Taking a few deep breaths, Hermione brushed her clammy hands off on the silk of her clothes. She had tried to go for something else this time, no girlish or prude dress that everyone was expecting of her, and no house colours either. No symbolic gold, and, of course, no black, as that was quite literally forbidden at these events. These events, Merlin.
Her hands trembled, splotches of ink still spread all over her fingers. She supposed she would be wearing a bit of black after all. But her clothes, those were a deep grey, possibly pushing the no-black rule a little bit. A loose halter top and billowy, high waisted trousers. Hair swept up to leave her neck bare, with the exception of a few free curls. She forced the air out through her lips in a steady exhale. “You are Hermione Granger,” she told herself, “You’re a bloody Gryffindor. Show it.”
Gryffindor or not, Hermione couldn’t help but dread the annual Victory Gala. Not when so many witches, wizards and cameras would all be focussed on them – the golden trio.
A loud bang on the door made her jump a little. “Hermione!” That was Harry, on the other side. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”
“Coming.” One last glance, and Hermione escaped the abandoned ladies room, finding the other two thirds of tonight’s spectacle waiting for her. “Four years,” she told them. “Sure someone else will want to take some credit now and then.” Harry clasped a hand on her shoulder, whilst Ron just shrugged.
“Ready?” A ministry employee nervously led them to the entrance. There was no time to decide whether they were ready before the doors opened.
It was as though the world went on mute, that’s how quickly the ballgoers fell silent, only to break out in deafening cheers and applause. Combined with the flashes of the cameras, it was like a proper short circuit in Hermione’s brain. She just hoped no one saw her flinch. On the outside, she was all confidence, following her friends into the hall. Anyone who knew her could most likely tell she was tense, but she knew now from experience that the cameras couldn’t. That, or they charmed the pictures in the newspaper. She would not blame them if that were the case.
Eventually, the roar of the crowd quieted down again, and cameras were pointed elsewhere – she was free to disappear into the crowd. Now the more pleasant part could start. Her eyes scanned the crowd, heart leaping as she caught sight of velvety black hair tied at the nape with a ribbon.
“Miss Granger,” someone interrupted her. “Or could I say Hermione?”
Hermione tore her gaze from the person she was hoping to find and gave the man in front of her a polite smile. “Professor Slughorn,” she nodded. “How are you, sir?”
“O wonderful, wonderful my dear girl. Very glad to be back in retirement.” Humming in understanding, she brought her gaze back to its previous point, only to find him gone. Frowning, she stretched out her neck to look around. “Looking for someone, my dear?”
“Hmm? Oh – no, not at all,” she responded quickly. Slughorn didn’t seem to really care, babbling on about how she was one of the many great students he’d taught – never mind her average grades in Potions then – whilst she searched the room, occasionally smiling or nodding along.
“And I am so glad to hear you chose a path in potions. Of course, I told – “
“Horace.” Minerva McGonagall was the one to help Hermione out of her misery. “You are not bothering miss Granger, I hope?”
“Certainly not, Minerva,” the man responded jovially.
“I believe Potter was looking for you just now.” The man’s eyes lit up at the idea of being wanted by the great Harry Potter himself. With a quick excuse to Hermione, he disappeared.
The women shared a smile, a rare occasion for professor McGonagall, but less so for Minerva, Hermione had learned over time. “Did you receive my last letter?” Minerva now asked, guiding Hermione toward the side of the room.
“I have,” Hermione smiled, “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to write back yet.”
The headmistress tutted. “Yes, I’m sure your mentor makes sure to keep you occupied.” Biting back a chuckle, Hermione looked up at her friend. “How are things with Severus?”
As if on instinct, Hermione’s gaze jumped to the room full of people again. “He’s been a tough, but fair teacher,” Hermione answered truthfully, “and he has been a great help with my parents.”
The headmistress hummed, a tentative look on her face as she eyes Hermione. “I do have to say you look much better than last year. More yourself.” A moment of silence fell, in which Hermione furrowed her brow trying to grasp at the woman’s meaning. “I do wonder what brought about this change. Or who?”
“Ah-“ Hermione simply replied, tearing her eyes away from the hall again. Minerva’s eyes were knowing. “He is my teacher,” Hermione said quietly, “I am his apprentice.”
“You are both off age.”
“It would be inappropriate.”
