his. “I’ve enjoyed this afternoon a great deal, Severus. I hope you’ve changed your mind about how unlikely this all is, and that you’d like to have dinner with me some time.”

So he took his courage in his hands, and for once eschewed Slytherin obfuscation and simply said, “I’d like that very much.”

She smiled and said, “Since I’m not at the beck and call of an employer, perhaps you could send me an Owl when you sort something out.”

They were interrupted by the waiter bringing the bill. He shuddered to think what the final cost was, but she hadn’t even blinked. She had merely asked for a receipt and muttered something about expenses.

They parted company before the door to the Restaurant, and it was only with the greatest of difficulty that he restrained himself from kissing her hand.

He apparated back to Hogwarts and enjoyed the stroll up to the entrance bathed in sunlight, He was full of fine wine, fine food, and had spent a very agreeable afternoon with a beaut…he balked at that … a passably attractive young woman.

Who had flattered him.

Who seemed to enjoy his company.

And who seemed to be as shifty, sly and underhanded as any Slytherin.

Maybe he could ask her to advise him on some investments. No point letting all that financial wizardry go to waste.

Perhaps this relationship thingy wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

He wondered what her views were on black robes as opposed to dark green.

He needed only one thing to make the day complete. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Bertram for making the place look untidy. Take your hands out of your pockets, stand up straight, and don’t think I can’t see that face you are pulling just because my back is turned. Detention with Filch tonight I think.” He strode off with his robes billowing, and his trade-mark smirk on his face.

Severus Snape was back!

Chapter three

Severus was sitting in his quarters and contemplating his future: not his immediate future, which consisted of dinner at the High Table with the other teachers; nor even the not-so-immediate future of next week, the aggravation of pupils, and when he could next be free to see Hermione; but the long-term, what-do-I-want-from-my-life, sort of future.

What did he want from his life?

When he had compiled his list, over a week ago, of what he wanted in his ideal woman, bushy hair hadn’t featured at all. (Although he supposed it wasn’t so much bushy, as, as, luxuriant.) Nor had being a bossy Know-it-all. (Again, though, perhaps it could be described as self-confident and - no, she was still a Know-it-all.) Still he had decided he wanted a woman with a brain, to have interesting conversations with, and who wouldn’t ask silly questions.

Hermione had never been one for questions; she was too sure she knew the answers.

He had tried to imagine what married life would be like, but he had no basis for speculation. He presumed that his parents’ marriage was not normal; dear god, he hoped not. He didn’t want a marriage that consisted of arguing and fighting. He had steered clear of passion on that basis. To him passion meant screaming and shouting, and throwing things and a horrifying loss of control. He had envisaged marriage as something calm and serene, with both parties being somewhat distant and polite.

Time had changed Hermione, and for the better mostly, but he didn’t think it had changed her that much. She was never going to be distant and polite; she would be argumentative and bossy. She would take an interest in his life, and, in turn, she would expect him to take an interest in her life. They would be involved.

It wasn’t what he had expected. Hermione had said that people didn’t know what they really wanted, and if that was true, and given that the formula had selected her, then maybe he didn’t want a companiate relationship at all. Maybe he really wanted fire and passion in his life.

That was a scary thought.

What was it she had said, that there was nothing more important than being liked for who you really were. He wasn’t sure he would stand up to such scrutiny, but he was tired of the long shadow of his reputation blighting everything. She, despite their long and not-always-pleasant-past, hadn’t jumped to conclusions, hadn’t assumed that she knew him, but had decided to give him a chance.

He had no clear idea where they were going, if they were going anywhere at all, and he definitely had no idea how to get there, but Hermione had intrigued him.

Then there was the tricky issue of sex. Presumably she would want it, eventually; presumably as a modern witch and a muggleborn, she wouldn’t necessarily think that marriage should come first; so that left the tricky issue of when to make the suggestion. (Not to mention how.)

Too soon was insulting; too late, she would think he wasn’t interested.

Damn.

Maybe he should have kissed her hand after all.

Then there were all the standard worries, about technique and performance. His previous dealings with women had been perfunctory at best and commercial at worst. What would it be like to be able to take your time, to be able to explore and to be explored in your turn? He couldn’t see Hermione lying back and thinking of Slytherin.

And that was your answer really, if she thought he was taking too long to get to the point, she was just as likely to make a pass at him As to the rest of it, he had a vivid imagination and nearly twenty years of fantasy to work through. There was plenty of time to come up with some ideas, and if she thought she could do better, she was welcome to try. Very welcome.

He caught sight of his reflection in his mirror as he made his way to the door. Severus, my lad, he said to himself, you’ve been given a chance at happiness, so grab it with both hands. Reflecting that this was rather too apt a turn of phrase, and dwelling pleasurably on the images that brought to mind, he swept off to dinner.

His sense of satisfaction with himself and with the world in general only increased at Dinner when he compared Minerva’s troubled love life to his own success. The fact that he had created her difficulties only added to his amusement. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven her for the stripper she had hired on his last birthday. She hadn’t been a day under sixty, and yet had still expected to go home with him at the end of the evening. It had taken Remus and Hargid a good ten minutes to pry him free from her.

Filch had apparently made his move. Not in person, but by proxy: a bunch of flowers. Apparently they had been accompanied by a poem. Minerva was sitting glowering at her perfectly innocent dinner. Severus hoped that seeing the vicious way that she was slicing the inoffensive lamb chop would give Filch pause for thought. Since he was presently full on bonhomie he decided that he ought to do something to help Minerva out - in a couple of days time anyway, no point rushing – if Filch didn’t take the hint that his attentions were unwelcome.

It was odd though, because he could swear that he had filled in the form accurately on Minerva’s behalf. Perhaps Minerva and Filch were destined to be together? He shuddered at the thought. That was even more unlikely than he and Hermione. Hermione - he felt a smile creep across his face –

“And you can wipe that smile off your face,” snarled Minerva. “It’s not funny.”

“What? Sorry.” He looked at her blankly, dragged back from his pleasant daydream.

“If I find out you tipped Filch the wink about that letter, you’re going to be spending the next six months as a cat toy!”

She realised from his bewildered expression that Severus had no idea what she was talking about. “Sorry Severus,” she said. It dawned on Minerva that Severus was clearly thinking about something other than her love life, and she was intrigued. What had put that smile on his face? “I’m just fed up with this situation; it’s put me on edge a bit.”

“Minerva, have you ever thought that the agency would let him know at the same time as you?”

Obviously not - she looked at him with her mouth agape – not a pretty sight, she really should have swallowed first. Ah, her manners returned at last, and she did so. There was a pause whilst she mulled over his suggestion.

“I never thought of that, Severus. Good God. You mean he got a letter like mine. No wonder the poor man is so persistent.” Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know so much about this? Merlin, it all makes sense now. The smile, the abstraction, knowing how the agency works: you’ve been on a date.”

Severus’s smile grew even wider. “I have.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it, but not here - little pitchers and all that. Come and have a nightcap in my quarters later. You can dish the dirt, and then tell me how on earth to put Filch off without hurting his feelings.”

Severus wasn’t sure that he wanted to talk about his newfound romantic interest, certainly not if names had to be disclosed, but he knew that Minerva would cross-examine him until he cracked and spilled all. On the other hand, he was also dying to talk about it, to dissect the possibilities and maybe come to understand them better. He was curious to know what Minerva’s reaction would be to the suggestion that his soulmate was twenty years his junior, and Minerva’s pet student.

Minerva was likely to be the most supportive of all his colleagues as she had long been encouraging him to get a girlfriend. He was therefore very nervous when he presented himself at Minerva’s door. What if she disapproved, or worse, laughed in his face?

“Good grief, man,” she said as she opened the door. “You like you’ve seen a Dementor. What’s the matter? What dark and desperate secret are you going to reveal?”

She clucked round him like a mother hen, pouring him a stiff Firewhiskey, and settling him on the sofa.

“Now give,” she said. “Who is it? It is a girl, isn’t it?”

He spluttered Firewhiskey and spent several moments coughing.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” muttered Minerva. “Well, the way you’re acting I thought it had to be something really shocking,” she said in response to his reproachful glance. “Ok, someone I know?”

He nodded, as he blotted his eyes.

“So, an ex-student, then?”

He winced.

“Aha,” Minerva said triumphantly. “I knew it, it’s the only thing that would make you so twitchy. So a Slytherin then?”

He relaxed at that, which was a mistake. It was as much of a clue as tensing up.

“NOT a Slytherin? Good heavens, next you’ll be telling me it’s a Gryffindor.” Minerva kept a close eye on him after that sally and saw it hit home.

“A Gryffindor, in the last ten years, last five years, last two years?” She ran through the list waiting to see when she hit a sensitive nerve. “Two years, right let me think.”

Severus watched her thinking with some amusement. Now he had decided to come clean, it didn’t seem so bad at all. She hadn’t been upset at the thought of him dating a student from her house, even one so recently graduated. How long would it take her to reach the right answer?

She gave him a very thoughtful look. “You got an owl the other morning, and you were in a very bad mood after that. So you weren’t pleased with the suggestion. So I’m looking for someone who would be perfect for you, but you’d never consider in a million years.”

“Minerva, I can almost hear the cogs whirring in your brain. You’re doing very well so far.” He smirked.

A flicker of – was it shock – and then amusement flashed across her face, to be followed by complete admiration. “Hermione Granger! It’s Hermione isn’t it?”

He felt sheepish. He probably looked sheepish. He didn’t think he’d ever looked sheepish before in his entire life. He nodded agreement.

“Well,” she said. “Bloody good luck to you!” and she raised her glass in a toast. “Not that you’ll need it, you’re absolutely made for each other.”

Then Severus increased his range of facial expressions again and broke out into an enormous, and slightly soppy grin.

“So tell me all about your date,” she said conspiratorially. “Details. I need details.”

Of course Severus couldn’t give too many details, what with Hermione’s illegal activities and his dropping Minerva in it, but what he could talk about he did. How she’d swindled him into having lunch with him, and how they’d talked and talked.

When he finished, she leaned back in her chair with a satisfied look on her face. “Very nice,” she said. “Very nice indeed. The question is, now what are you going to do?”

“Ask her out for dinner?” he said tentatively.

Her expression indicated that he had failed some sort of test; an expression he hadn’t seen from her since he had actually graduated.

“And what else?” she persisted.

He cast his eyes round the room, searching for inspiration, just as he had once done as a pupil. He could see a bunch of flowers on the table behind Minerva; obviously her rejection of Filch hadn’t extended to throwing away his floral offering.

“You mean flowers?” he said slowly. He thought back to the old formal rules of courtship that had applied when he was a student: flowers, chocolates, and gifts, all given in a carefully prescribed manner. “I had given some thought to it,” he said – he wasn’t about to admit that he hadn’t done anything of the kind, not when Minerva thought it was so clearly appropriate – “but I thought that as Hermione was a modern witch she might not appreciate something like that. She might consider it old-fashioned.”

Minerva probably wasn’t fooled for a second, but let it pass. “You’re right that she’s a modern witch, so if you’re looking for a doormat you’d better cry off now. But, even bearing in mind she’s a muggle, she’ll think it’s romantic. I guarantee you, flowers melt the hardest of hearts.”

It was with great difficulty that Severus stopped himself looking at the roses behind her. From the twitching in Minerva’s left eye she could clearly tell what he was thinking though.

“I’ll have a word with Sprout tomorrow,” he promised.

“Sprout?”

“If Hermione is to have flowers, then she’ll have the best damn flowers I can find.”

“That’s the spirit, my boy,” she crowed. “Any ideas as to what to send?”

“How about Snapdragons?”

They both giggled at that – which Severus blamed on the Firewhiskey. “You know,” she said, “I rather think she’d appreciate the compliment.”

He thought about it; he rather thought his Hermione would.

He raised his glass in salute to Minerva. “Cheers! Here’s to romance.”

Severus made his way down to see Sprout in her greenhouses as soon as he managed to find a moment. He had dropped a hint at breakfast that he would like a favour, and she had been so surprised that she had merely gaped at him for several seconds before saying that yes of course she would help with whatever he needed.

His morning had been taken up by Albus being frivolous and vexatious, and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from a full frontal assault. Minerva, seeing him wriggling around in his chair, had managed to divert the old coot’s attention allowing him to make his escape.

He didn’t mind telling Minerva about Hermione, she was an old friend; he definitely wasn’t going to allow that old bustard to know anything about his newly acquired private life. It was going to remain precisely that – private. Well, it would if Minerva kept her trap shut.

If Sprout had been startled by the request of a favour, she was even more surprised to find out what it was.

“Flowers? Flowers? You actually want a bunch of flowers?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I actually want a bunch of flowers.”

“Spring, eh? And a young man’s fancy turns to love?” Then she had nudged him in the ribs, and laughed coarsely.

He had forgiven her almost immediately, partly because she had called him young, partly because she hadn’t laughed in his face, but mostly because she entered into solving the problem of the right bloom with enthusiasm. He could have anything he wanted out of her greenhouses, it seemed, just for the asking. She had a soft spot for lovers, and would do all she could to help.

“Right,” she said, moving briskly between the rows of plants, “what sort of young lady is she?”

“Sensible, practical, very intelligent, and used to the very best.”

It didn’t escape his notice that, whilst Sprout was trying to help choose the right blooms, she wasn’t above trying to sneak extra information out of him to work out who was the recipient of his affections.

“Not a very easy combination to please,” she said thoughtfully. “We can dismiss roses straight away: too obvious, too easy, and too predictable. Something rare but not exotic, from your description I suspect she wouldn’t appreciate the hothouse blooms.”

“No I don’t think she would,” he agreed.

“There’s always the Madonna lilies. Elegant, sophisticated but perhaps a bit plain for your purposes.”

He followed her to look at the pure white blooms. They were beautiful, but not as dramatic as he had hoped for, still - “Hermione would love these,” he said.

Fuck.

It was a good job the war was over, because he suddenly appeared to have lost any ability he ever had at keeping secrets.

“Hermione,” she said thoughtfully, “Hermione, Hermione?”

He could tell the precise moment she identified the correct Hermione: her hands tightened round the stem of the lily, nearly snapping it, and she swivelled towards him.

“Stone me, Hermione Granger.”

Here, again, there was shock but not the horror he had secretly expected.

“Then I have the perfect flower,” she announced triumphantly. “She’ll love it. I don’t know why you didn’t mention her name straightaway, it would have made things a lot easier.”

“You know why not.”

“Yes I do.” And then in answer to his unspoken query: “I think you’ll get on very well.”

Having thought of himself as a wholly unlikely candidate for romance, he was incredibly touched to find that the women who had known him the best and the longest were so accepting of the idea that he should have a girlfriend. Or at least be attempting to get one.

Not that he had any attention of letting them know this of course, or he would never hear the end of it.

“Now, follow me you daft sod.”

Sprout headed for her private greenhouse: she obviously had something very special in mind. She stopped in front of a particular pot, and gestured to it airily, “You’re welcome to have this. It’s been a complete bugger to grow – five years of hard graft before it flowered.”

It was very special. About two feet high, it consisted of a vine-like plant coiled round a pyramid, and was surmounted by the most bizarre flower he had ever seen. It was black, a true black not the dark red that was so often passed off for black in roses, and had six petals arranged in two triangles set slightly at a different angle. It also had long, black streamers falling from the centre of the flower down to the edge of the pot.

It was the most amazing thing he had ever seen; he was convinced Hermione would adore it.

“Tacca Chantieri,” Sprout said. “It’s very rare. I doubt she’ll ever have seen it before.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said softly, reaching out a finger to stroke on of the soft petals. Sprout blushed as red as if he had called her beautiful. “But if it’s taken you so long to grow, surely you don’t want to give it away from something as trivial as this. There must be other plants, snapdragons perhaps?”

“Don’t be daft, boy, there’s nothing trivial about love. Anyway it’s growing them that’s the challenge,” she said gruffly.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, “but thank you. Hermione will be very impressed. I’ll be sure to mention you grew it.”

There was a glint in Sprout’s eye as she added, “You might change your mind about sending it though when I tell you its nickname.”

“I’m listening.”

“The bat plant.”

It was Sprout’s day for surprises. Instead of throwing a tantrum, Severus laughed. A deep, rich laugh.

“Even better,” he said. “A thing of beauty, a mystery and a joke all rolled into one. Thank you, it’s perfect.”

