Fic: If the Shoe Fits (HG/SS) (1/2)
Title: If the Shoe Fits
Pairing: HG/SS
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Humour/Romance
Summary: Hermione begins to wonder if Severus might have some skeletons in his closet. Literally.
Notes: Sequel to In His Shoes, which may be found for your reading pleasure here. The second part should be posted tomorrow, should life prove obliging.
Un-betaed for the moment, as I'm still playing around with it, but I'll fix it up nicely once that's done.
Very, very not DH compliant.
---
Hermione Granger liked to think of herself as a sensible sort of girl. A sensible girl, in her opinion, was hardly one taken to fancying reformed Death Eaters, breaking up with her boyfriend of several years at a moment’s notice due to said attraction and a rather large argument regarding her overdeveloped shoe closet, and going to bed with that same reformed Death Eater at the next opportunity that presented itself.
Unfortunately, this meant that Hermione Granger was not, in fact, a sensible sort of girl.
At that precise moment, from her vantage point of being tangled in sheets and pressed up against a very warm someone, she didn’t much mind this revelation. She shifted a bit, trying to find a place where she could bury herself further and, much to her satisfaction, found a hollow in his chest that her head fit nicely into. As her awareness grew, she realised that she was still wearing one of her stilettos from the night before on her right foot.
She smiled a smile of deep content. Ron had never let her do that; the only time she had ever suggested wearing shoes to bed, he had squealed and objected on the grounds that he didn’t feel like being impaled, thanks. At the time, she had found it annoying, as it wasn’t even as though she had contemplated bringing out something really dangerous. Looking back, she realised that had been one of the more significant signs that they weren’t going to work out in the long run.
Hindsight, she decided as she allowed herself to drift back into sleep, always was twenty-twenty.
*
When she finally pried her eyes open properly, the sun was already shining brightly and the space next to her was empty. Somewhere nearby, water was running, which she assumed to be the shower. To be perfectly honest, this came as something of a relief: ex-Death Eaters she could handle, but lack of personal hygiene was taking impracticality a step or two too far. She lay back on the bed and listened to the soothing sound until it turned off, bringing with it a flood of panic.
Hermione wasn’t an expert on one-night stands; in fact, she was clueless enough to be unsure as to what warranted one. From her-somewhat limited-experience, she had a feeling that good sex was most certainly a component, since it seemed to be absent in relationships, so that seemed to be okay. On the other hand, the fact that he had nearly vomited on her had the stirrings of something deeper and long-term. She might have been disgusted and stormed away; instead, she had cured his state of inebriation and allowed him to take her back to his place. This led her to feel that further thought on the matter would be required.
Right now, however, was not the time for such further thoughts. By her calculations, Snape (Severus?) was currently towelling himself dry and would soon be returning to his bedroom-the exact time depended on whether he brushed his teeth before or after showering. If he brushed his teeth whilst in the shower as she did on particularly cold days, this added further complications to her timing method.
Her first thought was for her clothing. She leapt out of bed in a move that might have been agile had she remembered the stiletto on one foot and promptly tumbled to the ground-fortunately for her balance, the other shoe was within reaching distance. Slipping it on, she dove across the bed to retrieve her knickers and shirt, but the location of the skirt and the dress robes she had been wearing the night before remained a mystery. A quick glance under the bed told her that they weren’t there-could she hear his footsteps in the hall?-and nor could she spot them in the corners. She discovered her bra strung across one of the lights on the night table, which created a moment of confusion when she realised that she had already pulled on her top. After another few minutes of frantic searching, she turned to the firmly closed closet door and decided that there was nothing for it; there really were no other options. She yanked at it, nearly dislocating her shoulder.
The sodding door wouldn’t open; another, more cautious, twist of the handle confirmed this. She began glancing around for her wand to perform a quick Alohomora, but realised that she couldn’t find that either.
Without warning Snape-Severus, she mentally corrected, as it was odd to refer to someone she had slept with by his last name-had appeared between her and the locked closet, holding her missing clothing with one hand and her wand with the other.
“It was in the hall,” he remarked with a smirk as he took in her state of undress.
“Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. “Thank you.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of cooking you breakfast,” he informed her, not bothering to glance away as she fumbled with her clothes. “Nothing overly challenging; just eggs and toast.”
There was a touch of uncertainty in his gaze as he said this, belying the dry tone and bringing Hermione to the conclusion that he probably did this sort of thing only slightly more frequently than she did. It also increased the probability of this being more than a one-night stand from ‘possible’ to ‘likely’. Not only did he let her wear shoes in bed, he respected her enough to cook her breakfast the next morning.
He was simply too good to be allowed to get away.
The last remnants of embarrassment fading from her face, she smiled at him and replied, “Of course not.”