They fell silent for a moment, turning away form each other. Hermione’s hands were clammy again. Of course, Minerva McGonagall of all people would be the first to figure it out. After all the letters, floo calls and dinners – either with the two or three of them – it was not that great of a surprise.
“It would be inappropriate,” Minerva finally conceded, “But is that your judgement or theirs? And if so, which do you want to live by?” A warm, wrinkled hand gently squeezed her arm. “Excuse me.” The older witch swept away, leaving Hermione alone in her corner of the room. She stood there, frozen in place for a moment, pondering over Minerva’s words. It was madness. First of all, to think Minerva would ever encourage something like this. Second of all, to think the man would ever fell the same. She snatched a glass from a passing waiter and gulped down half of the white wine in it, unable to stop her face from contorting at the taste.
“Hermione.” She startled, face flush as she coughed up a mouthful of displaced wine.
“Severus,” she croaked, for there, indeed, was Severus Snape, dressed in all black despite all of the dress codes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his pale lips. His eyes landed on her glass.
“I though you didn’t drink.”
With her free hand, Hermione gestured to the room full of people. “Desperate times...”
Snape grunted his agreement. “Where are Potter and Weasley? Shouldn’t they be bothering you right now?”
Hermione snorted. “They can bother me all year long. I’d say it’s rather nice to have a night of peace every now and then.” She glanced up at the man next to her. “What do you call them? Dunderheads?”
A smirk broke his scowl – the face he put up to keep everyone else at a distance, she now knew. It did weird things to her heart, knowing that she put it there, and she couldn’t help the grin that took over her own face.
Severus leaned in closer. “Careful, miss Granger, or people will say I corrupted you.”
It took an unreasonable amount of effort just to breathe. She forced herself to meet his gaze, all too aware of the distance, or rather the lack of distance, between them. “I would be inclined to agree,” she murmured.
Something shifted behind Severus’ dark eyes. She swallowed past the funny feeling in her throat, Minerva’s words coming back to her.
Right at that moment, a blinding flash lit up their corner, and Hermione staggered back a few steps in surprise. A red-faced, stocky wizard lowered his camera. “Miss Granger, any comment on the outfit?” Another jumped in. “Are you worried about-“ “Miss Granger! What did Headmistress McGonagall –“ “Any comment on mister Weasley’s engagement?” “- inspired by your muggle-“ “Did you come here with-“
“Enough.” Severus’ voice was like quiet thunder, shutting up a dozen of loud wizards without bothering to raise his voice. The last question got to her just in time. “Miss Granger, what inspired the change?”
Hermione looked at him the exact same moment he looked at her, eyebrow raised in question. Another camera flashed. It took a while for the spots to fade from her vision, but when they did, his entire expression had changed from questioning to understanding. “Gentlemen.” His hand landed on her back, guiding her through the crowd of press. “A dance, witch?” he muttered under his breath. She nodded wordlessly.
The crowd split for them as he led her to the dance floor, his other hand joining the one on his back. Hesitantly, Hermione looped her arms around his neck. A couple people murmured something nearby, and she turned her head to find them, but Severus murmured, “pay them no mind, Hermione,” in her ear. For the second time that evening, she felt heat rise to her cheeks and she tried her best to fight it.
They swayed in silence for a while, unable to meet each other’s gaze. All the while, Hermione debated whether she should let go, step away. It would only be unfair to herself to stay, to let him hold her like he meant it, like it wasn’t for any other reason but to spite all those people that now murmured his name in disbelief. But when she tried to step away, his arms tightened around her waist. His nose brushed her ear. “Breathe, Hermione,” he gently reminded her. Then, even quieter than before, he added, “The time of revenge and spite is long in my past, witch, I have no want to prove anything to anyone.”
Inside, Hermione cringed. Bloody legilimens. “You’ll have to teach me occlumency one day,” she murmured.
“I’m surprised you didn’t demand me to earlier.” A spark of humour danced in his dark eyes. She couldn’t help but smile herself.
“I’ve been busy.”
The man hummed.
They fell silent again, more peacefully this time. At least, until Severus murmured, “You look beautiful, Hermione,” and flustered her beyond a point where speech was possible. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Those were not words she ever expected to hear from him. There it was, that almost smile again as he watched her struggle. “I think you better return to your friends, before they get worried.” His arms slowly pulled away from her, and suddenly, her skin felt cold at the loss of contact, and the disappointment. “I expect you in the lab tomorrow at 7, no exceptions.” With that, he stalked away, leaving behind a speechless Hermione.