Sprout wrapped the plant for him, and he carried it carefully back to Hogwarts. It was too big for an owl, so he would have to cast a complex apparation charm to send it to Hermione. He attached a note to it, thanking her for lunch, and suggesting next Friday for Dinner. If she was agreeable, he would meet her at her offices at 8pm, and then they could apparate to the restaurant together.

If Minerva thought old-fashioned courtesy was the way to go, old-fashioned courtesy she would get.

His little bubble of happiness survived even the sight of coming in to dinner to see Minerva and Pomona, huddled together, and clearly discussing his love life. He settled next to them with a nod and a “Ladies.”

“Severus,” complained Minerva, “how on earth are we supposed to talk about you if you are in earshot?”

“Don’t mind me,” he replied, smirking. “Chat away.”

“You’re a very evil man, Severus Snape. Don’t worry Pomona, we’ll continue this later.”

Dinner was nearly over, when a large owl swept down to deliver a scroll to Severus. He could hear Minerva muttering something about Hermione being keen and that she would have made the bugger wait a little longer as he opened it.

She was free that night and would be happy to go out to dinner.

He was brought out of his happy daydream by Minerva hissing in his ear, “Will you stop smiling, you’re frightening all the children?”

He quickly swallowed the last of his dessert and headed off to his quarters for some peace and quiet.

After he had left, Minerva said, “I hope it goes well for him.”

“Is there any reason to suppose it won’t?”

“Oh, they’re perfect for each other, I grant you, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be plain sailing. Pomona, mark my words, there’ll be tears before bedtime.”

“Just as long as there is a bedtime.”

They looked at each other in amusement and then sniggered their way through the last of the pudding.

Chapter four

Of course by the time it came to preparing for the date, Severus had worked himself into a blue funk.

The first date – if you could call it that – had gone well, chiefly because it hadn’t been a date. Now he had to prepare for an evening of being charming, and he wasn’t sure that he had enough experience to pull that off convincingly. The only people he had ever been ‘nice’ to were Lord Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy – everyone else had been too frightened of him to bother with – and he didn’t think that Hermione would appreciate oleaginous fawning which was probably the closest approximation he could make to ‘nice’.

A lifetime spent as Deatheater and then spy had hardly prepared him for the subtle art of seduction. On the other hand, he could hex with his wand in either hand, brew over a hundred different poisons, and was quite handy with a knife when required. Oddly enough, Hermione might be impressed by the first, and mildly interested in the poisons.

He didn’t think that she would be entirely happy to discuss the finer points of knifing someone in the back over the dinner table, although you could never be sure. She was an academic: she would be interested in anything new, and Gryffindors tended to the full frontal assault.

That made him bring to mind several very pleasing images that strengthened his resolve to go through with the whole thing. It was also marginally less embarrassing than having Hermione storm up to Hogwarts, demanding to know why she had been stood up, and probably dragging him out to the pub by his earhole.

He wasn’t sure that having Minerva and Pomona in his rooms while he got ready was helping calm him. Ostensibly they were there to give him some last minute advice and check his appearance over before he apparated to pick up Hermione; in reality, he couldn’t help but notice that they seemed to be deriving a certain amount of quiet enjoyment from his nerves.

He was just on the verge of sitting down in his favourite chair and refusing to go, when the ladies exchanged a significant look and started giving him the pep talk.

To his complaint that he couldn’t think of anything to say, Minerva had said robustly, “Nonsense, Severus; has no one told you that the sexiest thing a man can do is listen to a woman?”

He was taken aback. “Really?” He knew that the ladies weren’t above teasing him, but not, he thought, over something they knew was so important to him.

“Really,” Pomona said firmly.

“Lucius always said…” he stopped guiltily. Lucius had said many things about women, and none of them were pleasant.

“Lucius could charm the birds out of the trees when he wanted to,” Minerva said briskly, “but I don’t suppose he ever tried listening to a woman. It would never occur to him that a mere woman would have anything interesting to say. Just imagine what would happen if he tried that kind of flannel on Hermione; she would laugh in his face.”

“True,” he said thoughtfully.

Ok, he could do that, listening was easy. He had had plenty of practice listening to Lucius reciting his grandiose plans for world domination, for redecorating Malfoy Manor, for tupping some poor woman, indeed anything and everything, for hours, without showing a hint of his boredom. He could therefore listen to the putative woman of his dreams talk about how irritating her week had been without yawning in her face. He might even find it interesting.

“And if push comes to shove you can entertain her with all the latest news on Minerva’s amours,” said Pomona provocatively. His smile was quickly suppressed; he never knew when he might want a favour.

Minerva flashed her a look of dislike. “I don’t have any amours,” she said frostily, “and I have no intention of ever having any amours, thank you very much, especially not with Filch.”

“An inspired suggestion, Pomona,” Severus said urbanely.

Well that seemed to take care of being witty and charming. What else? Ah yes, dress.

“So do I pass inspection, ladies?”

Even he had admitted that school robes weren’t appropriate for a dinner date, no matter how much he longed for the familiarity and security of his usual garb. There had been some ribald comments from his colleagues about detention, and kissing the teacher, which had brought home to him how important it was to make a different impression.

He had taken the radical step of ordering some new robes from his tailor. They were still black, but of a finer material, softer to the touch. He had to admit that they swirled in an even more dramatic fashion than his teaching robes, and had passed an hour or so when they first arrived practising in front of a mirror.

“Severus, darling, if you weren’t already taken I’d make a pass at you myself,” Minerva drawled.

He flushed a little, and then replied, “I wouldn’t want to come between you and Filch.”

Sprout shuddered. “That isn’t an image I needed putting into my mind: a Snape and Filch threesome. Ugh.”

“You think I needed to hear that?” snapped Minerva. Her voice softened as she moved closer to Severus and smoothed down his robes, “You’ll do fine, dear, don’t worry.” She turned to Sprout. “I think we’d better escort him to the front door, make sure he doesn’t make a run for it at the last minute.”

Severus didn’t think they were entirely joking; he knew he had half a mind to bolt. As they walked him to the entrance, flanking him on both sides, there was an uncanny resemblance to the escort given to condemned men on their last trip to the gallows.

As he apparated away he was sure he could hear them giggling. He found it oddly comforting; if they thought it was funny it was because he was being silly; and if he was being silly it meant that he could make it through the evening without causing a disaster. After all, if it all went horribly wrong, he was a Potions Master wasn’t he? All was fair in love and war.

He straightened his perfectly orderly cuffs, stiffened his sinews and girded his loins and prepared for the battle for Hermione.

Severus would have been relieved to hear that Hermione was also a bundle of nerves, and had called in reinforcements for her preparations for their first date. She had talked Ginny into helping her when she had returned to the office after lunch in a state of euphoria, not all of which could be attributed to drink.

Ginny had been relieved to see her. She had apparently been surprised when Hermione had taken a ranting Snape out to lunch. When she hadn’t returned for four hours she was nearly frantic with worry. And whilst the sensible side of Ginny had argued that he wouldn’t do anything in a public place, and that he was after all a ‘good guy’ there was a part of her that remembered potions classes and the almost overwhelming fear he had inculcated in his students.

Nothing had prepared her for the sight of a giddy, slightly drunk Hermione standing in the doorway with an idiotic grin on her face.

“What was lunch like, as if I didn’t know?” she had asked.

“Wonderful,” sighed Hermione. “Absolutely bloody wonderful.”

“You’re drunk.”

“A little,” she admitted.

“I’d better make you some coffee.”

“Sod coffee,” Hermione said indignantly. “I’m not wasting this wonderful, fuzzy feeling by being sober. Come on, we’ll close up for the day and I’ll buy you a drink, or four, and tell you all about it.”

Since the choice had been that or going home alone, Ginny had agreed. Of course, she was dying to know what had happened even though the idea of Snape as romantic lead to Hermione’s ingénue was vaguely disturbing. No, make that very disturbing.

Locking up had consisted of grabbing her handbag, a quick wand wave, and then they headed for the pub next door. They were early, and had arrived before the influx of city workers having one for the road to fortify them for the commuter trains home. Hermione was happy to be a witch for many reasons, but she had to admit that being able to apparate and never, ever having to use London’s erratic public transport system was the thing that gave her the most satisfaction on a daily basis.

It was the little things that counted.

Like the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the way he …..

Her reverie was disturbed by Ginny bringing the drinks – a couple of double vodkas to get things going, and a bottle of white wine to keep them going – and a packet of plain crisps clenched between her teeth.

“So, give,” Ginny said. “First things first, have you snogged yet?”

Hermione shook her head. “Oh dear, do you think we should have? Should I have, you know, given him a peck on the cheek at the very least?”

“I shouldn’t think that Snape would approve of snogging in public,” Ginny said reflectively.

“He certainly took enough house points for it!” They both giggled.

“So what did you find to talk about? Potions?”

Hermione gave her a level look. “Don’t be silly. We talked about charms.”

There was a long moment where they just looked at each other very seriously, before Hermione cracked first and burst out laughing.

“No!”

“Yes!” Hermione wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes

“So,” Ginny said conspiratorially, and shifting a little closer, “what do you think he’ll be like in bed then? All dominating and tying you to the bedpost?”

“Maybe,” she said, “but I suspect that to start with he’ll be a bit shy and nervous. He’s actually a very shy man you know, beneath all that indignation and bluster. After plenty of practice though…….” Hermione’s voice faded away as she contemplated the prospect, and a very broad grin spread across her face, “……plenty of practice, I suspect so.”

“You’re a very sick girl, you know that,” said Ginny.

Hermione’s grin hadn’t faded one iota. “I know. It’s wonderful isn’t it? Tell you what, if Snape and I work out, you’ll let me run the formula and find someone for you.”

“Okay,” Ginny said doubtfully.

“And you promise that you’ll give whoever come out a chance, even if it’s Lucius Malfoy.”

Ginny had nearly snorted wine out of her nose at that suggestion. She rolled her eyes, and then had agreed. After all, there was no way that Hermione and Snape would be an item in a month’s time, she was certain of that.

“You’ll be disappointed to know that Filch has already gone, I know you had your heart set on him.”

“Who?” asked Ginny, her eyes dancing with amusement.

“Pro…..Prof….Professor,” Hermione could barely get the words out for laughing, “Professor McGonagall.”

“Fuck me,” exclaimed Ginny.

“I bet that’s what she said when she read the note,” and the two of them lived up to all stereotyping of witches and cackled.

The rest of the evening had been spent discussing what Hermione should wear to the second date, whether or not she should kiss him, and if so, where. Ginny’s suggestions on that had been increasingly vulgar as the evening wore on and the third bottle of wine was broached. Eventually they had tottered off into Soho for a curry, and some more late night drinking.

Hermione had some vague memory of a taxi and struggling out of her clothes to flop on her bed, and giggling at the thought that soon she might have someone who would help her out of her clothes – Severus was a gentleman she was sure - and put her to bed.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

The smile had even lasted through the ensuing hangover; she had smiled soppily at the bottle of hangover cure. Potions. Potions Masters. Severus. She had managed to pull herself together sufficiently to get to work and at least look like she was doing something, but any productivity was brought to a halt by the arrival of the plant and the invitation.

Ginny had summoned Neville to make the identification, lecturing Hermione all the while on the Language of Flowers, and the rules of courtship as laid down by old-fashioned pureblood families. She had no idea what this particular plant meant, and was determined to find out.

Neville had identified it straight away, and had been taken aback when telling them the plant’s nickname had resulted in Hermione collapsing into fits of laughter. It was at that point that Ginny began to believe that Hermione and Snape were suited to each other. The idea that Snape could make someone laugh, and at least partially at his expense, had been amazing.

It seemed he was an entirely different Snape to the Snape she knew.

Hermione had been calm, if a little abstracted, for the rest of the week, but had suddenly broken out into a panic on the day of the date, and had only been calmed with the suggestion of shopping for a new dress, and the promise of help with her hair.

Ginny had never seen Hermione nervous before. She had coped with Voldemort, potions classes, NEWTS, and gambling large sums of money with equal aplomb. Initial sympathy had quickly been replaced with irritation, until Ginny had eventually threatened to slap her for being silly.

Hermione had laughed at that, a little uneasily because she knew Ginny would make good on her threat, and then started chanting the mantra that got her through the rest of the day in relative calm: I am an Arithmancy genius.

Ginny had then parked her in front of a big book full of lots of long words and left her alone until an hour before the date, whilst she went and had a very large cup of soothing tea, and a substantial piece of chocolate cake.

Hopefully, they would get through the second date in one piece; the next one should be easier. She hoped they managed to make it into bed fairly soon, because she wasn’t sure she could take much more of this.

An hour was barely enough to achieve the transformation from hard-hearted businesswoman to attractive dinner date, so they ended up running a little late. Ginny soothed Hermione by pointing out that making him wait was probably the right thing to do tactically.

She left Hermione putting on her shoes, whilst she went to open the door. If she had thought Hermione was in a bad way, it was as nothing compared to the twitching man before her. She bit back a smile and invited him in. This was going to be interesting.

He was prompt, arriving exactly at the time suggested. He expected Hermione to be on time, and was slightly surprised to be greeted by Ginny Weasley at the office door.

“She’s running a little late, sorry,” she had said in a harried way. She was obviously too distracted to realise precisely who she was being off-hand with. He was on the point of reminding her when Hermione came, a little shyly, into the room.

Whatever urge he had felt to assert himself faded in the face of what Minerva would urge him to call a vision of loveliness, and which even his sensible side – which was struggling to assert itself - had to admit looked well, sod it, lovely.

“I’m sorry, have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all,” he said, sweeping up to her and kissing her hand. Hermione flushed delightfully, and Severus thought smugly that he had the upper hand quite nicely. Minerva would be impressed; Minerva would doubtless want a blow-by-blow account.

Actually, Minerva was probably making sure she didn’t need a blow-by-blow account.

He put his hand on his wand, and cast a couple of warding charms. There was no way he was providing the evening’s entertainment for two frustrated witches, who were now almost certainly even more frustrated; although he wouldn’t mind providing the evening’s entertainment for Hermione, whether she was frustrated or not. His uncertainty as to the appropriate moment of propositioning Hermione had been replaced with a determination to make it as soon as possible, and politeness be damned.

“You look wonderful,” he said, mildly annoyed he hadn’t prepared something more original to say.

“So do you,” she said, and he felt a warm glow spread through him.

They would probably have stayed there, just looking at each other, if Ginny hadn’t disturbed them with a noisy sigh. “Off you go,” she said, a bit misty eyed. “I’ll open up the office tomorrow, so there’s no need to rush in, and remember, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” With that she herded them towards the door, and gently pushed them out onto the pavement.

He courteously offered her an arm, and placed his other hand possessively over her hand. “Shall we?”

The restaurant he had booked, after prolonged consultation with Minerva, was neither flashy nor expensive, but he was assured that the food was good. He couldn’t afford to take her anywhere like the Gryffindor monstrosity they had been at last time, but now he had seen Hermione again he found he wasn’t worried about her reaction to the restaurant at all.

He still had butterflies, but they were of an entirely different nature.

Gone was the worry about whether Hermione would see sense in the intervening time; instead, he was pre-occupied with the next steps in the game, with working out how and when and how soon. Very much how soon.

Hermione gave every impression of being pleased with the Restaurant – French - and scanned the menu with interest. The mundane business of ordering was quickly completed, and he even remembered to consult Hermione over the choice of wine. Not something that would have happened in his youth, when the prices were only printed on the gentleman’s menu.

Those days had passed apparently, which was all to the good in his mind, and not merely because it had meant writing a blank cheque to the female guest; he was prepared to sacrifice the sole right to choose wine if it brought with it a loosening of morals and the prospect of pre-marital sex.

And of course he was in favour of equal rights for witches too.

He shifted in his seat a little.

The warm, slightly knowing smile Hermione sent him did nothing to ease his situation. He was grateful when she then opened the conversation by asking how Minerva and Filch were getting on.

“He sent her some flowers – roses - and she hasn’t thrown them away, but she’s still insistent that she isn’t interested.”

“Not a very thoughtful choice of plant,” she said still smiling, “unlike yours, which was wonderful. Bat plant, indeed.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Perhaps he should have tried catnip,” she said mischievously.