*
By the time Hermione made it back to her flat, it was very nearly two in the afternoon. Breakfast had begun as a tense and rather awkward affair and ended with some creative uses of various kitchen appliances (including an incident with the toaster’s electrical cord) that might have made her blush had the experience been any less enjoyable. Eventually sated, they had summoned the comforter and some pillows from the bedroom and curled up on the floor for a pleasant conversation that threatened to go on for hours, only to be interrupted by an orange ball of fluff slinking into the room.
A female, ginger cat named Voldie, apparently. There had been no point in pretending not to be amused.
They had promptly decided that a play date for Crookshanks and Voldie was an absolute necessity-the aging half-Kneazle would undoubtedly benefit from the younger, more energetic kitten’s presence-and Severus agreed to bring Voldie to Hermione’s flat next weekend for some feline bonding. It was only natural to give the two some alone time, so they agreed to make dinner reservations in Diagon Alley.
She supposed that she really ought to get round to dusting before then.
*
It had been bad enough that Hermione hadn’t known how to deal with one-night stands-she still wasn’t sure where the line between ‘potential girlfriend’ and ‘booty call’ lay-but not understanding dating was infinitely worse. The trouble with being in a relationship with Ron was simply that there had hardly ever been time or, to be completely honest, money for going on dates. They had spent the majority of the years they had been together on Hermione’s couch, as Ron grew increasingly fascinated by the Muggle concept of television. Naturally they had gone out for dinner from time to time, but only in large groups for birthdays or other celebratory reasons; romance had been something of a foreign concept.
So it followed that Hermione was more than slightly nervous as she waited for Severus to arrive. Her mental lexicon’s definition of ‘slightly nervous’ was rather more liberal than most and extended to include varying degrees of nausea, trembling hands, and the fierce conviction that her mascara was running in spite of several firmly applied makeup spells. By the time he finally arrived, kitten in tow, she had been reduced to the level of little more than a frantic bundle of nerves, bones, and hormones held together by her epidermis.
The only thing keeping her sane was the fact that she was wearing a horrendously overpriced pair of boots that she had only been able to excuse wearing on one other occasion. As Severus steered her out the door and down the stairs, the firm clicking of the rather significant heels was the only thing lending her confidence.
*
Dinner had been a lovely affair consisting of sampling off of each other’s plates and a considerable wine list, which Severus (unlike Ron) had no qualms about enjoying. It did mean that both of them were slightly sloshed by the end of the evening and that apparition and Floo were not entirely advisable, so they had to stroll back to Hermione’s flat.
The air was pleasantly cool, the sliver of moon just enough to be romantic, and her feet bloody hurt. Silently, she gritted her teeth, remembering arguments with Ron about this very topic, and tried to disguise the slight hobble that she was adopting.
It was pathetic, really; the walk wasn’t that far.
“Is something wrong?”
She sighed. Apparently her valiant attempts hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Fine,” she hissed, feeling pain shoot through her right foot as she stumbled slightly.
His eyebrow shot up as he pulled out his wand and gestured at the ground. The effect was immediate and far more satisfying than soaking her feet had ever been.
“Thank you. What spell was that?” Relief was rapidly overcome by curiosity, it seemed.
“A useful little spell of my own invention,” he replied, suppressing a bit of a smirk. “I can’t say that I’ve yet reached the point of wearing five-inch boots, but it was useful during those long, late-night meetings when we were forced to stand.”
“Voldemort?” she asked, not certain that she wanted the details.
“No, Albus. The Dark Lord kindly provided us with chairs, albeit rather uncomfortable ones.”
“Quite the humanitarian,” she snorted.
“And we haven’t even touched on his plans to build orphanages in Somalia.” The darkness of his eyes was only emphasised by the faint moonlight and the dim streetlamps, but the humour in them was unmistakable. She briefly wondered if it had always been there and she had been to young and silly to notice, or if it was a recent acquisition and came to the conclusion that the only thing that mattered was that it made her want to kiss him.
So, with her newfound inclination towards the impetuous egging her on, she did. Thoroughly.
Later, she would wonder why she hadn’t considered the fact that they were in a public street, that Diagon Alley had quite the nightlife and therefore quite the after-dusk law enforcement, and that she was moderately certain making out against the front window of Flourish and Blotts was probably breaking some sort of obscenity law, but for the moment she allowed herself to become thoroughly wrapped up in the experience. His mouth eased over hers and his tongue probed at her parted lips-she could taste the chardonnay on it-making her head buzz and her stomach tense ever-so-slightly as her back pressed tightly against the glass of the nearest shop and her leg snaked around his. She wasn’t entirely certain how long they allowed this to continue, but the whistles and indistinguishable drunken shouting of a man a few feet down the pavement eventually broke them apart.
“I suppose that the cats have had quite enough time to get to know one another,” Hermione remarked once she had remembered how to breathe properly. “I do hope that they got on well.”