He snorted. “Then follow it up with a pretend mouse for her to play with, and perhaps a new collar?”

“A scratching post?”

“Seriously, though, I think the problem is that she’s always had a bit of a thing for Dumbledore.”

“Really?” Hermione made a little moue of distaste. “You don’t have to be an Arithmantic genius to see that would never work.”

He shot her a look. “I don’t see why. They’ve been close friends for a long time.”

“Which is the problem. They potter along in this cosy friendship, and nothing ever happens. He takes her for granted, and she lets him. If anything was going to happen it would have happened, and if it hasn’t happened it’s for a reason.”

“Still, he has to be a better choice than Filch.”

She just shrugged. He had a feeling that there was something she wasn’t telling him, and he also had the feeling he was better off not knowing. It might be graphic, and he had no wish to think of Minerva shagging either Albus or Filch. He hadn’t finished his dinner. He had no wish to see it again so soon.

“Tell Minerva I’ll come and see her; I’ll check through her answers with her and sort out whether she and Filch are suited. If they aren’t, I’ll have to come up with another name for Filch.”

“You think that they could be suited?”

“Why not? Just because Minerva is having a fit at the thought, it doesn’t mean they aren’t right for each other. We get it all the time; people are often disappointed with their chosen partner, and then they write to us complaining, and we say: just try it. Sometimes they do; sometimes they don’t. After all, you weren’t exactly happy at the prospect of going out with me to start with, and look how well we are getting on now.”

He thought about that. Minerva and Filch were unlikely it was true, but no more unlikely than he and Hermione. He had been so indignant at the thought of being linked with her; he wondered what she had thought of him.

So he took a deep breath and asked her.

“It was a shock: I didn’t even know my name was on the list, no one was supposed to be able to get through the protective charms, and then there was the fact that you used to be my teacher. So of course, my first reaction was horror, and then I noticed you’d washed your hair. If that had changed about you, what else had? So I decided to give you a chance. And I am an Arithmancy genius!” From the wide grin, Severus deduced this was some in-joke, and he quirked an eyebrow in query.

Hermione looked mildly embarrassed for a moment, then said, “This afternoon, I started getting a bit anxious about the date, so Ginny had me chanting that over and over again.”

“Did it help?”

“A bit.”

“I had Minerva,” he said simply. “Minerva and Pomona.”

She sniggered.

“They were full of good advice.”

“So was Ginny: don’t do this, do do that, don’t have sex before the third date.” Her voice trailed off as she realised what she had said. “Ooops. I’m not supposed to tell you that. I’m supposed to keep you guessing.”

“Is this our first or second date?” he asked, with a suggestive smile.

“Probably the second,” she said, and he felt a surge of blood to the head, “although what you have to bear in mind is that just because you shouldn’t have sex before the third date, that should in no way be taken to mean that sex is compulsory on the third date.”

He spluttered, and was about to burst into a spirited defence of his motives, when he spotted the twinkle in her eye. “Oh well, I’ll have to fall back on Plan B then.”

“Plan B?”

“The Lust potion.”

“Which one were you planning to use?”

He blinked. That wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting. The following discussion about the relative merits of lust potions carried them through desert and coffee. She seemed to be remarkably well informed on their use and brewing, almost too well informed. He was beginning to wonder whether he ought to be checking his coffee for added ingredients.

Mind you, he wouldn’t be complaining if she had slipped him something. He’d always wanted to try some of them out, but had never had the chance. He wondered if all that curiosity could be put to some practical use later.

After all, it was Potions Master’s duty to try these things out, for the furtherance of magical knowledge.

He was so busy pondering this issue during the tedious business of paying the bill, collecting their coats and leaving the restaurant, and considering whether the aforementioned third date was too early a point to introduce the topic – but not the potion, that would be tacky – that he was caught by surprise when Hermione pressed up against him for a goodnight kiss. Not that his abstraction prevented what might be called the lower brain function from instructing his arms to go round her, to pull her close, and for his tongue to begin investigating her mouth.

And Severus Snape, who, at the start of the evening had worried about holding hands in public, now realised that he had absolutely no objections to snogging in public; that he was fully in favour of snogging in any situation whatsoever; and would happily snog Hermione in front of a potions class or in the Great Hall.

This was subject to the caveat that he really would prefer to do it in private and in the immediate vicinity of a bed –or any flat surface, preferably horizontal, although vertical had its possibilities – because he didn’t want to stop snogging her.

I think this must be the second date,” she said against his lips, “because I certainly wouldn’t be doing THAT on the first date.”

Later, in the privacy of his bed, when he pondered how the evening had gone, he would be delighted to hear that; right now, in the centre of Diagon Alley, he could only think that she was talking too much.

Chapter Five

Minerva could tell that the date had gone well as Severus actually smiled at the breakfast table, and this was before he had taken his morning cup of coffee or deducted his first points from Gryffindor.

She nearly made some comment about it being love, but she hadn’t got the heart to tease the poor little sod. Not to mention that she had the feeling that if she said anything he would probably smile inanely and nod at her.

Severus Snape was in love and he had got it bad.

It was a lovely sight to behold, and she wasn’t going to allow anything to disturb his perfect moment of happiness, no matter how tempting it would be to make some sort of remark.

Severus was aware that Minerva and Pomona were champing at the bit to be told the details of his evening, but he had maintained a dignified – and very annoying – silence on the issue. There would be plenty of time to talk about it later. The arrival of a large Owl delivering a letter from Hermione at the breakfast table, raised their curiosity to fever pitch, but they maintained an air of casual indifference that was fooling no one. He was incautious enough to open the letter there and then. He had never before considered himself to be prone to blushing, or indeed embarrassment of any kind, until he received this very intimate letter.

She expressed her thanks for a wonderful evening, suggested a repeat performance the following Friday, and expressed her appreciation of his kissing talents. There was nothing overtly graphic about her appreciation - indeed, it was a letter he could show to Minerva with a clear conscience - however, the whole tone of the letter was inviting.

Apparently, she considered him sexy. Something about a beautiful voice, sultry eyes and long fingers. He peered at them. He wondered why long fingers were considered attractive. Obviously long fingers were useful when it came to potions making, but he hardly considered that to be sexy. He could ask Minerva, but on the whole, he thought he would prefer to remain in ignorance. The answer would probably make him blush more.

He suddenly realised that Minerva was watching him staring at his fingers, and she had a very peculiar expression on her face. He just sighed and passed her the note; he could hardly be any more embarrassed.

He was wrong about that.

Minerva gave a little snort of laughter, quickly suppressed; he wasn’t the only one to put up a frosty exterior in order to keep the children in check. The she leaned across and whispered an explanation in his ear.

He went bright red. His pleasant reverie about what he could indeed do with very long fingers, now that the issue had been clarified, was disturbed when he realised that not only was Minerva passing the news on to Pomona, but that both women were eyeing his fingers in a way that was making him feel very uncomfortable.

He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes and tried not to look flustered; he wasn’t sure he was entirely happy about his new status as a sex symbol. He made a mental note never to open a letter from Hermione at the table again. Then another thought struck him; was he supposed to respond in kind? Surely not.

He had no idea that venturing into the waters of dating would be so perilous. It was clear that he would need further advice on how best to proceed, which meant he would have to swallow his irritation with Minerva.

Just not quite yet, he thought, and swept off to classes.

It would have done nothing for his peace of mind to know that both Minerva and Pomona were watching his departure with a great deal of attention.

Minerva could tell that the poor boy was a bundle of nerves over the whole business. She couldn’t get over the idea that it could all lead to disaster, and was strongly tempted to send an owl of strongly worded advice to young Hermione - get him into bed as soon as possible, and worry about the details afterwards.

If she ever got a chance to say it in person she may well do so.

She thought it would take him until lunchtime for the rosy glow to wear off, and by the end of dinner this evening he would be back to fretting.

And so it proved. Double potions with the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws frayed his nerves; he spent lunchtime trying to recapture the quiet happiness he had felt last night as he got ready for bed; and by dinner he was back to glowering at his plate.

Minerva felt that Snape with moods that swung like a pendulum between misery and ecstasy was worse than one that was perpetually gloomy, and resolved to take a hand. First things first, she wanted a detailed account of last night’s activities and then she was going to offer him some very blunt advice.

The sooner he was married and back to being miserable the better for everyone.

He was pathetically grateful to be invited back to her rooms for a chat, and all it took was a glass of Firewhiskey to get him to spill his guts.

Hermione was wonderful, and the restaurant was wonderful, and the conversation was wonderful, and she looked wonderful, and they had kissed which was, well, wonderful. And then they came to the nub of the problem. Sex had reared its ugly head; there was a strong suggestion he would be called upon to do the dirty deed on the next date.

“What did she actually say?” asked Minerva.

Severus dutifully repeated the sex-on-the-third-date comment.

“Let me see the note again.”

Severus sheepishly extracted the note from his robes; Minerva didn’t comment on the fact that he had been carrying it round with him all day. A mere oversight, she was sure. She read the note carefully, noticed that the invitation was to meet in a restaurant, and wondered how to break the bad news. Severus wouldn’t be getting his podger on Friday, not if she was any judge.

She leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. Severus had always been a rip-off-the-sticking-plaster sort of man since she had known him; she delivered her verdict. “I don’t think Hermione expects you two to be – er – intimate on your next date, you know.”

Oddly enough, he seemed relieved rather then disappointed, which was rather touching really.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“She wants to meet in public. If I had designs on a young man, I’d invite him to my flat for dinner; it’s so much easier and it’s a subtle way of saying ‘do you fancy a shag’ without actually coming out into the open.”

He nodded; that made sense. He was slightly overwhelmed by all these codes and subtle signals that had passed him by previously, but he was determined to master it, even if it meant discussing details of his life that he would prefer to keep private. He wasn’t going to risk alienating Hermione and messing up a chance at, well, love. He felt mildly uncomfortable using that word, even in the privacy of his own head, but that was what he wanted. Not a quick shag, but a proper love affair.

He sighed.

Minerva looked at him quizzically. “You think you’ve got problems,” she said. “Try having Filch following you around like a lost puppy.”

Severus was overcome with an unaccustomed desire to be helpful. “Hermione actually runs the Agency, you know,” he said tentatively.

Minerva sat bolt upright. “Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” she said, spluttering with indignation.

Severus didn’t think that saying he hadn’t thought it important would go down very well. “She did say that if she could do something to help you, she would.”

Minerva looked marginally appeased. “Good. So she ought.”

“I’ll mention it at dinner then.”

Wisely, Severus didn’t say anything further on the matter, and the conversation turned to the various irritations of life as a teacher.

Severus was pleased to discover that he wasn’t anywhere near as nervous as he had been before when it came to getting ready for his dinner engagement with Hermione. This time he had prepared in advance. His evenings had been spent idly canvassing topics of conversation and, whilst he was mildly disappointed that there would be little opportunity for kissing Hermione, he was relieved that the spectre of sex had been laid to rest.

Hermione was ready and waiting for him when he arrived. She wasn’t dressed as elaborately as before, but she still looked wonderful. It made her look more approachable, more real; when he told Hermione this she had blushed and ducked her head.

“You really are charming, when you want to be,” she said.

He forgave her the slight note of surprise in her voice; he had to admit it was unlikely. “I’ve never had anyone I wanted to be charming to before,” he said. “Perhaps it’s a hidden talent.”

“Well don’t go practising it on anyone else, like Minerva for instance. You don’t want Filch to get jealous,” she paused, then added, “or me.”

He politely offered Hermione his arm. Hermione had chosen the restaurant this time. He was relieved to see that it wasn’t the Gryffindor monstrosity again, but somewhere smaller and less formal. The food was just as good though. Chatter about Hogwarts saw them through to the arrival of the cheese and biscuits. She seemed surprisingly well-informed about the goings on at school and she confessed that she and Minerva kept up a regular contact.

He seized his opening. “Talking of Minerva,” he said. “I mentioned to her that you might be able to help her with her Filch problem.”

“Hmmm,” she replied.

“I think she might be weakening though,” he said. “So don’t let her kid you that she’s not interested.”

“Really?”

“Albus put his two pennorth in at a staff meeting, and it didn’t go down very well.”

Hermione looked amused. “You can always rely on Albus to stick both feet in his mouth without thinking. What did he do?”

“He offered to have a word with Filch on the matter, because it was obviously unsuitable for a teacher to be romantically linked with the caretaker.”

“I expect that went down well. Minerva’s no snob.”

Severus nodded in agreement. “No, she got quite frosty and said she was quite capable of dealing with Argus if she chose to do so and that the Headmaster should keep his nose out of her affairs.”

“I wish I’d been there to see it. What did he say to that little bombshell?”

“He looked shocked, and then he asked her whether she was seriously contemplating going out with a caretaker and a squib to boot. She stood up, said that the only thing she was contemplating at the moment was bloody murder, and recommended that he shut up.”

“Good for Minerva,” Hermione said warmly. “It’s about time someone told him to get stuffed. It does sound like she’s weakening though.”

“I think so.” He paused for a moment, and poked at his cheese in a distracted manner. “I also happened to mention to her that you owned the Agency.”

“Did you also happen to mention, during your urge to confess all to Auntie Minerva, that you set her up in the first place?”

His cracker paused half way to his mouth. “Er, no,” he confessed.

“I didn’t think so,” she said. “And I suppose you wouldn’t like me to mention this fact to Minerva?”

He looked at her in horror. “Of course not,” he said indignantly, “she would make my life a living hell.”

“What’s it worth?”

“Pardon?”

“What’s it worth for me to keep my mouth shut?”

It took a moment for him to realise that she was teasing him. “What did you have in mind?” he asked.

She looked at him as if he was the last newt eye in the jar. “I’ll think of something.”

He coughed nervously. “So, shall I tell Minerva that you’ll come and see her?”

She smiled and graciously allowed him to change the topic of conversation. “Fine. I’m free most of the time, so I’ll just fit in with her.”

The cheese was finished, the bill duly summoned and paid, and cloaks collected. They were on the verge of leaving the restaurant when Hermione put a hand on his arm and asked, “Would you like to come back to my flat for a nightcap?”

He would indeed; he was reluctant to end the evening.

It was only as he followed Hermione into the floo connection, and he caught sight of the waiter smirking at him, that he realised what he had just agreed to. Minerva had obviously under-estimated Hermione – she had lulled him into a false sense of security by agreeing to meet in public and then lured him back to her flat to take advantage of him.

Oh well, there were worse fates.

Her flat was smaller then he had expected, but very warm and cozy, with – inevitably – deep red velvet curtains. There was a matching sofa facing the fireplace, flanked on either side by deep-cushioned armchairs. It all looked very comfortable. He sighed. He now had a new worry. Not only did he have to contend with the possibility of being required to give up wearing black, but Hermione would also want to make-over his quarters. Whilst he would welcome something a little more cheerful, welcoming even, than his present quarters, he was worried about this obsession with Gryffindor colours. It would be wholly unsuitable for the Head of Slytherin to have his rooms decorated in red.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked politely, watching his reaction with some amusement. “Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Brandy?”

“Brandy would be nice,” he replied as he absent-mindedly sat down in one of the armchairs. He realised he had made a tactical mistake almost immediately. He took the offered glass of brandy and watched Hermione sit on the sofa whilst he was marooned on the chair. It would be too obvious to move to sit next to her on the sofa now.

He hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin for nothing though; it didn’t take him long to come up with a plan to recover his position. He couldn’t move to the sofa, but she, as dutiful host, would have to offer him another drink and would then be in arm’s reach.

He stretched his long legs out before him, and smiled.

Sure enough, after around fifteen minutes of polite conversation, she offered him another glass of brandy. A quick tug as she reached for his glass, a startled squeak as she lost her balance and then she was in his lap.

She wriggled around to get comfortable and then concentrated on the very serious business of kissing. It was only when her hands moved to his buttons that he developed a sudden and acute case of cold feet; it was too soon to go further.

He froze. “I don’t want to have sex,” he blurted out, and almost cringed in horror at what he’d said.

“Wait until you’re asked,” she said tartly. “I know it’s the third date, but really!”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “But Minerva said that …” He didn’t complete the sentence; he had a feeling it would make things worse.

“Minerva said what?” she snapped.

He tried to put things as delicately as possible. “That an invitation to your home could mean that you were – erm -”

Hermione softened in the face of his floundering. “To be precise,” she said, “when I said would you like to come back to my flat for a nightcap, I meant would you like to come to my home where we could sit on the sofa, drink a glass of wine or so and then gradually move on to a little light kissing, and nothing more, because I didn’t fancy snogging in the street. It’s cold, and you’re too tall. It makes my neck hurt.”

“Oh.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Now you realise that I don’t have designs on your virtue, can we get back to what we were doing?”

He realised with a rush of relief, that that he hadn’t blown things completely. “Yes,” he said, “yes, please.”

By the time Severus arrived back at Hogwarts, it was very late. He made a note to himself to have a word with Albus about dropping the anti-apparition wards. His love life was more important than the putative safety of any of the blasted children, and he didn’t feel comfortable wandering round in this dishevelled state. Hermione had discovered a fascination for running her hands through his hair, and whilst it was entirely welcome, it couldn’t be denied that he looked a little messy, not to mention the fact that his robes were both crumpled and unbuttoned. He had, in the end, submitted to Hermione’s desire to loosen his clothes, and had been rewarded by a prolonged and concerted attack on his neck that he was sure had left marks.

He knew he had when he returned the favour.

He looked up at the Castle, and could see that Minerva’s light was still on. He wondered what she was doing staying up so late, and decided to pay her a visit.

He was in such a good mood that he didn’t pause to take points off a Hufflepuff he found wandering around – what was the point, they didn’t stand a chance of winning the House Cup this year anyway – and was quickly at Minerva’s quarters.

He paused, his hand raised to knock on the door, when he heard the sound of voices within.

And one of them was male. It didn’t sound like Albus either, although it did sound familiar.

Was she?

She was. She was entertaining Filch in her rooms after curfew. And wouldn’t that be fun to tease her about tomorrow. He briefly considered casting a quick listening charm to find out exactly what was going on, but quickly re-considered; there were some things that were better left private. Minerva and Filch were definitely something left alone.

Severus headed off to bed in a decidedly cheerful frame of mind. He would have been even more amused to know that the Hufflepuff spent all night in a state of terror wondering what Professor Snape was going to do to him that was worse than detention with Filch or losing twenty house points.

Chapter 6

Severus’s good mood was still present the next morning; he was again seen smiling at breakfast. The Hufflepuff broke down in tears at the sight of this and had to be escorted to Madame Pomphrey.

“Good morning, Minerva,” he said cheerfully.

She looked at him sourly, and said, “Someone’s cheerful this morning. I don’t want to be a killjoy, but could we keep demonstrations of happiness to a complete minimum until I’ve finished my coffee.”

“Tired, Minerva?” he smirked. “You didn’t stay up late last night, by any chance, did you?”

There was a fraught pause whilst Minerva won the battle not to spit her coffee across the table. “Have you been listening at doors again?”

“Tut, tut, Minerva. I thought paranoia and suspicion were supposed to be peculiarly Slytherin qualities.”

“Or those of people dealing with Slytherins,” she replied.

Their budding sniping contest was nipped in the bud by the arrival of an Owl from Hermione suggesting that she and Minerva meet.

“Are you sure you want to do this,” he asked seriously.

“Has Filch bribed you?” she replied. “Because if he has…”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “I was thinking of your interests. You seemed to be getting on well enough last night. It was Filch you were talking to last night, wasn’t it?”

She nodded.

“The Agency does seem to work,” he said very softly, so that none of their colleagues could hear.

“It might work for you,” she said, in the same tone of voice. “But don’t forget that you filled your own form in. Whoever filled in my form could have made terrible mistakes.”

He had to admit that might be true, largely because to do otherwise would be to admit his involvement in the application. He didn’t think she’d take the news well, and he wanted to live.

An evil smile crossed Minerva’s face. “I think I’ll arrange to see Hermione on Wednesday afternoon. You are free then aren’t you, Severus? Perhaps you’d like to take your girlfriend on a tour of the Castle.”

“Whilst I would be happy to see my girlfriend, as you put it, at any time, I fail to see why you would expect me to show Hermione round a Castle she is entirely familiar with from her student days.”

“There are parts of the Castle she hasn’t seen yet, Severus.”

“How very true.”

It was lucky that the Hufflepuff had already left the Hall, as the sight of Professor Snape with a very wide grin on his face would have snapped the poor lad’s grip on sanity once and for all. Severus had just realised what Minerva was getting at; Hermione hadn’t seen his quarters.

As Hermione strolled up from the apparition point, she thought how pleasant it was to be back at Hogwarts. She hadn’t been back to the school since graduation, despite Minerva’s frequent invitations – too many painful memories to contend with – but now she was pleased to find that the raw hurt that had overwhelmed her after the Final Battle had subsided to a dull twinge and that she was able to remember the many happy times she had spent here.

Albus was waiting to greet her which was a trifle irritating when it came down to it. He was obviously sniffing out gossip, whether about her and Severus or Minerva and Filch. She had always thought his reputation for omniscience was greatly over-rated – she had never seen him with a decently configured Arithmancy equation. Those toys in his office were the equivalent to a Potions Master setting up glass tubes with coloured water running through them – very pretty, but bugger all use to anyone.

Which pretty much summed up the Headmaster himself, apart from the pretty bit.

With that lovely thought in her mind she was able to greet Dumbledore with a smile on her face, and resist the urge to get snippy with the prying old goat.

“Miss Granger, how nice to see you again. How are you?”

“Well, thank you. And you?”

“In the pink of health. Minerva is waiting for you in her sitting room, I’m sure one of the house elves will show you the way. She seems quite enthusiastic about the meeting, but not as enthusiastic as poor old Severus.”

She bit back the remark that it was the height of hypocrisy for him to be referring to Severus as OLD in anyway, and merely smiled sweetly. “I’m sure both of them are looking forward to catching up with me; we have a lot to discuss, so if you’ll excuse me Albus…..”

“Of course, of course,” he said jovially. “I’m sure I’ll have a chance to catch up with you later.”

“Possibly,” she said politely. Not if she could help it.

She slipped away from him quickly before he could reply, and attracted the attention of a house elf who directed her to Minerva’s rooms.

Minerva was more sincerely pleased to see her, even if it was almost entirely on the basis of self-interest. “Thank god you’re here,” she said fervently. “You have got to do something about Argus, he’s driving me insane, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings poor chap. I tried talking to him last night about how unsuited we were, and all he said was that the Agency was never wrong.”

“Well, we’re not,” said Hermione firmly, holding out a slim folder to Minerva. “I am an Arithmantic genius.”

Minerva looked askance at the papers. “What’s this?”

“Your answers.”

“But I didn’t fill any form in, these aren’t my answers at all,” Minerva said, slightly bewildered.

“I know, but look them over anyway. If you want to alter any of them let me know. Look it’s the way the charm works, you can’t have your name taken out of the possibilities it considers; so if you want a letter to go to Filch saying there’s been a mistake, you need to re-submit your answers.” Hermione was lying through her back teeth. From the suspicious look Minerva was giving her, this was obvious even to the most stupid observer, and Minerva wasn’t stupid.

Hermione sighed. “All right then, I have reason to suppose that the person who filled this in, got most of it right; if they did, Filch is your soul mate, sorry and all that, and I don’t want to throw away a chance at happiness just because you have some set idea about what you want in a man.”

Minerva narrowed her eyes and glared at her. “It was Severus, wasn’t it? The bastard! Just wait till I get my hands on him.”

“He only did it to try and track down the Agency. He did say he tried to answer the questions as accurately as possible.”

“Oh, that makes it alright then,” Minerva said, rolling her eyes. “Just because he’s ecstatic with his choice, doesn’t mean to say that we all would be, or even that I’m interested in a man at all.”

Hermione sat down, without being invited, and said, “He’s ecstatic?”

Minerva caught sight of her enormous grin, and said irritably, “Dear god, you two have got it bad. I really don’t want to have anything to do with love, if it means going around with your brains leaking out of your ears.”

Hermione resented that remark and said so. “It’s better than being miserable and alone.”

“Is that intended for me?”

“I was thinking of myself, only a couple of weeks ago. Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said impatiently, “just read the bloody thing, and see how close it is.”

It was, judging from Minerva’s ashen face when she finished, close enough.

“Bugger,” she said, “and you can stop laughing; it’s not funny!”

“I bet that’s what Severus thought when he read my name,” gasped Hermione in between laughing, “ and look how we’ve ended up. I lay you a fiver you and Filch are married within the year.”

It was fortunate she ducked; the book could have been damaged if it had hit her.

“You know, its odd being back here,” said Hermione, apparently going off at a tangent. “All the memories come back: Harry playing quidditch, Ron and the slugs, stealing from Snape’s stores.”

Minerva snorted. “You’d better not tell him about that. You could still end up in detention, you know.”

Hermione just smirked. “And there’s the memories of the Final Battle as well.”

Minerva suddenly looked all of her years. “Yes. You should get Severus to take you to the Memorial so you can pay your respects.”

Hermione nodded. “I will,” she said softly. “It seems like only yesterday we were duelling with Deatheaters on the Quidditch pitch. I can remember how angry Ron was; he was worried that there might be damage to the goals.”

Minerva smiled fondly. Ronald Weasley had been a favourite of hers, more so than Harry if the truth were told, she’d been very pleased when he survived the battle. It had been a close run thing, as the stupid boy had been hexed in the back by Avery, and had fallen to the ground in a very bad way. Mercifully, Avery couldn’t resist the chance to gloat over beating one of Harry’s staunchest allies, which had given Filch the opportunity to come up behind him. He may only have been a squib, but even a squib can knock someone out.

“I always wondered where the Headmaster was in all the excitement.”

Minerva shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “He was in his office, overseeing things.”

“Ah. Yes. He was always good at that.”

Minerva didn’t pretend that she didn’t understand Hermione’s point. “All right then,” she conceded, “I’ll go on one date. If he doesn’t make me hot under the collar by the end of it, you’ll give him another name.”

“Deal.” Solemnly they shook hands on it.

“Now leave me alone, and go and see Severus,” Minerva said, torn between laughing and grimacing, I expect he’s fretting by now. Be gentle with him,” she added more seriously, “He’s a gentle soul underneath all that sarcasm.”

Hermione nodded, and couldn’t resist the temptation to say, “Yes, you really shouldn’t go by first appearances should you.”

Minerva sniffed, but she looked thoughtful.

Severus was indeed fretting; he was waiting for Hermoine at the foot of the stairs to Gryffndor Tower. She couldn’t restrain a broad smile at the sight of him anxiously pacing backwards and forwards, and so far from his beloved dungeons too.

“There you are,” he said.

“Here I am,” she agreed cheerfully. “And I’m all yours for the afternoon.”

“Would you like to come back to my quarters for a cup of tea?” he asked, taking her hand in his.

“Not just yet. I’d like to visit the Memorial, if you don’t mind. I haven’t been back since they built it.”

He tucked her hand over his arm, and said, “Don’t be silly, of course I don’t mind. I ought to have thought of it myself. It’s this way.” It took Hermione a moment to orient herself; it had been a long time since she had had to content with Hogwarts and its moving staircases. They were heading towards the Quidditch Pitch. The memorial had been built close by, both because it was the scene of the final battle, and also because the children would be reminded of what happened there on a regular basis.

Harry had insisted on that site, in the face of Fudge’s suggestion that the Memorial would be better placed somewhere more discreet, so that the children wouldn’t have nightmares. His view, which he expressed very forcefully, was that as he had spent seven years having nightmares about facing Voldemort, the potential suffering of pupils at Hogwarts was the very least of his worries, and besides, the Fallen would want the best view of the matches that they could possibly get.

There was an official ceremony each year to make the anniversary of the Final Battle; but she knew that the three of them considered that the more important ceremony was the unofficial one that took place at the end of the Quidditch Cup. It had started the first year, when Lee Jordan’s younger brother had taken the Cup to the Memorial to tell his brother about it. Instead of being laughed at, as he had secretly feared, he had started a tradition. Each year now the Cup was presented to those who had died.

“How did it go with Minerva?” Severus asked.

“Well, I think. I reminded her about Filch saving Ron during the Final Battle.”

Severus wrinkled his nose. “Of course that had more to do with his grudge against Avery. He made Filch’s life a misery when he was at Hogwarts.”

“I didn’t know Filch had been a pupil here.”

“Only until his fifth year. It was clear by then.” Severus didn’t need to say more.

“What house was he in?”

“Gryffindor, where else would he have been sorted? Brave, courageous, tacking adversity against all the odds, hurling himself into battle, surely that’s Gryffindor traits.”

“But he attacked Avery from behind, surely that’s Slytherin tactics?” There was silence in response to this sally, and Hermione realised that she’d offended him. He had always been sensitive about the reputation of his House.

They reached the Memorial a few minutes later. It was simple, and spare – Harry had put his foot down again – a tall stone block simply recording the names of those who had fallen. She squatted down and traced the names of those who had died; so many Gryffindors among them

There were fresh flowers at the side of the stone. She looked up at Severus, mutely questioning.

“So many of them had younger brothers and sisters, cousins even, the Magical world is a small one. They come down here from time to time to check up on their relatives. I found young Jordan down here one day, reading his brothers the scores from the Quidditch World Cup.”

She stood up abruptly. “I wish,” she said in a quavering voice, “I wish more of them had been more careful, more sensible, more Slytherin and less bloody brave.”

Severus had never been very good with weeping females. The last woman to cry on his shoulder had been Minerva, after the battle, and he’d never been certain whether he should put his arms round her or pat her on the back or say something soothing. In the end he had settled for standing there awkwardly whilst she used his robes as a hanky. They’d never spoken of it since, but he had a feeling that he ought to have done better somehow.

He was surprised to find that he had no such difficulties with Hermione. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull her into his arms, hold her tight and bury his nose in her hair. He didn’t worry about the state of his robes, or even flinch when she sniffed horribly.

“Tea?” he said softly. “Dobby’s made crumpets, and we can toast them in front of the fire.”

She nodded, gave him one last convulsive hug and then moved away.

They reached the entrance to his quarters without bumping into anyone else, which Hermione found something of a relief. She could just imagine the rumours that would start if she were seen in tearstained in the Severus’s company. For all that he revelled in his ability to create fear in the hearts of his pupils, she didn’t think he would appreciate being thought of as someone who bullied his girlfriend.

Children, yes; girlfriend, no. Not to mention that if it got back to Harry or Ron, and it was bound to, one or both of them would be hammering down his door demanding satisfaction in a wizarding duel. It wasn’t that she was concerned that Severus might get hurt, more that she was bloody certain that the boys would be. Which would then make it harder than ever to persuade them that she and Severus were meant to be together. For some odd reason, the boys weren’t quite as convinced that she was an Arithmantic genius as she would like.

Of the two, Harry would be the most opposed – he could still wax lyrical for fifteen minutes on the subject of Snape and his personality without repetition, deviation or hesitation – and the most likely to concede that her calculations were correct; he did have the evidence of Millicent before him. Ron, on the other hand, had never used the Agency, preferring to play the field, so he had never experienced what Harry had described as the way the world suddenly clicked into place when he met the right person. On the other hand, he didn’t hate Severus as much as Harry. She didn’t think anyone – living – hated Severus as much as Harry.

She suspected that Ginny had been keeping the boys informed of her – she supposed you could call it an affair – and the absence of people in white coats coming to take her to St Mungos was indicative of a certain level of acceptance.

Ginny must be giving Severus a good press.

She wasn’t surprised to find Severus’s rooms were spartan, despite an obvious attempt to brighten them up with a bunch of lilies; she’d never taken him for a man who read Witches Weekly to find out the latest trends in decorating dungeons.

“I’ve hidden the skeletons,” he said dryly.

“Really, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to seeing them.”

“It’s not very homely,” he said, looking round at his rooms with freshly critical eyes.

“All it needs is a rug and a couple of cushions for the sofa. A nice bright red rug would look lovely there.”

Severus thought he hid his twitch of dismay well. “Red?” he said uncertainly.

“Or maybe pink.”

He looked at her in horror; he hadn’t appreciated before that there were worse colour choices than Gryffindor red.

“Or maybe a nice tasteful green. Something comfortable to sit on when toasting crumpets.”

Severus ignored her obvious attempt at teasing him, because he had had a flash of inspiration. If she wanted to sit in comfort in front of the fire that could be arranged. A quick Accio summoned his pillows and bedspread, and he spread them before the fire.