“I suppose we’ll need to arrange further play dates?” Severus asked. “I’m terribly new at this sort of thing, so I’m not quite acquainted with the etiquette.”
“I’m sure that they will rapidly progress into slumber parties,” Hermione assured him. “Crookshanks is rather insistent in these matters.”
As it turned out, there had been no need to worry about their cats; Voldie had curled up into an old ballet flat as Crookshanks sat alertly between her and the door, tail twitching. Since it was obvious that the two had behaved nicely whilst their owners were out, it was only natural to grant them that much-promised slumber party, Severus insisted as he steered Hermione towards the bedroom.
And, really, there was no protesting that.
*
The first sign of trouble came the next morning, when Severus asked a half-asleep Hermione to come to a dinner of ‘old friends’. Even in her slightly muddled state of mind, she was perfectly aware that Severus’ ‘old friends’ were her ‘old enemies’ and that dinner with them would be somewhat awkward, if not downright dangerous.
So, innocently, she asked for the names of these ‘old friends’, and his somewhat shifty eyes belied his equally innocent tone as he said that it wasn’t anybody she knew. She didn’t let him know that she had silently been hoping that he would say, ‘Remus Lupin’.
Still, he seemed anxious and somewhat hopeful (and a voice in the back of her mind pointed out that he had probably never had cause to introduce a girl to these friends of his), so she kissed him a bit and agreed.
Naturally, he kissed her back, rolling over top of her, and for a moment it looked as though they were about to move past that stage, until he let out an inhuman yowl and leapt off of the bed.
“Crookshanks, no!” Hermione yelled out of habit, grabbing the orange ball of fluff that had lodged its claws into his back and yanking. She was just about to fling it towards the door, when she realised that what she was holding was about fifteen pounds too light to be hers. Deciding rapidly that Severus might not look kindly upon her injuring his pet, she settled for placing it gently on the bed and saying, quite sternly, “That isn’t proper behaviour for a fine cat like you.”
“I doubt that she can understand you,” Severus replied, managing to look amused and pained all at once as he awkwardly reached his hand behind him. “I’m not bleeding, am I?”
*
‘Old friends’ were, as it turned out and as Severus had suggested, a lot of people whom she didn’t know. Unfortunately, there were also some people that she did know, namely the Malfoys.
To be more specific, Lucius Malfoy.
Oh, Narcissa was there was well, but Hermione didn’t mind the woman nearly as much as her husband. Narcissa, after all, had never tried to kill her and had actually proven quite helpful in the war, even if the price of it had been her family’s freedom.
Still, it was Lucius she was seated next to (it seemed likely that he was using the opportunity to peer down her robes), Lucius who was asking polite but personal questions about Harry Potter (probably to work out the least complicated way to eliminate him), and Lucius who insisted on ordering her wine for her because he had ‘much more experience with this sort of thing’ (which was probably a double-entendre for something-she just wasn’t sure what). He had complimented her shoes, which, although not nearly significant enough to make her like him, at least made him slightly less despicable.
Severus, who was seated on her other side, continually shot glances over her head, which she assumed were of warning. He needn’t have worried: Lucius’ reputation had preceded him and left her wary.
“Severus, I recall you promising to inform us when you finally found yourself a lady friend,” Lucius was remarking over her head as though she couldn’t hear him, the bastard.
On the other hand, his words meant that Severus wasn’t detailing their sex romps to him via the Floo network, which was something of a relief.
“Yes, well, I’ve been busy, haven’t I?” He covered her hand with his, perhaps a bit protectively and she had to concentrate on not inching towards him. It occasionally occurred to her that after surviving a lifelong friendship with Harry Potter and all that entailed, a gory war against a Dark Lord with glowing red eyes, and a relationship with Ronald Weasley (and all that entailed), she probably shouldn’t be afraid of much, especially not a man who viewed canes as fashion accessories.
Narcissa laughed, which took Hermione by surprise. She had always assumed that the woman couldn’t be bribed to so much as smile. “Darling, try not to be too offended that you weren’t first and foremost in his mind,” she teased.
Hermione used her napkin to stifle a snort, which earned her several amused looks, and the moment of awkwardness passed, allowing her to fade quietly into the background.
For the first time, she noticed that Severus looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him in a public setting (although, to be honest, her experience was limited to Hogwarts and Ministry dinners), which resulted in a surge of fondness for the people gathered around the table, whether or not they would have tried to hex her into oblivion at some point in the past. Even the banter between him and Lucius, which Narcissa interjected into frequently, didn’t seem to have any real malice to it; it was easy to picture herself sitting in a similar situation with Harry and Ron in twenty years.