His inventiveness was rewarded by being allowed to sprawl next to Hermione whilst she toasted crumpets, and watching the wholly entrancing way she licked the butter from her fingers. He thought he could make that a life’s work.

Unfortunately, their little afternoon idyll came to an end all too soon; a sharp knock on the door heralded the arrival of another whining student with some hard luck story about being set upon by two bullies. Gryffindors, of course.

The child’s eyes had been as wide as saucers when he had seen that his Head of House had been entertaining a woman. Severus went rushing off to defend the precious honour of his house leaving Hermione with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. She watched him go, robes all swirling, with a fond eye. She realised with a start that the small child was still looking at her with an open mouth.

“You’re a Slytherin?” she asked.

He nodded dumbly.

She reached out and grasped his ear. “Right, you and I need to have a little word about Professor Snape.”

The child couldn’t nod; he was stood on tiptoe to avoid being parted from his ear.

“The Professor will be wanting his evenings and his weekends to himself from now on.”

The child smiled faintly in the usual Slytherin manner, indicating that it understood perfectly why the Professor would be wanting his evenings to be free of interruptions.

“That means that your House will have to start behaving itself, are we clear?”

She released his ear, so that the child could nod.

“And let’s be very clear about this. You think Professor Snape is the scariest person you’ve ever met don’t you?”

The child was undecided what was the right answer under the circumstances. Should it go with the truth and risk insulting Snape, or lie? In the end, he opted for silence.

“Well, let me tell you that I’m a damned sight more scary than the Professor. You see he’s a teacher at Hogwarts, and he has to abide by its rules; I don’t. Do we understand each other?”

The child nodded again. It understood perfectly.

“Now be a good little boy and run along. Pass on the message to all your little chums in Slytherin.”

“But it’s not always us that causes the trouble,” he whined. “It’s those Gryffindors.”

Hermione put her face unpleasantly close to the child – a tactic she had learned from her beloved – “Then you can tell your house I’m going to have a little word with them as well.”

The boy nodded again, and scuttled off as quickly as its little legs would carry him.

Hermione dusted off her hands - the child’s ear had been unpleasantly sticky - and went in search of the Head Girl. A one woman reign of terror was about to be launched on Hogwarts; nothing was going to stand between her and Severus.

Chapter 7

Hermione’s little talk seemed to have the necessary effect. Severus had been pleased, if a little bemused, to find his House on its best behaviour. Then he had started worrying; they were Slytherins: if they weren’t obviously up to something then they were less-obviously up to something and he knew what was worse.

He had taken to sneaking around, a habit he had given up since the demise of Voldemort meant that it was no longer necessary to keep a protective eye on Potter, in an attempt to work out what his House was up to.

He had been even more bemused to find out that whatever it was involved Hermoine. Visions of revenge attacks flashed through his eyes, before he managed to get a grip on his active imagination; most, if not all, of the children were grateful not to be bowing down to Lord Voldemort. Sometimes that was because they saw themselves as his successor, but without the inconvenience of having to remove him first, but mostly that was because Slytherins were not naturally hem-kissers.

The mystery had been solved when he had come upon a group of his Seventh Year Slytherins gathered round a younger boy who was busy going through the Yearbooks. A group he would privately admit, but only privately, to be troublemakers but who he regularly defended to Minerva as high-spirited, “very much in the way the Marauders were high-spirited Minerva, and you have to admit they haven’t tried to kill anyone yet.” She hadn’t found an answer to that one yet.

He was relieved to find that they were merely going through Yearbooks. They weren’t renowned for decent study habits, and if they were taking a sudden interest it could only mean one of two things: a sudden interest in the Dark Arts or Wizarding porn. Mind you, most of them had access to better manuals of both kinds in the privacy of their own homes.

What were they looking at the Yearbooks for then?

“That’s her,” said the smaller boy, stabbing a forefinger into Hermione’s face. Her picture didn’t look very pleased, and had taken out its wand and adopted the traditional stance of someone about to hex another. “That’s the one who threatened me.”

Threatened? Good god, what had Hermione been up to?

“So, that’s old Snapey’s girlfriend is it?”

Another boy, less concerned with maintaining his Slytherin credentials as being utterly imperturbable said, “Hermione Granger. Blimey.”

“You’ve got to give the old man credit,” said the first boy. “He’s brave taking her on. Did you hear what she did in the Final Battle?”

They exchanged amused glances.

“Gratified though I am to find you taking an interest in books,” said Snape in his silkiest tones. “I think twenty points from Slytherin is called for, and you know how irritable it makes me to deduct points from my own House. I expect Potions this afternoon is going to be very uncomfortable, don’t you?”

The look of shock on their faces had been most gratifying, and he felt he had gone some way to recovering his position.

The young boy had scarpered almost immediately, to be followed at a more sedate pace by his elders; only the youngest Rosier boy had the nerve to stay and face him

“I want you to know, sir, that we will be keeping order in the House, but not because she threatened us – we Slytherins don’t bow to threats – but because, well, because you deserve to be happy.”

“And that has nothing to do with wanting me to be in a better mood in Potions then?” asked Severus sardonically.

“Not at all, Sir,” he had replied, all injured innocence. Not that Severus believed that for one moment. “I think you should know that Miss Granger also had a word with her own House on the subject of good behaviour.”

He hadn’t been able to prevent the wide grin plastering itself across his face; Rosier was bright enough to pretend he hadn’t seen it, although he passed the news to the rest of Slytherin that evening.

The news spread rapidly through the school, and for a week or so Severus had been plagued by seventh year students not paying attention in classes. Some were wondering what on earth Hermione saw in him, some were wondering what on earth he saw in Hermione, but a sizeable majority were thinking that they knew exactly what Hermione saw in him and considered her to be a very lucky bitch.

In the end, Slytherin and Gryffindor had reached a tentative truce. The hostility between the two was too entrenched for it to be a complete cessation of hostilities, but a compromise was reached: pranks and other squabbles were not to be conducted on Wednesday or Friday evenings (the two days he saw Hermione every week), or during the whole of the weekend (to allow him a decent interval in which to be soppy and moon over Hermione in the peace and quiet of his dungeon). In return, Tuesday and Thursday homework had been reduced by a foot.

Nothing was said; but both parties understood the nature of the bargain.

He’d complained to Hermione on one of their Wednesday evening dates that he was a little irritated that she had managed to solve one of the most intractable disciplinary problems of the school with only two conversations. “How did you manage it?”

“That’s easy,” she’d replied. “The Slytherins know you’re on their side; they like you; they know you’re not going to take too many points away from them. I’m an unknown quantity. Besides, I think they’d actually like to see you happy. In the Gryffindor’s case, that’s because they don’t want to lose so many points, but I think most of the Slytherins actually like you, you know.”

Severus wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about being liked by his Slytherins. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to break out in a desire to be helpful or pleasant in any other way, which was a relief. He didn’t think he could take the strain.

He continued seeing Hermione, under the watchful eye of two Houses, for several months. She didn’t say anything, but he thought that she was getting a bit impatient about their lack of progress. His suspicions were confirmed when he was invited back to Minerva’s room for drinks, and she began asking how things were going with him and Hermione.

What could he say? He was nervous. Whilst he knew what to do in the most general of terms, he had had little opportunity to hone his skills recently.

Minerva filled his glass and settled back to give the sort of inside track on a lady’s mind that would have her drummed out of the sisterhood.

Right, first things first, appeal to Slytherin pride.

“I don’t know what you’re worrying about Severus; after all, as far as I know all Hermione’s previous boyfriends have been Gryffindors and we all know that they are more interested in Quidditch than sex.”

He snorted with laughter. She was obviously on the right track. Severus was a perfectionist, and he always wanted to be the best at everything. Which, in the long run, could only be good news for Hermione.

“Now, if you’ll take my advice you won’t start off by attempting any fancy positions, just, you know, the usual. You’ve plenty of time to work your way through the Kama Sutra. All you have to do is pay her the same level of attention you would have paid old Voldy, although preferably without looking gormless,” she said with some irritation, thinking of Filch’s longing glances being thrown her way.

She ignored the faint blush rising on his face, and continued briskly, “If I were you I’d invite the girl here for the weekend. Have dinner in your quarters, get her into bed, and don’t let her out again for the rest of the weekend.” Get her on your own territory was the unspoken message.

He nodded. “That makes sense.” He looked thoughtful for the moment, and said, “Do you think this weekend is too soon?”

“Nonsense my boy, this weekend sounds fine,” she said briskly. “The full works mind you, candlelight the lot.”

He nodded again. “I’ll owl her tomorrow.” Seveus looked acutely uncomfortable for a moment, and then asked the question he was dying to know the answer to. “How can I be sure that it’s what she wants?” He could, of course, be wrong about Hermione’s impatience; it could just be wishful thinking on his part.

“In the first place, Severus, no young lady would accept an invitation to dinner in someone’s private quarters without expecting a night of romance. Secondly, if she sticks her hand in your trousers or her tongue down your throat she’s interested. Thirdly, if she changes her mind and says no, it’s not the end of the world, don’t throw a tantrum and assume it means she’s not interested; just accept that it’s a delay until she feels less nervous.”

Severus look puzzled. “What would she have to be nervous about?”

“Severus, dear, although the woman has the luxury of lying there and doing nothing, she has other things to worry about. Is her hair nice? Are her breasts big enough? Are her hips too big? Should she take an active part, or will you think she’s too aggressive?”

There was a pause for several minutes whilst Severus reflected on the impossibility of Hermione’s breasts being other than wonderful, and how anyone could react to a young lady taking the lead in bed with anything other than gratitude and enthusiasm. Still, at least he felt a little better; Hermione had admitted to having nerves before the second date as well. They could hold each other’s hands and get through this terrible ordeal together.

Minerva interrupted his musings with more advice. “And if you get lost, or you don’t know what you’re doing for god’s sake stop and ask directions. It’s her body, she knows what she likes, and she’ll be so grateful that you even thought to ask that she would be prepared to overlook any potential deficiencies. Not that there would be any, I’m sure,” she added hurriedly, seeing him preparing to defend his honour as a shagging machine.

There were some things a girl was better off not knowing.

“And send her some chocolates,” she added hurriedly, and they spent the rest of the evening discussing which type was likely to be Hermione’s favourite.

Hermione was flattered to receive an owl from Severus the next day, and even more pleased to receive the chocolates. The stock market wasn’t doing what it should do at the moment, so she could do with a bit of stress relief.

She was slightly taken aback when she read the invitation to dinner in his quarters: for this Friday. The third date. Metaphorically speaking. The date she had thought would never arrive. Honestly, anyone would think he was a virgin the way he was carrying on.

Ginny had spotted the delivery of the letter – owl post is hardly discreet – and after a suitable interval, to allow Hermione to get all that isn’t it sweet crap out of her system so that she could have a sensible conversation - she pottered in with a pot of tea and some chocolate biscuits.

Jaffa cakes: the special occasion biscuits.

Hermione was looking pensive.

“So, what gives?”

Hermione just threw the note to her in reply. Thanks for a wonderful evening blah blah hope you like the chocolates blah blah dinner; my place; Friday; 7.30 pm.

“Well,” said Ginny, “are you going to pack your toothbrush?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione slowly.

“Do you want to pack your toothbrush?”

“Mmmm, what? Yes, yes. I’m just not sure it’s wise. It’s all a bit sudden, isn’t it?” It was now Hermione’s turn to get cold feet.

“Hermione, how long have you been going out?”

“Three months.” She looked sheepish.

“And long did it take Millicent and Harry to get into bed?”

“As I recall they were at it like knives by the end of the first date. She dropped her scarf in the soup and started blubbing, he naturally had to comfort her, and that took the form of a week spent in bed. Presumably it took her mind off the scarf.”

Ginny sniggered. “That depends on whether he’s improved since I went out with him. Look, I know what you’re like, you get all twitchy whenever the stock market starts playing up, and you start wondering if there’s an error in your calculations. What’s the market due to close at?”

“Eighty points higher.”

“If it hits the target, accept the invitation.”

Hermione thought about it for a bit, then said, “Sod it! I’m going anyway. Bugger the stock market, I’m taking my toothbrush regardless.”

It actually closed eighty-three points higher. Hermione was relieved to find her status as an Arithmantic Genius was confirmed. It seemed a good omen.

He was nervous, there was no doubt, but finally the moment had arrived.

Hermione was sitting next to him on the couch, sipping at her brandy. The conversation had died out nearly ten minutes ago. The silence wasn’t awkward, merely expectant; they were sitting there like two bookends, waiting for the slightest hint that they were ready to embark on a night of passion.

Hermione put her half-empty brandy glass on the small table to her left. Her hand, now empty, slid into his and her thumb started tracing circles on the back of his hand.

An invitation offered.

He turned to her, smiled a little uncertainly, and then moved to kiss her.

An invitation accepted.

It was a soft kiss at first, assessing her intentions, determining how welcome his advances were, but not for long.

He wasn’t sure how it happened, how the transition occurred from exchanging fairly innocent kisses – at an awkward angle it must be said – to half-sprawling on top of her, kissing each other passionately, with one hand on her breast and the other inching up her robe.

That hand had only reached as far as the knee so far, but she had raised no objections; the soft sighs and gasps she was making could only encouragement.

Her hands moved round from their position on his back, and started unbuttoning his jacket. He grew impatient when she was only halfway through the task, and rapidly freed the remaining buttons and shrugged out of it. She tugged his shirt free of his trousers, and slid her hands underneath it to begin tracing patterns on his flickering flesh.

He gave a soft sigh of contentment into her neck and then began working on the front of her robe. She made no demurral as his lips moved long the line of her underwear. When he teased her nipple with his teeth, she scrambled upright. He thought he had gone too far, too fast, and was on the point of apologising when he realised that she was sliding her arms out of her sleeves.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one getting a little impatient.

He helped push her robes from her shoulders, with slightly shaking hands, and then won the battle with the clasp of her bra. Then he was free to taste her without restraint. To lip at the underside of her breast, to tease the nipple erect with his tongue, then nip at the peaks until she squeaked, then soothed where he had nipped.

There was a brief scrabble to free him from his shirt, and then Hermione was returning the favour, placing open-mouthed kisses on his chest. A hand dipped beneath his waistband, and stroked his lower back, before moving round to his fly.

There was a pause; they both realised this was the moment of no return.

The verdict was unanimous as they returned to the serious business of removing clothes. Hermione’s robe was on the floor, as were Severus’s trousers, soon to be joined by their underwear.

The first moment of contact between their naked bodies was electrifying. He wanted both to stay there to savour the moment to its fullest, and move on to the inevitable conclusion. Several ragged breaths later he had nudged her thighs apart, and settled between them.

He drew out the moment as long as he could, easing slowly into her, being engulfed by her. He began to move in her, cautiously at first, feeling his way, judging her reactions. She moved to meet him, pressing herself against him, and then falling away; her hands stroked his back, down to his buttocks, to pull him closer to her.

He could feel his blood thundering in his veins, and his breath shortening. He reached between them to stroke her; he couldn’t last much longer. He was rewarded by a sudden gasp, her body stiffening as she came with her head thrown back; a few thrusts later and he was home himself.

He looked down at her fondly. She lay there, wrapped around him, with a dreamy and contented expression on her face. She smiled at him, the smile of a very happy woman. He bent down to kiss her again.

He was startled to hear a sudden round of applause. “Well done, Severus, I’d say at least an Exceeds expectations there if not an Outstanding, what do you say Pomona?”

Minerva! Where had she sprung from?

“You’re being too harsh on the boy,” Pomona said, “I’d say it was a straight Outstanding.”

Pomona! What on earth….? This couldn’t be happening.

Startled, he turned round to see the two ladies, sitting on chairs on either side of the fire, each sipping at a glass of Firewhiskey, and was that popcorn?

He woke with a start, and salt bolt upright in his bed, in a muck sweat.

Thank god, he’d only been dreaming; despite the very pleasant beginning, he was fairly sure that that qualified as a nightmare.

He didn’t know whether his subconscious was telling him that there was nothing to worry about, merely reflecting his anxiety about pleasing Hermione, or his mind reminding him that he should remember to cast warding charms on Friday night, but one thing was for certain. He was going to find it very hard to face Minerva at the breakfast table tomorrow.