Except that she had just broken up with Ron and it seemed very likely that he would never want to speak to her again. For the first time, she wondered if she had made the right decision, as it seemed likely that Harry would feel as betrayed as Ron, especially when he found out who his replacement was. But-and this she thought with a sigh-the truth of the matter was that she was not in love with Ron and she strongly suspected that he wasn’t in love with her either. Ignoring the blazing rows that left her feeling too exhausted for make-up sex, the strongest emotion that she could remember experiencing was contentment and she suspected that that same emotion was responsible for him putting up such a fight.
“Is everything all right?”
The whisper in her ear jarred her out of her thoughts, forcing her to pay attention to her surroundings once again. A few people were in the process of pushing back their chairs, leaving her and Severus with the Malfoys and one other couple whose names were currently escaping her.
She nodded quickly. “Of course.”
*
Malfoy Manor wasn’t exactly the sort of place that Hermione expected to be invited round to for after-dinner drinks. Specifically, it wasn’t the sort of place that she had ever anticipating spending time in, unless she happened to be storming it in the midst of another battle of some sort. As the six of them made their way up to the entrance, door swinging open before them, Hermione couldn’t help but feel slightly awkward and out-of-place. Severus, Lucius, and the other man-she managed to pick out the name Gerald-were deep in conversation, while Narcissa led the way briskly through the corridors, leaving her alone with the other woman, who was trying to make polite conversation. Hermione, who spent a great deal of time avoiding situations in which small talk would be required, was finding this rather difficult.
Well, to be completely fair, in Hermione’s opinion, it had been a rather dry spring and it probably was bad for the crops; she didn’t need pre-existing agricultural knowledge to know that much.
Therefore, she was relieved when they had gathered around a fireplace in the library-she had always wondered about fireplaces in libraries and the common sense of the person who had put them there-and still more so when she was given some brandy. The talk moved on to politics, and Hermione had just opened her mouth to jump in when Narcissa cut her off.
“Miss Granger-“
“Hermione,” she corrected firmly. The use of her surname made her feel as though she were being reduced to the status of a first-year Hogwarts student.
“I’ve heard that you like books,” she continued softly enough not to interrupt the others, but loud enough that it couldn’t properly be called a whisper.
“It is the general consensus, yes.”
“Well, we have something that you might be particularly interested in.”
Hermione wasn’t given the chance to argue; she was being grasped by the elbow and dragged to the back of the library before the words had formed in the back of her throat.
“I’d like to talk to you about Severus,” she said, the moment they were out of earshot.
Her response was merely a blank look.
“He hasn’t got a mother to do this for him, and, as you may have noticed, both Lucius and I are rather fond of him. We’d hate to see him hurt, particularly by you.”
The word ‘you’ had never before carried so many connotations; she wasn’t sure if Narcissa was referring more to her heritage or to her role in landing Lucius a cell in Azkaban after the Department of Mysteries. There was also a hint of a threat in it, as though they would have no second thoughts in crushing her should the relationship go awry.
“I’m not planning on breaking his heart,” Hermione replied, a little taken aback by the ferocity. “Er, I’m really not that sort of person, in spite of what the tabloids may have suggested in the past.”
A smirk crept across Narcissa’s face. “No, you’re clearly not. You are, however, the sort of person to condemn him for past actions-“
“I’m the reason he hasn’t been condemned,” she snapped, nearly forgetting to keep her voice low.
“Yet you don’t understand what the Death Eaters were and how they operated. I’m sure that you have some horrible visions of brutality and decadence, but those were only the preferences of the very few. Severus was-and is-no different than the rest of us; he simply managed to find a way out of an impossible situation.”
Hermione was beginning to feel that she was missing the point; she couldn’t decide whether Narcissa was trying to disillusion her about the fact that Severus was, in fact, evil or if she was making a bid for the innocence of the other Death Eaters.
“He’s undoubtedly going to try to keep things in the closet-especially from you-and being angry over this will only hurt both of you.”
Although she was aware of the many metaphorical levels on which things could be stuffed into closets of various sizes, those meanings were not what her mind immediately leapt to. Instead, she found herself recalling the first morning that she had awoken in Severus’ flat and the way in which he had smoothly stepped in between her and the door she was trying to open. She hadn’t thought anything more of it at the time, but now her mind was racing.
Quite frankly, she hadn’t given his time as a Death Eater much thought, and she was beginning to wonder if this had been as much his misdirection on his part as it had been selective memory on hers. He had been on their side at the end-she felt certain of that-and until now that had been enough, but her mind had been sent spiralling around, trying to work out motives and read meaning into every situation.
“I hope I haven’t troubled you with any of this,” Narcissa remarked. “It’s just that we’ve been hoping that Severus would find someone for quite some time, and I don’t trust him to know what to do.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Hermione replied, thinking that it bloody well wasn’t and wishing that the other woman hadn’t taken it upon herself to interfere as she simultaneously wondered what she ought to do if Severus turned out (quite literally) to have skeletons in his closet.
“Well, I suppose we ought to get back to the others,” Narcissa said. “Meredith must be terribly bored.”
Part Two
Pairing: HG/SS
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Humour/Romance
Summary: Hermione begins to wonder if Severus might have some skeletons in his closet. Literally.
Notes: Sequel to In His Shoes, which may be found for your reading pleasure here. The second part should be posted tomorrow, should life prove obliging.
Un-betaed for the moment, as I'm still playing around with it, but I'll fix it up nicely once that's done.
Very, very not DH compliant.
---
Hermione Granger liked to think of herself as a sensible sort of girl. A sensible girl, in her opinion, was hardly one taken to fancying reformed Death Eaters, breaking up with her boyfriend of several years at a moment’s notice due to said attraction and a rather large argument regarding her overdeveloped shoe closet, and going to bed with that same reformed Death Eater at the next opportunity that presented itself.
Unfortunately, this meant that Hermione Granger was not, in fact, a sensible sort of girl.
At that precise moment, from her vantage point of being tangled in sheets and pressed up against a very warm someone, she didn’t much mind this revelation. She shifted a bit, trying to find a place where she could bury herself further and, much to her satisfaction, found a hollow in his chest that her head fit nicely into. As her awareness grew, she realised that she was still wearing one of her stilettos from the night before on her right foot.
She smiled a smile of deep content. Ron had never let her do that; the only time she had ever suggested wearing shoes to bed, he had squealed and objected on the grounds that he didn’t feel like being impaled, thanks. At the time, she had found it annoying, as it wasn’t even as though she had contemplated bringing out something really dangerous. Looking back, she realised that had been one of the more significant signs that they weren’t going to work out in the long run.
Hindsight, she decided as she allowed herself to drift back into sleep, always was twenty-twenty.
*
When she finally pried her eyes open properly, the sun was already shining brightly and the space next to her was empty. Somewhere nearby, water was running, which she assumed to be the shower. To be perfectly honest, this came as something of a relief: ex-Death Eaters she could handle, but lack of personal hygiene was taking impracticality a step or two too far. She lay back on the bed and listened to the soothing sound until it turned off, bringing with it a flood of panic.
Hermione wasn’t an expert on one-night stands; in fact, she was clueless enough to be unsure as to what warranted one. From her-somewhat limited-experience, she had a feeling that good sex was most certainly a component, since it seemed to be absent in relationships, so that seemed to be okay. On the other hand, the fact that he had nearly vomited on her had the stirrings of something deeper and long-term. She might have been disgusted and stormed away; instead, she had cured his state of inebriation and allowed him to take her back to his place. This led her to feel that further thought on the matter would be required.
Right now, however, was not the time for such further thoughts. By her calculations, Snape (Severus?) was currently towelling himself dry and would soon be returning to his bedroom-the exact time depended on whether he brushed his teeth before or after showering. If he brushed his teeth whilst in the shower as she did on particularly cold days, this added further complications to her timing method.
Her first thought was for her clothing. She leapt out of bed in a move that might have been agile had she remembered the stiletto on one foot and promptly tumbled to the ground-fortunately for her balance, the other shoe was within reaching distance. Slipping it on, she dove across the bed to retrieve her knickers and shirt, but the location of the skirt and the dress robes she had been wearing the night before remained a mystery. A quick glance under the bed told her that they weren’t there-could she hear his footsteps in the hall?-and nor could she spot them in the corners. She discovered her bra strung across one of the lights on the night table, which created a moment of confusion when she realised that she had already pulled on her top. After another few minutes of frantic searching, she turned to the firmly closed closet door and decided that there was nothing for it; there really were no other options. She yanked at it, nearly dislocating her shoulder.
The sodding door wouldn’t open; another, more cautious, twist of the handle confirmed this. She began glancing around for her wand to perform a quick Alohomora, but realised that she couldn’t find that either.
Without warning Snape-Severus, she mentally corrected, as it was odd to refer to someone she had slept with by his last name-had appeared between her and the locked closet, holding her missing clothing with one hand and her wand with the other.
“It was in the hall,” he remarked with a smirk as he took in her state of undress.
“Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. “Thank you.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of cooking you breakfast,” he informed her, not bothering to glance away as she fumbled with her clothes. “Nothing overly challenging; just eggs and toast.”
There was a touch of uncertainty in his gaze as he said this, belying the dry tone and bringing Hermione to the conclusion that he probably did this sort of thing only slightly more frequently than she did. It also increased the probability of this being more than a one-night stand from ‘possible’ to ‘likely’. Not only did he let her wear shoes in bed, he respected her enough to cook her breakfast the next morning.
He was simply too good to be allowed to get away.
The last remnants of embarrassment fading from her face, she smiled at him and replied, “Of course not.”