He punched his pillow and settled down again, pulling the discarded covers up around him.

He reflected, a little wryly, that if he performed half as well as that in reality he should definitely get an Outstanding and he doubted whether he would be allowed out of bed for the rest of the weekend. Exceeds expectations indeed! He’d demand to be re-marked if that was the grade he got. Perhaps he could persuade Hermione to prepare a report card on him and hand it to the nosy witches.

When he finally managed to fall asleep again, there was a wide smile on his face.

Chapter 8

As Hermione didn’t actually work for a living – Ginny could look at the stock market prices and jump up and down chanting ‘come on you bastard, three more points’ as well as her – she decided to arrive for the date with Severus early.

Actually, she owled Minerva to arrange a meeting in the afternoon, ostensibly to talk to her about her progress with Filch, but really to get the inside track on what was going on with Severus. The stock market may have closed up 83 points, but, in the cold light of day, that was a bloody stupid reason to sleep with someone. Not that she had any intention of not sleeping with him - she had packed her toothbrush – it wasn’t so much strategy she wanted to discuss as tactics. The practicalities of getting him into bed, and keeping him there once she had succeeded.

Severus was older than her, and came from a pureblood background, which suggested that he might be restrained, but then he had spent some time as a Deatheater, and goodness only knows what they had been up to. She just wanted a hint as to whether she would be slipping into bed with someone who might be a bit shy and uncertain or someone who was going to perform acrobatics – so she could do a couple of warm up exercises first, no point straining a muscle.

Minerva was frank enough about Severus: “Nothing to worry about dear, I’ve told him not to attempt anything too complicated the first time, and to the best of my knowledge he isn’t a virgin.”

She was more reticent about Filch – yes, things were going well enough thank you, no, she wasn’t prepared to say whether they had actually done the deed. Hermione was relieved to hear it; the last thing anyone wanted to hear about was Filch in the context of actual sex, particularly when they were about to embark on the seas of amour themselves. It could put you right off.

She’d sent Hermione on her way with a recommendation to go the back way. “I know Albus is hanging around the Hall, hoping to bump into you. Really, the man is very aggravating, as if you want to be bothered by arrangements for the Hogwarts Foundation Ball at a time like this. I did warn him that your likely response would be to snap at him, and to wait until you were leaving at the very lest, but would he listen?”

Hermione made it to the dungeons without bumping in to the Headmaster, which was fortunate. She didn’t know what the punishment was for hexing Albus on the grounds if being an irritating sod, but she didn’t want to find out the hard way. Still, no jury in the land would convict her once they heard the full story.

She had the novel experience of feeling shy when she went to knock on Severus’s door. Even the hardiest of souls would feel a little daunted by the fact that almost the entire castle knew that she was here and why she was here. If Minerva and Dumbledore knew, the rest of the castle couldn’t be far behind, and those that were missed out by that pair of busybodies would be notified by the house elves.

Severus seemed a little distracted and Hermione was disappointed to receive only a peck on the cheek by way of welcome. When she accepted his invitation into the sitting room, she could see why. A table was set up to one side of the room, covered in snowy linen, enough cutlery for eight people, let alone two, not to mention the flowers and candles.

“Do you like it?” he asked anxiously.

“It’s wonderful,” she said warmly. “I can come back later if you haven’t finished.”

“No,” he said, a little sharply. “No, please, I’d like you to stay. I’ve nearly finished anyway.” He took out his wand and began casting a series of privacy charms; he too thought that people were taking too strong an interest in their soon-to-be-private lives.

He bustled around making her a cup of tea, and then gingerly took a seat next to her on the sofa.

Silence.

A very awkward silence; and then a halting confession from Severus: “I’m sorry, I meant to be better company. There was all sorts of things I wanted to talk to you about this morning, but now they’ve all gone, and all I can think about is this stupid dream I had.”

“What was the dream about?”

“It was more of a nightmare really,” he replied. “We were – we were –“ he flailed around trying to find the right word.

“Shagging?” put in Hermione.

“Making love,” he said a little reproachfully.

“Was it good?” she asked hopefully.

“Very. Are you going to let me finish?”

“Sorry.” Hermione folded her hands in her lap and gave a good impression of a dutiful student listening to a lecture.

“When things had reached a – mutually – satisfying conclusion, I looked up to see Minerva and Pomona watching and assessing my performance.”

Hermione tried not to laugh, he seemed so disturbed by the dream, but she couldn’t help herself. “Did they hold up cards with marks on? 5.5 for technical merit and 5.9 for artistic impression.”

“I rather think I can do better than 5 out of 10,” he began indignantly.

Hermione managed to stop laughing long enough to explain that she had been thinking of ice-skating contests, which were marked out of 6, and had in no way been insulting his likely prowess.

“I should think so,” he subsided. “It was bad enough that Minerva seemed to think it only qualified as Exceeds expectations!”

“What did Pomona think?” asked Hermione breathless with laughter.

“Outstanding, naturally,” he replied smugly, which started Hermione laughing again. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

He waited until her mirth had died down to a few choked giggles, then offered, “They had popcorn.”

“Well you would, wouldn’t you?” Hermione said reasonably. “I think we should just be grateful they didn’t start throwing it at us.”

Now that he had confessed what was worrying him, he felt a lot better. In the cold light of day it did seem funny after all. He felt Hermione move closer to him, and he put his arm round her.

And then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to start kissing her, and there was no good reason to stop. Gradually they slid off the sofa onto the floor, and, yes, he was clumsy, her bra almost defeated him, but he struggled on, and - oh – her breasts were soft and inviting, apart from the nipples which peaked under his tongue.

And her hands were everywhere: tangling in the hair in the back of his neck; pulling his shirt open and burrowing round to trace the muscles in his back; and then reaching between them to undo his trousers; and pushing them from his hips; and then they were grasping at his buttocks, and urging him closer, and he was sinking into her, and moving in her, and she was crying out beneath him, and he came to an overwhelming, shuddering stop.

When he could breathe again, he realised that he was still lodged in her, and had collapsed over her in an untidy heap, with his trousers still bunched round his knees.

“A hundred points to Slytherin, Professor Snape,” she said, refusing to let him move off her. “Definitely an Outstanding.”

“Two hundred points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” he replied.

“You did all the work.”

“I did, didn’t I? Two hundred points to Slytherin it is, then,” he smirked. He had never before appreciated how wonderful it was to make someone laugh, but when she started giggling into his shoulder, he felt a wave of happiness sweep through him that he had never felt before.

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, and stared at the ceiling.

“It isn’t what I expected,” he said softly.

“How so?” She looked up from where her head had been resting on his chest.

“I wanted to take my time, be, I don’t know, more thorough, pay more attention to detail.”

“Severus, let’s go to bed.”

He looked at her, a little irritated, then realised from the glint in her eye that her comment wasn’t quite the non sequitor he had thought, and it appeared he had recovered faster than he had thought possible.

Oh, yes. Seconds. Thirds even.

He kicked free of his shoes and socks, pushed off his trousers, and allowed her to help him to his feet. He followed her to the bedroom, still holding her hand.

He was sure they’d get round to dinner eventually.

When they reached the bed Severus was apprehensive again. He had achieved what he had achieved purely on instinct, but now he was supposed to be calling on skills, experience, technique even, to bring Hermione to the highest pitch of ecstasy over and over again.

He hadn’t got the faintest idea where to start.

He’d had thoughts: little flashes of fantasy that had come to him at odd moments during the week. Not a fully formed, fully choreographed – even orchestrated – seduction, but an image of him kissing her neck, nuzzling between her breasts, kissing the crook of her elbow or tracing the curve of her hip with his fingers: little fragments that would go to make up the whole; but where to start?

Hermione, marvellously, wonderfully, took the lead, and freed him from that moment of paralysis.

She pulled back the covers and then sat on the bed. She took his hand, kissed the palm, then rubbed her cheek against it. He sketched out the line of her neck and then along her arm to take her hand. Somehow, without clumsiness this time, he followed her down onto the bed as she laid back.

They were stretched out together, his body half-covering hers: a leg nestling between her thighs, but with no weight behind it; an arm resting on her gently rounded belly; and then the hand reaching up to cup her breast.

They rested like that for a heartbeat, before he moved to kiss her. Innocent, closed-mouth kisses, that made her smile against his lips, and made him smile in his turn. He felt ridiculously happy that he could do something as simple as make someone else smile.

And then she was rolling him over, and her hair was falling on either side of his face, like curtains, cutting them off from the rest of the world, and she was saying in sultry tones – and who would have thought someone as prosaic as Hermione would be sultry, and yet she was, she was – “I think it’s my turn don’t you?”

He offered no resistance, had no wish to resist, not when she was dropping soft kisses on his throat. Her hair was tickling his face, and he huffed it out of the way. She smiled at him as she flicked it to one side and he felt his heart, an organ he had previously denied owning, lurch.

He put out a hand, and ran a finger down her cheek. She turned her head slightly to suck it into her mouth, and he hissed at the image that brought to mind. Hermione’s smile broadened into a very promising grin – she could tell what he had been thinking.

Would she?

It seemed she would, but only after a leisurely detour. He had never before appreciated just how sensitive his nipples were until Hermione lipped at them, and that long tail of her hair was following her down and it was almost but not quite ticklish, and then her tongue was exploring his navel with a promise of pleasures to come. He was fleetingly grateful that he had taken so much time in the bath earlier but then her mouth drifted lower and all he was thinking of was when she would…..

Ah.

She kissed his tip. Paused long enough to draw out the moment, and then, achingly slowly, took him into her mouth. Again a pause, to allow the exquisite relief at finally being in that hot, welcoming mouth to fade, and the anticipation of movement to build. When she did move, it was just slightly slower than he would have liked, and he hovered on the edge of pleasure and irritation. It was so good, but it could be so much better. He looked down at her, on the verge of instructing her to ‘move, damn it!’ when he saw her expression – she was teasing him.

Two can play at that game.

When she saw his evil smile she laughed, which did very interesting things to his cock; he very nearly changed his mind about turning the tables on her, but only very nearly.

He urged her up by pulling at her hands, and buried his long nose in her hair. It was soft and woolly, and smelled faintly of some perfume. She giggled, a little, as his hot breath tickled her ear, but then his teeth began nipping at her lobe, and soon she was making little noises of appreciation in the back of her throat.

From ear to neck, from neck to shoulder and then down the curve of the breast to a nipple – a pause, a breath – and then a swirl of the tongue, before, finally, suckling, nuzzling and lipping at her nipple; his hand feeling the curve and weight of her other breast, warm and soft.

And then he was kissing her again, and his hand was stroking slowly down her body and then between her legs, moving in subtle patterns along her thighs and almost but not quite stroking her where she obviously craved his touch. She shifted restlessly beneath him, then broke off the kiss to say, “Severus, stop playing silly buggers, there’s a good boy.”

He gave a short gasp of laughter, and then did what she wanted. The sight of Hermione, flushed, head thrown back and fighting for breath was entrancing, and one he wanted to savour; but she hooked a leg round his and pulled him towards her.

His cock nudged hopefully between her legs, and then he was easing into her, and he was lost in a whirlwind of sensation, and he was clinging on until he was dimly aware of her arching beneath him and then he could finally let go.

It felt like a long time before he could summon the strength to move, and he flopped gracelessly to one side of her without moving too far away.

They lay side by side, looking at the ceiling; Hermione took his hand and interlaced their fingers.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “bearing in mind that it is generally accepted that the first shag is supposed to be faintly disappointing, and the second shag just about ok, I wonder what the third one will be like?”

He barely had the strength to lift his head, but he looked at her and said, “Give me thirty minutes, and we can find out.”

He wasn’t offended at all by her laughter, because she tucked herself in the crook of his arm and placed an arm over him possessively.

“All right, maybe forty minutes,” he said, as he felt himself drifting asleep.

Severus didn’t know how long he slept, but soon after he awoke he became aware that there were other appetites that needed to be satisfied. He was absolutely starving. He was slightly worried about how to tell Hermione this – she was still sleeping and making faint snuffling sounds that could be called snoring if they were made by someone less beautiful – it was hardly the stuff of romance.

And yet, there was the dinner he had prepared for in such loving detail.

He carefully freed himself from Hermione’s possessive arm, and slipped into his dressing gown, and headed back into the sitting room. A quick glance at the mantel clock showed that it was 8pm, only half an hour later than he had originally planned for dinner.

He felt mildly self-conscious about summoning Dobby when he was still in his dressing-gown; it would be all over the castle within half an hour. And yet, he felt slightly smug, and slightly guilty about feeling smug, at the thought that everyone would soon know that he and Hermione had been – he searched for a suitable phrase and finally settled on – been intimate. And so early in the evening as well.

It hadn’t been quite what he had envisaged. He had expected a romantic dinner, sparkling conversation, good food, a decent wine, a move to the sofa and then shagging like nifflers; instead of which, they had gone straight to the last item on the agenda. Not that he was complaining, not at all.

Ten minutes, three over-excitable house-elves, and a flurry of activity later and dinner was ready. Nothing too elaborate and certainly nothing too heavy; the idea wasn’t to make your partner fall asleep after the meal. He looked up from lighting the candles – none of this silly business with matches that muggles had to put up with, just a quick spell – and there she was, leaning against the doorjamb, wrapped in a sheet.

And he had thought he was hungry, he thought wryly to himself.

He reminded himself – firmly – that he was a gentleman, and drew out a chair for her to sit on.

“That’s a very fetching outfit,” he said. He thought she looked wonderful, all pink and flushed and faintly rumpled. She looked like she had just climbed out of bed, and she looked like she was ready to head back there at a moments notice.

“Why thank you,” she mock-simpered in her best Lavender Brown manner. “All the girls are wearing it this season.”

He took the seat opposite her and started the prosaic business of serving the food and pouring the wine.

There was no awkwardness between them; they were as comfortable together as an old married couple, but without the lingering resentments built up over twenty years. She asked about how his classes had been, and he found himself recounting the story of young Mr Beattie and his amazing exploding cauldron.

Not only did she find it amusing but sharing it with her allowed him to find a measure of enjoyment in what had, at the time, been nothing short of a nightmare. If this continued on a regular basis, he could see himself developing a sense of humour, perhaps mellowing and becoming less irritable; the prospect didn’t annoy him as much as it might once have done. He would be a fool to scoff at any chance to be happy; he’d been the child standing outside the toy shop with their nose pressed against the window for far too long.

Then he asked about her meeting with Minerva earlier. He half-expected Hermione to confirm that he had made some mistake in filling in the form, and that Filch wasn’t really Minerva’s soulmate, although he had tried to be as accurate as possible.

“So, why do you think they are suited to each other,” he asked, puzzled.

An evil expression crossed her face. “Well, if you think about it, Filch has a great deal of experience with cats.”

He was shocked by the implication; he was even more shocked that Hermione was the one making it, and about her favourite professor too. Amused, but shocked. When he pointed this out to her, she just smiled broadly and said that McGonagall was hardly her favourite professor any more.

The implication passed him by at first, and then he ducked his head shyly. He wasn’t used to compliments, had no armour against them, and didn’t know what to say. He was relieved when she turned the conversation back to Minerva and Filch. “I gather that things are going well, although she was terribly coy about how well. It’s not surprising. If he was honest in his answers, they have a surprising amount in common: similar tastes in books, music, and art, and both are very strong believers in the value of discipline.” – another evil smile – “Just because he’s a squib, doesn’t mean he’s stupid; what he wants is someone who will appreciate that. All he needed was a chance.”

“And what does Minerva get out of it?” he enquired, interested in spite of himself.

“I think she’s beginning to feel old, that life has passed her by; what she wants is someone who will tell her that she’s still attractive, still vibrant, despite her age.”

Now he thought about it, Minerva had been complaining about aches and pains a lot more recently; she did seem to be feeling old. He could sympathise with that. “And you think that going out with a younger partner will help her feel younger?”

“You tell me,” she said, almost purring.

He shot her an amused look. “I think it may make her feel very tired, if she’s not careful.”

“And what’s the best thing when you’re feeling tired?” she asked, twirling her fork.

“Lot’s of rest?” he offered hopefully; he liked the way her mind was working.

“I think it’s way past your bedtime then.”

He rather thought she was right about that; particularly when she stood up, made some airy comment about needing the sheet back in that case, and let it fall to the ground. Hermione was enchantingly direct about these sorts of things, he reflected, as he padded into the bedroom behind her.