*
By the time Hermione made it back to her flat, it was very nearly two in the afternoon. Breakfast had begun as a tense and rather awkward affair and ended with some creative uses of various kitchen appliances (including an incident with the toaster’s electrical cord) that might have made her blush had the experience been any less enjoyable. Eventually sated, they had summoned the comforter and some pillows from the bedroom and curled up on the floor for a pleasant conversation that threatened to go on for hours, only to be interrupted by an orange ball of fluff slinking into the room.
A female, ginger cat named Voldie, apparently. There had been no point in pretending not to be amused.
They had promptly decided that a play date for Crookshanks and Voldie was an absolute necessity-the aging half-Kneazle would undoubtedly benefit from the younger, more energetic kitten’s presence-and Severus agreed to bring Voldie to Hermione’s flat next weekend for some feline bonding. It was only natural to give the two some alone time, so they agreed to make dinner reservations in Diagon Alley.
She supposed that she really ought to get round to dusting before then.
*
It had been bad enough that Hermione hadn’t known how to deal with one-night stands-she still wasn’t sure where the line between ‘potential girlfriend’ and ‘booty call’ lay-but not understanding dating was infinitely worse. The trouble with being in a relationship with Ron was simply that there had hardly ever been time or, to be completely honest, money for going on dates. They had spent the majority of the years they had been together on Hermione’s couch, as Ron grew increasingly fascinated by the Muggle concept of television. Naturally they had gone out for dinner from time to time, but only in large groups for birthdays or other celebratory reasons; romance had been something of a foreign concept.
So it followed that Hermione was more than slightly nervous as she waited for Severus to arrive. Her mental lexicon’s definition of ‘slightly nervous’ was rather more liberal than most and extended to include varying degrees of nausea, trembling hands, and the fierce conviction that her mascara was running in spite of several firmly applied makeup spells. By the time he finally arrived, kitten in tow, she had been reduced to the level of little more than a frantic bundle of nerves, bones, and hormones held together by her epidermis.
The only thing keeping her sane was the fact that she was wearing a horrendously overpriced pair of boots that she had only been able to excuse wearing on one other occasion. As Severus steered her out the door and down the stairs, the firm clicking of the rather significant heels was the only thing lending her confidence.
*
Dinner had been a lovely affair consisting of sampling off of each other’s plates and a considerable wine list, which Severus (unlike Ron) had no qualms about enjoying. It did mean that both of them were slightly sloshed by the end of the evening and that apparition and Floo were not entirely advisable, so they had to stroll back to Hermione’s flat.
The air was pleasantly cool, the sliver of moon just enough to be romantic, and her feet bloody hurt. Silently, she gritted her teeth, remembering arguments with Ron about this very topic, and tried to disguise the slight hobble that she was adopting.
It was pathetic, really; the walk wasn’t that far.
“Is something wrong?”
She sighed. Apparently her valiant attempts hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Fine,” she hissed, feeling pain shoot through her right foot as she stumbled slightly.
His eyebrow shot up as he pulled out his wand and gestured at the ground. The effect was immediate and far more satisfying than soaking her feet had ever been.
“Thank you. What spell was that?” Relief was rapidly overcome by curiosity, it seemed.
“A useful little spell of my own invention,” he replied, suppressing a bit of a smirk. “I can’t say that I’ve yet reached the point of wearing five-inch boots, but it was useful during those long, late-night meetings when we were forced to stand.”
“Voldemort?” she asked, not certain that she wanted the details.
“No, Albus. The Dark Lord kindly provided us with chairs, albeit rather uncomfortable ones.”
“Quite the humanitarian,” she snorted.
“And we haven’t even touched on his plans to build orphanages in Somalia.” The darkness of his eyes was only emphasised by the faint moonlight and the dim streetlamps, but the humour in them was unmistakable. She briefly wondered if it had always been there and she had been to young and silly to notice, or if it was a recent acquisition and came to the conclusion that the only thing that mattered was that it made her want to kiss him.
So, with her newfound inclination towards the impetuous egging her on, she did. Thoroughly.
Later, she would wonder why she hadn’t considered the fact that they were in a public street, that Diagon Alley had quite the nightlife and therefore quite the after-dusk law enforcement, and that she was moderately certain making out against the front window of Flourish and Blotts was probably breaking some sort of obscenity law, but for the moment she allowed herself to become thoroughly wrapped up in the experience. His mouth eased over hers and his tongue probed at her parted lips-she could taste the chardonnay on it-making her head buzz and her stomach tense ever-so-slightly as her back pressed tightly against the glass of the nearest shop and her leg snaked around his. She wasn’t entirely certain how long they allowed this to continue, but the whistles and indistinguishable drunken shouting of a man a few feet down the pavement eventually broke them apart.
“I suppose that the cats have had quite enough time to get to know one another,” Hermione remarked once she had remembered how to breathe properly. “I do hope that they got on well.”
“I suppose we’ll need to arrange further play dates?” Severus asked. “I’m terribly new at this sort of thing, so I’m not quite acquainted with the etiquette.”
“I’m sure that they will rapidly progress into slumber parties,” Hermione assured him. “Crookshanks is rather insistent in these matters.”
As it turned out, there had been no need to worry about their cats; Voldie had curled up into an old ballet flat as Crookshanks sat alertly between her and the door, tail twitching. Since it was obvious that the two had behaved nicely whilst their owners were out, it was only natural to grant them that much-promised slumber party, Severus insisted as he steered Hermione towards the bedroom.
And, really, there was no protesting that.
*
The first sign of trouble came the next morning, when Severus asked a half-asleep Hermione to come to a dinner of ‘old friends’. Even in her slightly muddled state of mind, she was perfectly aware that Severus’ ‘old friends’ were her ‘old enemies’ and that dinner with them would be somewhat awkward, if not downright dangerous.
So, innocently, she asked for the names of these ‘old friends’, and his somewhat shifty eyes belied his equally innocent tone as he said that it wasn’t anybody she knew. She didn’t let him know that she had silently been hoping that he would say, ‘Remus Lupin’.
Still, he seemed anxious and somewhat hopeful (and a voice in the back of her mind pointed out that he had probably never had cause to introduce a girl to these friends of his), so she kissed him a bit and agreed.
Naturally, he kissed her back, rolling over top of her, and for a moment it looked as though they were about to move past that stage, until he let out an inhuman yowl and leapt off of the bed.
“Crookshanks, no!” Hermione yelled out of habit, grabbing the orange ball of fluff that had lodged its claws into his back and yanking. She was just about to fling it towards the door, when she realised that what she was holding was about fifteen pounds too light to be hers. Deciding rapidly that Severus might not look kindly upon her injuring his pet, she settled for placing it gently on the bed and saying, quite sternly, “That isn’t proper behaviour for a fine cat like you.”
“I doubt that she can understand you,” Severus replied, managing to look amused and pained all at once as he awkwardly reached his hand behind him. “I’m not bleeding, am I?”
*
‘Old friends’ were, as it turned out and as Severus had suggested, a lot of people whom she didn’t know. Unfortunately, there were also some people that she did know, namely the Malfoys.
To be more specific, Lucius Malfoy.
Oh, Narcissa was there was well, but Hermione didn’t mind the woman nearly as much as her husband. Narcissa, after all, had never tried to kill her and had actually proven quite helpful in the war, even if the price of it had been her family’s freedom.
Still, it was Lucius she was seated next to (it seemed likely that he was using the opportunity to peer down her robes), Lucius who was asking polite but personal questions about Harry Potter (probably to work out the least complicated way to eliminate him), and Lucius who insisted on ordering her wine for her because he had ‘much more experience with this sort of thing’ (which was probably a double-entendre for something-she just wasn’t sure what). He had complimented her shoes, which, although not nearly significant enough to make her like him, at least made him slightly less despicable.
Severus, who was seated on her other side, continually shot glances over her head, which she assumed were of warning. He needn’t have worried: Lucius’ reputation had preceded him and left her wary.
“Severus, I recall you promising to inform us when you finally found yourself a lady friend,” Lucius was remarking over her head as though she couldn’t hear him, the bastard.
On the other hand, his words meant that Severus wasn’t detailing their sex romps to him via the Floo network, which was something of a relief.
“Yes, well, I’ve been busy, haven’t I?” He covered her hand with his, perhaps a bit protectively and she had to concentrate on not inching towards him. It occasionally occurred to her that after surviving a lifelong friendship with Harry Potter and all that entailed, a gory war against a Dark Lord with glowing red eyes, and a relationship with Ronald Weasley (and all that entailed), she probably shouldn’t be afraid of much, especially not a man who viewed canes as fashion accessories.
Narcissa laughed, which took Hermione by surprise. She had always assumed that the woman couldn’t be bribed to so much as smile. “Darling, try not to be too offended that you weren’t first and foremost in his mind,” she teased.
Hermione used her napkin to stifle a snort, which earned her several amused looks, and the moment of awkwardness passed, allowing her to fade quietly into the background.
For the first time, she noticed that Severus looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him in a public setting (although, to be honest, her experience was limited to Hogwarts and Ministry dinners), which resulted in a surge of fondness for the people gathered around the table, whether or not they would have tried to hex her into oblivion at some point in the past. Even the banter between him and Lucius, which Narcissa interjected into frequently, didn’t seem to have any real malice to it; it was easy to picture herself sitting in a similar situation with Harry and Ron in twenty years.
Except that she had just broken up with Ron and it seemed very likely that he would never want to speak to her again. For the first time, she wondered if she had made the right decision, as it seemed likely that Harry would feel as betrayed as Ron, especially when he found out who his replacement was. But-and this she thought with a sigh-the truth of the matter was that she was not in love with Ron and she strongly suspected that he wasn’t in love with her either. Ignoring the blazing rows that left her feeling too exhausted for make-up sex, the strongest emotion that she could remember experiencing was contentment and she suspected that that same emotion was responsible for him putting up such a fight.