And she was right; the third time was the best of all.

Chapter Nine

She was gone, and it was foolish and sentimental to miss her, but he did. They had spent the rest of the weekend locked in his rooms, mostly in bed, but occasionally surfacing for meals. They hadn’t spent all their time making love, but had talked in soft voices about the past, the present, and their hopes for the future.

Breakfast was painful. He didn’t want to make polite conversation – when had he ever done so before at the breakfast table – but Minerva was dying to know how things had gone. She stopped pressing him when she saw his white-faced look of misery. It appeared her prediction about tears before bedtime had been wrong; it looked like there were going to be tears after bedtime. .

“Come and have a drink tonight, after dinner. I promise I won’t ask you anything, but you can tell me anything you want to. Even how stupid the Gryffindors were in potions.”

He smiled faintly, a mere twitching up of lips. “A magnanimous offer,” he said. “I’ll take you up on it. By then, by then, I might be able to talk about it.” By then, he thought, nothing would be able to keep the words back.

He couldn’t understand where this rising sense of panic, of wrongness, was coming from. He needed the day to understand his feelings, to examine his emotions, which now felt as if he was trying to read a book in a foreign language he barely understood.

Shouldn’t he be feeling happy?

He could see Filch looking at him across the hall. How he regretted his agreement to help him spruce himself up a bit. Filch had cornered him on the way back from seeing Hermione off at the apparation point, and asked for his help. It seemed that Minerva and Filch’s romance had also reached the critical point, at least in Filch’s eyes: he wanted to look his best when he made his move. No one knew what Minerva felt about the whole thing; coy was an understatement.

Severus had been caught at a disadvantage; he’d been feeling generous and kind and helpful and in love with the whole world. It seemed to him criminal that Filch wouldn’t have a chance to feel this shatteringly happy, and so he had agreed to take him shopping on Wednesday afternoon.

But now, in the cold light of morning, Filch’s whole appearance, the whole idea of him dressing up for a lady was a caricature of all that he, Severus, had done for Hermione. At least, he hoped it was a caricature; he deeply feared it was nothing more than a true reflection of himself, and no distortion. The day came and went in a blur of not-quite misery. Everywhere he went that gargoyle face seemed to be staring back at him. It was fortunate that the fear he had drilled into his students daily kept them on their best behaviour despite his distraction.

Dinner was less of a nightmare partly because he knew he would be able to unburden himself – and where had this urge come from to talk to people about things - and partly because Minerva kept up a stream of catty comments at the expense of the staff and the children, that raised a smile from him from time to time, but largely allowed him to pretend that he was having a private conversation and so not have to talk to anyone.

And then the relief of reaching Minerva’s room, the glass of brandy, and the chance to unburden himself, only he couldn’t think what to say or how to begin. He stood by the fire, on the verge of making a run for it, and trying to find the words to explain how he felt.

He needn’t worry. Minerva went straight to the heart of the matter with typical Gryffindor subtlety. “So, why are you going round like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, instead of a lucky dog who’s probably had more sex this weekend that I’ve had in the last ten years.”

He sat down abruptly in a chair. “I don’t know,” he said. “I ought to be happy……”

“Frankly, my boy you should be ecstatic,” Minerva said.

“……but I feel, I don’t know, hollow. I feel miserable, Minerva, why do I feel miserable?”

Minerva looked at him in concern. It wasn’t like Severus to be so open about his feelings; it certainly wasn’t like him to notice that he was miserable. And that was probably part of the problem; he’d been happy for the weekend, and now he was back to normality and whilst he had never noticed before how empty his life was, now it was thrown into sharp relief. She suspected that this was only part of the problem.

The awful truth was that Severus wasn’t used to being happy; he didn’t know how to cope with it, and it was sending him into a panic. Not something she could say to him either; it was hardly encouraging. The trick was to prevent him from doing something disastrous, and keep him shagging Hermione until even he got used to the idea of being happy for more than ten minutes at a time.

“You are a daft sod,” she said affectionately. “Of course you feel a bit miserable; you’re missing Hermione.”

He looked at her and tried the idea for size; it seemed to fit all available symptoms. It was a rational explanation for why he felt so down, but somehow he didn’t think it was all that was wrong.

“Really,” she said firmly.

He allowed himself to be reassured by her certainty.

She cast around for something to distract him. “I hear you’re taking Argus out on Wednesday.” She knew she had hit a wholly unexpected nerve there; he was so still, his expression so very carefully blank. What on earth could that be about? She made a mental note to Owl Hermione at the very first opportunity. Whatever was going on, Severus was just the sort of person to sit in his dungeons and feel sorry for himself instead of getting hold of the problem by the throat and squeezing it until it gave in.

She was damned if she was going to stand idly by and watch him muff this up.

She was surprised when she tried the direct approach and it worked; he must be in a bad way. “Why is Filch making you twitchy, surely you’re not telling me he’s transferred his attentions to you?”

There was a faint twitch of the lips. “I just wonder why you seem so sure that Hermione and I are suited to each other, and yet every time someone asks about you and Filch you say you’re just good friends, and happy for it to stay that way. Surely if the Agency is right about us, it should have been right about you?”

Dear god, give him another couple of weeks like this and it would be reading German philosophy, listening to the Ring cycle, and the slashing of wrists. Hers not his; she wouldn’t be able to take al the angst.

“We’ve been seeing a fair bit of each other recently, you know that. I just want to take things slowly,” she said mildly, deciding to stay in shallow waters. Let Hermione brave the deeps if she wanted.

That soothed him for a while, but then he frowned again “But that’s only because Hermione talked you into it.”

“Look Severus,” she said, trying very hard not to let her irritation show. “Don’t be silly. You and Hermione have lots in common and every chance of being happy together. Whether Filch and I click doesn’t affect that.

“Stop trying to make it complicated. You like her; she likes you. That’s ground for celebration in my book. In fact, sod it, let’s open a bottle of champagne and toast your new found happiness.”

He cheered up a bit at that, but he still looked troubled. She scrabbled around in one of her cupboards to draw out a very dirty bottle. She blew the dust off it, and wrapped the sleeve of her robe round her hand to draw the cork which she managed to ease free without a large pop. She didn’t think Severus’s nerves would stand any sudden noises.

“You’ll have to make do with mugs, I’m afraid. I can't be arsed transfiguring them.”

He just nodded, and put out his hand for her second best tea mug. She filled it to the brim, and then did the same for her mug. She put the nearly empty bottle down on the ground next to her chair, and then said, “I give you a toast. To you and Hermione.”

They ceremoniously clinked their mugs together and drank some champagne.

He grimaced. “It’s warm,” he said.

“It’s a symbol of the warmth of your passion,” she said, improvising wildly.

“What tepid?” he returned, but the mention of the word passion had obviously brought back happy memories of his weekend. She didn’t like the glint in his eye though. “I give you a toast. To you and Filch.”

She hesitated for a moment, it seemed like repeating the gesture with the mugs would be tempting fate; she would be trapped with Filch for the rest of her life. Severus’s faint smirk showed that he knew the reason for her pause. “To me and Filch,” she echoed, and touched mugs. Her fate was sealed.

The things she did for Hermione.

As Minerva levered herself gingerly into bed much later that night, she reminded herself very firmly to write to Hermione tomorrow. She was getting too old for these late night drinking sessions. They had followed the first bottle with a second and a third; only the third bottle had been chilled enough to suit Severus’s delicate palate, then they had felt a bit peckish so they had summoned the house elves to bring them some snacks. There was another reason to write to Hermione; it would be just like some nosey Parker– naming no names, Mr Busybody Albus sodding Dumbledore- to pass on the news of their midnight carouse and Hermoine could jump to entirely the wrong conclusion.

Minerva fell asleep with a faint smile on her face, thinking how unlikely she and Severus were, and what Hermione would do to anyone who trespassed on her territory.

And what on earth was she going to wear on her date with Filch?

Severus found that his hangover on Tuesday morning was sufficient to prevent him from worrying about anything other than when his head was going to drop off, and hoping that it would be soon. On Wednesday morning, he had recovered sufficiently to begin worrying about Hermione again, but he found that he had only a limited amount of time to spare for that when he had the nightmare of getting Filch outfitted dangling before his eyes.

Perhaps that was the solution to his problems: find other things to be miserable about instead. Perhaps he had a finite amount of worrying that needed to be done, and what he should be doing was worrying about his seventh year potions classes, and what the hell he could do to make Filch even vaguely presentable, and what Minerva was going to do to him if he didn’t manage to make Filch look vaguely presentable, and even the future of the Wizarding World. This would then leave him free to enjoy Hermione’s company without any more angst.

Or, if Minerva was right, and he was missing Hermione the simple solution would be to see her as much as possible.

Somehow, Argus got the impression that the whole trip was being kept secret from Minerva, and that his new look would be unveiled for their date that evening as a big surprise. Instead, Severus had been treated to a long list of ‘do’s and ‘don’t’s over breakfast until his irritation got the better of him and he had invited Minerva to see to the matter herself.

He’d decided that the best thing to do was to get the nightmare over and done with as quickly as possible, so he had arranged with Filch to meet at the apparation point as soon as morning classes were over. Lunch could wait.

The whole trip was even worse than he had expected. He had quickly determined that Filch had a surprisingly large bank balance for a caretaker – but then what would he spend his wages on? – and could well afford the prices Severus’s tailor charged.

Severus didn’t like shopping at the best of times, and he had rapidly concluded that shopping with Filch wasn’t the best of times. Lucius had introduced him to his tailor at 18; they had agreed on a ‘look’ although it wasn’t called that at the time, and he had stuck with it since then. He considered that it was the only good thing to come out of that particular acquaintance. He had only to Owl his tailor for new robes or whatever else he needed and it would appear. The only thing he had needed to do was visit once in a while to be sure his measurements hadn’t changed too much, and even that hadn’t been necessary in the last five years.

He was therefore disconcerted to find that when he visited the tailors that the wizened old man he met so long ago was dead, and had been replaced by his son, young Mr Willikins. Obviously he should have expected something of the kind, bearing in mind the fact that ‘his’ tailor had been old when he first met him, some twenty years ago. Nonetheless, he didn’t like change, and it made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin.

He was therefore not in the best mood to make supportive noises whenever Filch asked his opinion on different robes. He was on the point of leaving them to it and making some excuse that he had another appointment elsewhere – like St Mungo’s - when the sky fell in.

He should have recognised Hermione’s voice, but he was so taken aback at the thought of a woman being in a gentlemen’s outfitters that it took several seconds to register the identity of the woman. It was fortunate that shock had kept him silent, thus allowing him time to recognise her before his natural inclination kicked in to greet the interloper with the kind of wounding sarcasm that had reduced generations of schoolchildren to tears.

Not that he expected her to snivel, but no man likes being insulted in public and he suspected she would respond in kind.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in an urgent whisper.

“Minerva thought you could so with some help.”

He doubted that it was all that Minerva had thought; he just hoped she hadn’t passed on to Hermione everything that he had said, and in the strictest confidence too. Ordinarily he would have been grateful for the chance to see Hermione, but not in the middle of this kind of establishment. It would only be marginally more embarrassing to have met her in a brothel.

He was even more disgruntled to find that the new owner had no objections to women in his shop; instead, he was positively enthusiastic. Severus was seized with the horrid thought, long since put to the back of his mind, about girlfriends and their need to improve their recent acquisitions. Dear god, no, please no. He liked his robes. He didn’t like the look of the new man either. He looked shifty; his eyes were too close together. He looked like just the type to start insinuating that Sir’s look needed updating and before you knew it, you’d be dressed in green, or worse. Not red. Please no.

He had to get her out of here as soon as possible.

Peacetime had dulled his reactions; a chair had been found for her, a cup of tea had been placed on a table to her side, and Filch was instructed to show her what they had tried on so far. Hermione and Willikins were getting on very well. He kept murmuring compliments about her taste, and agreeing unctuously with her comments.

He resigned himself to the inevitable tedium, and vowed not to concede anything on his own choice of clothes without a fight. There was a horrible moment when Filch paraded in a suit almost identical to his own; Hermione said no very definitely and Filch was ushered quickly back into the cubicle to Severus’s immense relief.

He was aware of Hermione’s sideways glances, assessing his reaction, and he tried not to give anything away. It was one thing to let his guard down with Minerva, but quite another to do so with Hermione, however fond of her he was.

She murmured in the ear of Willikins, who nodded his agreement and he scurried off to fetch another robe from the back of the shop. It was dark red, and very plain. Filch liked it immediately. Of course, he was a Gryffindor; red would make him feel comfortable. The subtle reassurance of his house colours made him stand slightly taller, straighten his shoulders and stand proud. There was no radical transformation into a good-looking man, but a reminder that underneath the caretaker there was a person.

The robe was quickly purchased, and then Hermione took Filch to one side and gently suggested that he have a haircut. “I think it would be a good idea, Argus,” she said gently. “Nothing drastic, just make it look neat and tidy.”

“Do you really think so?” Argus was putty in her hands, and ready to agree to anything that would increase his chances of a second date with Minerva.

“I do. A woman likes to think that her companion for the evening has made an effort.

Willikins nodded in support. “Indeed, sir. If I might suggest the barbers on the corner, and perhaps a manicure as well.”

Everyone looked at Argus’s hands with their dirty and uneven nails. Definitely a manicure.

“They won’t want to put nail varnish on me?” he asked plaintively.

“No, Argus,” said Hermione, with more patience than he could have mustered under the circumstances. “Just tidy them up a bit.”

It took a little more reassurance from all parties to assure Argus he wouldn’t end up with bright-red fingernails, and then he was ushered out of the door.

“Thank god that’s over,” said Willikins, slumping to the chair and mopping his brow. He suddenly recalled the deference due to a customer of long standing and stood up very quickly. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Sir?”

“No thank you.” Hermione and Severus spoke almost in unison.

“If you’ll excuse me then…..” Willikins disappeared into the back of the shop; probably in search of a little something to calm his nerves.

“Severus, why are you looking at me like that?” asked Hermione, with some asperity.

“When Remus started his relationship with Miss Wilmott, she spent the first six months dropping hints that he ought to wear this or that set of robes, until the poor man gave in and allowed her to choose all of his clothes.”

“And you thought I’d want to do the same to you? Now why would do something so foolish, when you look so sexy like that?” she asked, stepping closer to him and playing with his top button in a way he found entirely distracting. “Although,” she said – he braced himself for the bad news – “I do have one complaint. All those buttons look wonderful but they’re an absolute sod to undo quickly.”

He would have flushed, but all the blood in his body had decided to head south.

“May I suggest we go elsewhere,” he said, “because if I kiss you in this establishment, I will never be able to show my face in here again.”

She smiled sweetly, helped herself to some floo powder on the mantelpiece, provided by the establishment for the convenience of its patrons, and announced very firmly, “Hermione Granger’s flat.”

As he followed, he reflected that perhaps Minerva’s intervention wouldn’t be disastrous after all. Five minutes later, he was convinced of it. He was also damned certain that Hermione had been right about the sodding buttons.

Much, much later, when he was lying sated and contented in her arms, she asked softly, “So, are you going to tell me what got Minerva so jumpy?”

“She didn’t tell you then?” he asked, winding a lock of hair around his finger.

“No, she didn’t. All she said was that you were going to be at your tailors this afternoon and that you could probably do with some help.”

He was still intent on playing with her hair, but then he took a leap of faith and answered, even if obscurely. “It’s Filch and Minerva. If they are supposed to be so suited with each other, why did you have to work so hard to persuade her to go out with him?”

“Well, in the first place, she didn’t apply to the Agency, so she wasn’t open to the prospect of getting herself a lover. And in the second place, what you have to realise is that the equation measures how fitted people are to each other. Not everyone they pair up are one hundred per cent, bona fide soulmates.

“Most people are ordinary, with ordinary hopes and fears. They can have a relationship with lots of people and be happy. They are like tiles – square, regular - and they can be put against other tiles to make a pretty pattern. They are joined together by experience and time, and love of their children. And then there are people like us: jigsaw pieces – irregular and uneven – and we’re designed to fit in only one place in the world. We can fit somewhere else, but only if we cut off the little piece that sticks out, or if we ignore the space that should have another interlocking piece in it.