“Is everything all right?”
The whisper in her ear jarred her out of her thoughts, forcing her to pay attention to her surroundings once again. A few people were in the process of pushing back their chairs, leaving her and Severus with the Malfoys and one other couple whose names were currently escaping her.
She nodded quickly. “Of course.”
*
Malfoy Manor wasn’t exactly the sort of place that Hermione expected to be invited round to for after-dinner drinks. Specifically, it wasn’t the sort of place that she had ever anticipating spending time in, unless she happened to be storming it in the midst of another battle of some sort. As the six of them made their way up to the entrance, door swinging open before them, Hermione couldn’t help but feel slightly awkward and out-of-place. Severus, Lucius, and the other man-she managed to pick out the name Gerald-were deep in conversation, while Narcissa led the way briskly through the corridors, leaving her alone with the other woman, who was trying to make polite conversation. Hermione, who spent a great deal of time avoiding situations in which small talk would be required, was finding this rather difficult.
Well, to be completely fair, in Hermione’s opinion, it had been a rather dry spring and it probably was bad for the crops; she didn’t need pre-existing agricultural knowledge to know that much.
Therefore, she was relieved when they had gathered around a fireplace in the library-she had always wondered about fireplaces in libraries and the common sense of the person who had put them there-and still more so when she was given some brandy. The talk moved on to politics, and Hermione had just opened her mouth to jump in when Narcissa cut her off.
“Miss Granger-“
“Hermione,” she corrected firmly. The use of her surname made her feel as though she were being reduced to the status of a first-year Hogwarts student.
“I’ve heard that you like books,” she continued softly enough not to interrupt the others, but loud enough that it couldn’t properly be called a whisper.
“It is the general consensus, yes.”
“Well, we have something that you might be particularly interested in.”
Hermione wasn’t given the chance to argue; she was being grasped by the elbow and dragged to the back of the library before the words had formed in the back of her throat.
“I’d like to talk to you about Severus,” she said, the moment they were out of earshot.
Her response was merely a blank look.
“He hasn’t got a mother to do this for him, and, as you may have noticed, both Lucius and I are rather fond of him. We’d hate to see him hurt, particularly by you.”
The word ‘you’ had never before carried so many connotations; she wasn’t sure if Narcissa was referring more to her heritage or to her role in landing Lucius a cell in Azkaban after the Department of Mysteries. There was also a hint of a threat in it, as though they would have no second thoughts in crushing her should the relationship go awry.
“I’m not planning on breaking his heart,” Hermione replied, a little taken aback by the ferocity. “Er, I’m really not that sort of person, in spite of what the tabloids may have suggested in the past.”
A smirk crept across Narcissa’s face. “No, you’re clearly not. You are, however, the sort of person to condemn him for past actions-“
“I’m the reason he hasn’t been condemned,” she snapped, nearly forgetting to keep her voice low.
“Yet you don’t understand what the Death Eaters were and how they operated. I’m sure that you have some horrible visions of brutality and decadence, but those were only the preferences of the very few. Severus was-and is-no different than the rest of us; he simply managed to find a way out of an impossible situation.”
Hermione was beginning to feel that she was missing the point; she couldn’t decide whether Narcissa was trying to disillusion her about the fact that Severus was, in fact, evil or if she was making a bid for the innocence of the other Death Eaters.
“He’s undoubtedly going to try to keep things in the closet-especially from you-and being angry over this will only hurt both of you.”
Although she was aware of the many metaphorical levels on which things could be stuffed into closets of various sizes, those meanings were not what her mind immediately leapt to. Instead, she found herself recalling the first morning that she had awoken in Severus’ flat and the way in which he had smoothly stepped in between her and the door she was trying to open. She hadn’t thought anything more of it at the time, but now her mind was racing.
Quite frankly, she hadn’t given his time as a Death Eater much thought, and she was beginning to wonder if this had been as much his misdirection on his part as it had been selective memory on hers. He had been on their side at the end-she felt certain of that-and until now that had been enough, but her mind had been sent spiralling around, trying to work out motives and read meaning into every situation.
“I hope I haven’t troubled you with any of this,” Narcissa remarked. “It’s just that we’ve been hoping that Severus would find someone for quite some time, and I don’t trust him to know what to do.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Hermione replied, thinking that it bloody well wasn’t and wishing that the other woman hadn’t taken it upon herself to interfere as she simultaneously wondered what she ought to do if Severus turned out (quite literally) to have skeletons in his closet.
“Well, I suppose we ought to get back to the others,” Narcissa said. “Meredith must be terribly bored.”
Part Two