“Most of the people that come to my agency are jigsaw pieces, not tiles. If they were tiles, they would have found their own tile and settled down by now. Minerva and Filch fit together, but they’re normal shaped jigsaw pieces; the standard shaped ones - two lugs, two spaces, that you can force into most spaces in the puzzle and you wouldn’t notice that they didn’t fit unless you looked at the picture.

“You and me are odd-shaped pieces, that can only fit together. I’ve accidentally run my name in combination with 500 wizards, and never come up before. I ran your name without me as a possible match, and came up with a couple of witches.”

He looked up at that. He thought about it; could he see himself with anyone other than Hermione? No. Not that he would get the choice anyway, because Hermione said mock-severely, “and don’t think I’m going to tell you who they are either. You’re mine, and I’m not taking a chance of you getting away.”

Obscurely, the idea that he had alternatives made him feel better, and Hermione’s way of explaining things made him feel sorry for those poor little tiles. He wasn’t difficult, or ugly, or sad, or passed over by life; he was special, he was unique and the reason no one else had wanted him was because they weren’t the right jigsaw piece.

And he was a silly sod for even doubting that Hermione and he would be happy.

His newfound mood of contentment didn’t fade even when he had to leave for Hogwarts. It survived unimpaired through the long trek from the apparation point; Albus had proved distressingly intransigent about dropping the wards - Minerva said he was sour because he wasn’t getting any.

He was even whistling to himself as he headed to the Library to pick up a little late night reading. He was disturbed to find that the door was ajar – if one of the students were in there after hours there would be hell to pay, good mood or no good mood. It was fortunate that he stopped to listen in an attempt to locate his prey, because if he had actually put his head round the door he would have had to cast Obliviate on himself.

What he heard was the unmistakable sound of Minerva. Minerva and Filch. He could hear heavy breathing, and Filch was saying something about Harder! Harder!

Severus froze in horror. Dear God, no.

Rapidly he shut the door, cast silencing and locking charms and made a run for it. He only hoped that no impressionable minds had seen – he gulped – he didn’t like children, but even he had to admit that that was going too far.

Epilogue

It was the wedding of the year.

Severus knew this was true because it would say so on the front cover of the Quibbler tomorrow. Hermione had cut a deal with Loony Lovegood: they had final say on the pictures and text, and Hermione promised not to hex anyone at the paper.

He’d been surprised at the look of cupidity that had briefly crossed Luna’s face; apparently, she wasn’t that divorced from reality not to appreciate the financial rewards of obtaining the exclusive rights to the wedding pictures. Not to mention the sheer delight in beating Skeeter to the punch.

“How much do you want?” she’d asked vaguely.

Hermione had just looked amused. “I don’t want money, Luna, and you’re not Hello magazine; so you can drop the misty look. I didn’t believe it with Trelawney and I don’t believe it with you. You forget, I saw you hit Lucius Malfoy with a very nasty hex at the final battle.”

A brief look of irritation crossed Luna’s face; then she sat up and said more briskly, “If you don’t want money, what do you want. You’ll never get me to believe that you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”

“I believe it’s called editorial control.”

“You mean you want to make sure that the pictures show you in the best light, I think we can agree to that.” She began scrabbling around on her desk to find some parchment, presumably to begin sketching out the basic outline of the story.

“Not quite,” said Hermione. Luna’s sifting through the contents of her desk stopped and she looked up. “Or rather, that’s not all. Creevey’s doing the pictures; we’ll pick out the ones we like on the day and you can choose which ones you want to run.”

“And?” said Luna cautiously.

“And, I want your agreement that certain words and phrases won’t be used in the story.”

Enlightenment dawned. Luna looked at Severus with some amusement, which he found mildly irritating, and then back at Hermione. “So that’s nothing about being ‘very much in love’, nothing about being ‘sweet’, and definitely nothing that would suggest that Professor Snape here is getting soppy in his old age.”

“Exactly.”

He was most affronted when they both giggled; but mostly he was relieved that Hermione had found a way to put a stop to the excesses of the Skeeter woman, who had been running stories on their ‘romance’ ever since the story of their engagement had broken.

He had suggested to Hermione that they should fake a brawl at their wedding, just to make the headlines more interesting. She had considered it for a while, but apparently her mother had put her foot down and banned the idea.

Severus had never expected to get married.

Consequently, he had never turned his mind to thinking about what the ceremony would be like, in the way that teenaged girls everywhere were alleged to do. Not that he thought Hermione had spent much of her life thinking about what wedding dress to wear; she had certainly been as clueless as him when it came to organising the damned thing. Fortunately, Minerva and Pomona had stepped in to help, leaving the two of them to wander round Hogwarts in a daze of engagement happiness and only occasionally be called in to express a view on the colours of things.

On reflection, it might have been better to pay more attention. It seemed that Minerva and Pomona at least had spent their teenaged years arranging their weddings down to the last detail, and all that pent up creativity had been put into play on their wedding. Where compromise had been impossible, they had simply agreed to put all their ideas into effect at once. He had relied on Hermione’s mother to put a brake on things – she was a formidable woman in her own right – but she had never stood a chance, and had simply been steamrollered into submission.

At least he was wearing black robes.

The flowers were nice as well. He had to admit that Pomona had outdone herself in that department.

He’d had a Stag Night last night – some muggle term – which had been a very sedate affair, just a quiet drink in the staffroom with the male members of staff, Harry and Ron and Hermione’s father. He had tried to think of some way of excluding Albus, who had developed a very annoying habit of trying to take credit for the whole relationship despite Severus’s spluttering indignation. In the end, he had had to concede that you couldn’t have a party in the staffroom without inviting the Headmaster, but consoled himself with the thought that Minerva had talked the old goat into paying for the thing out of his own pocket and not Hogwarts’ slush fund.

The look of pain on the Headmaster’s face when he conceded the point almost made the whole thing worthwhile.

Hermione’s Hen night had, by all accounts, not been as sedate. He had been privileged to read about his wife-to-be’s behaviour in the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler this morning. For once the account in the Quibbler, although more lurid, was more accurate; the fact that Luna Lovegood had retained any memory of the evening at all, much less been able to write about it, was surprising in itself.

It had occasioned a great deal of ribald comment when Ginny Weasley had used the floo network to summon Harry, Ron and Snape from the Stag Night. It was a confused story she told - something to do with Hermione mistaking Aurors for male strippers and them not getting their clothes off fast enough and casting a charm to help them on their way – but what was clear was that Hermione had been arrested.

It was fortunate that Harry and Ron were able to pull strings to persuade the Aurors she had assaulted not to press charges, but he thought that his arrival at the Ministry to recover Hermione had also been persuasive.

What had tipped the balance in favour of freeing Hermione hadn’t been the dramatic way he had swept into the building, robes billowing, intent on rescuing his fair damsel in distress (as set out on pages 3,4,5, and 6 of the Quibbler); nor his reputation as scary Potions Master who’d taught everyone in the room; but rather that Hermione had stopped trying to hit the Auror attempting to confiscate her wand, had smiled at him in an entirely soppy way that he would never tire of seeing and announced to the world that she had missed him.

The shock – whether at the transformation from harridan to lovesick puppy, or at the fact that it was Snape who was the recipient of the soppiness, and without any sarcasm on his part either – made the Auror’s grasp slacken; Hermione tugged herself free and lurched into his arms.

Severus had long since accustomed himself to ‘hugging’ in public, although he did feel that the Ministry wasn’t the best place for displays of affection; still, it was acquiesce or let her fall over.

“Have the nasty Aurors been horrible to you, dear?” he asked, stroking her hair.

She nodded her head.

He could see out of the corner of his eye that the ‘nasty Aurors’ were grinning – as were Harry and Ron – at this display of affection. He was resigned to Harry and Ron being treated to the sight of the evil Potions Master wrapped round Hermione’s little finger, but there was no way he was going to allow the others to presume like that.

“Do you want me to hex them for you?”

The smiles disappeared from their faces in a very satisfying manner.

He was exceedingly grateful that her reply – no, but she wanted to go home and play naughty Professors – wasn’t audible to the rest of the room. He was even more grateful that they didn’t realise that it was naughty Professors who were tied up and punished; he’d never be able to live that down.

He’d propped Hermione up against Potter, and slipped the Aurors a salve for their black eyes, and a couple of Galleons to ‘toast the happy couple’, before flooing back to their quarters. He was mildly disappointed when Hermione had promptly fallen asleep on the sofa, but it was almost certainly for the best; a drunken Hermione was probably not the most appropriate person to be casting complex charms on ropes.

She’d slipped out of bed this morning before he woke due to some silly muggle custom of not seeing each other on the wedding day. When he’d been told about this custom, he had made tentative suggestions about blindfolds but apparently she wasn’t supposed to see him either and they wouldn’t be able to do anything much if they were both blindfolded.

She’d obviously consumed the hangover potion he’d left out for her, and left a note couched in very affectionate terms promising to make up for his disappointment the previous evening; he was looking forward to the wedding night.

Hermione had been ensconced in a room with Ginny Weasley since 9am – a mere three hours being considered sufficient preparation time – so he had contented himself with a leisurely lie in, a hearty breakfast, a careful perusal of the morning papers, and a long bath.

He had no best man to harass him: when Hermione had explained that the best man was there to make sure the groom didn’t bolt, and was expected to take his place if the groom did bolt, he had refused to name one. This was a disappointment to both Filch and Dumbledore who had been dropping unsubtle hints from the moment the engagement had been announced. His view was that there was no danger of him bolting and he wasn’t prepared to take the chance of anyone else marrying Hermione.

So he was now sitting in a little room off the Great Hall, waiting to be summoned into the Great Hall for the ceremony. Pomona had been all in favour of having the ceremony outside; Hermione hadn’t. As she put it, it was June, it was Scotland, it was guaranteed to piss down, and even the combined talents of Hogwarts staff would not have been enough to prevent rain.

A tap on the door summoned him, and he was soon standing in front of a makeshift altar cobbled together at one end of the Hall. It was, as was so much else, covered in flowers.

Harry and Ron were seated in pride of place in the front row, next to the Grangers. He was surprised to see Ronald wink at him, and unbent enough to nod slightly at the young man. He supposed they thought that he might be nervous; he wasn’t.

And there she was.

She was walking the length of the Hall towards him, flanked by Ginny and Luna. He couldn’t describe her dress other than to say it was ‘sort of Grecian’ in style – elegant, simple, and providing a very good view of her cleavage – and her hair was piled on top of her head, with something going on with lots of pearls. She was clutching a bouquet of Madonna lilies, which she passed to Ginny once she reached Severus’s side.

They had decided to have a wizarding wedding and, as usual, they had written the vows themselves. He understood that Muggles had a form of words that they all used, which he considered to be very peculiar indeed; the Wizard way was much better. No vicar, just two people entering into a magical contract. Her mother had suggested using some of the muggle terms - something about loving, honouring and obeying - but had been dissuaded in the face of the paroxysms of laughter this had triggered.

“Mum,” she had said, once she had stop laughing, “the idea is to come up with vows that we can keep. It’s a magical contract you know, and there are dire consequences to breaking it.”

No one would believe Hermione would ever obey anyone. Not unless she felt like it.

Once they had understood what the contract entailed, her parents had made some very sensible suggestions. In the end, the vows they had written amounted to the same thing anyway: Mine. Now. Forever. Or you get a nasty case of boils. Or worse. He found it incredibly touching that Hermione had insisted he swear to be faithful, and a great relief when she agreed to do the same.

Later, curled up in bed together, Hermione had made some other suggestions. She promised never to interfere in matters of the wardrobe, nor to attempt conversation before his first cup of tea in the morning. In his turn he had made the ultimate sacrifice and promised not to snap at her on a Monday evening, no matter how bad double potions with the Gryffindors and Slytherins became provided she allowed him ten minutes to himself to calm down and a glass of Firewhiskey.

It was, he reflected, the little things in life that mattered the most.

He was resigned to the fact that these elements of their vows would cause amusement, and sure enough, as he promised not to snap at his wife on Monday evenings there was a smattering of laughter from the crowd.

Then it was over, they had signed the magical contract, and they were Professor Snape and Ms, no longer Miss, Granger. (The children would be Granger-Snape, clause 2.5(ii) of the contract).

Harry called out, “You may kiss the bride!”

So he did. It was yet another Muggle custom, and the only one he had approved of so far, although he was anticipating the final event of the day with some amusement. He knew how Hermione’s mind worked; the tossing of the bouquet was going to be interesting.

First, there was the reception to get through. His own view – that as the wedding had been arranged largely for the benefit of other people, there was no need to stay long at the reception – had been cavalierly been rejected by the love of his life. She said that they were only getting married once, and that he could surely manage to be polite to people for a couple of hours.

No one had warned him that this would include Neville Longbottom.

He had placed himself at the edge of the Hall. He cast a couple of cushioning charms on the chair; there was no need to be uncomfortable while he waited.

Neville came and sat next to him; he was drunk.

“You don’t deserve her, you know,” he slurred.

“I know,” he replied simply. Ordinarily Severus would have hexed him for that, regardless of the truth of the statement, but he was feeling full of the milk of human kindness at that moment. He hoped the feeling would fade soon; it always got him into trouble.

Severus’s calm acceptance managed to penetrate even Neville’s advanced state of inebriation. He peered at Severus suspiciously, and then added, “You’d better make her happy.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Neville nodded wisely. “That’s all you can do,” he said, “your best.”

Severus was sure there was some sort of hidden message there, but he declined to think about it. Hermione was bearing down on him, come to rescue him from Longbottom, and take him away to his new life of happiness which would hopefully begin with a night of unparalleled debauchery. He patted his pocket; it had taken him six weeks to brew the potion in the little blue bottle, but the effects should be worth it. He wasn’t sure that he would survive a night with an even-friskier-than-normal Hermione but he had decided to be brave and find out.

“Are you ready to leave then?” she asked.

“I was ready to leave an hour ago,” he replied dryly.

He followed in her wake as she headed for the door. She recovered the bouquet from Ginny, and ordered the female guests to go outside and stand at the foot of the steps. The Muggleborns knew what was coming, of course, and were busily explaining the custom to the few purebloods that were attending.

The girls were lined up, jostling for position, when Harry cheerfully threaded his way to the front of the crowd. “It’s not fair if it’s just for girls,” he said. “That would be sexist, and you wouldn’t want to be sexist, would you Ms Granger?”

Severus winced at the title; as far as he was concerned, she was Mrs Snape. A concession he intended to wring out of her at a vulnerable moment later this evening.

“Good point, Harry.” She looked round at the men behind her, and grinned. “Come on then. All the single men get down there and prepare to catch the bouquet.”

The girls were not pleased with the added competition, and Severus was amused to see Ginny elbowing Ron quite sharply in the ribs. “Oy!” he said. “That’s not fair – no pushing.”

Severus felt the tingle of magic; Hermione had cast some spell on the bouquet. He had a feeling that the winner of the competition had already been decided.

Sure enough, when Hermione tossed the bouquet towards the waiting crowd, it hovered for a moment above them and then, as if tired of teasing them, it shot up the steps and landed in the arms of Filch.

Pomona was nearly in tears, she was laughing so hard. Minerva was looking thoroughly disgruntled, and Filch was blushing like a beetroot. With a slight bow, Argus handed the flowers to Minerva; it was her turn to blush.

Severus smirked. Soon it would be their turn to go through this circus, and he was determined to be as helpful as possible when it came to the wedding. After all, it was only fair that he should pay Minerva back for all her kindness to him.

Hermione took his hand. “Ready?” she asked.

He nodded, and they walked through the crowd who parted before them. Harry drew his wand and made sparks fly from the end. Soon the others joined in, and the Snapes walked to the apparition point through the kind of firework display that hadn’t been seen since the defeat of Voldemort.

“You never did say where we were going for our Honeymoon,” she said.

“No, I didn’t. It’s a surprise.”

“I like surprises.”

He smiled, then bent, and kissed her – much to the appreciation of the crowd – and then they apparated away.

“Where do you think he’s taken her?” asked Minerva.

“Paris, I think,” replied Pomona. “I don’t suppose it matters much, it’s not like they’ll do much sightseeing.” They sniggered.

Then they headed back into the Hall with the rest of the guests; there was still plenty of drink and cake left. No point letting the party end now, just because the guests of honour had left.

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