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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 34 - A Breach In The Walls, A Broken Gate

The Yule Ball - and the Halloween Dance - seemed positively inviting by comparison to this, thought Snape. The Valentine's Ball. A misbegotten excuse for an explosion of pink and red and cherubs enough to make anyone ill, let alone someone whose artistic tastes ran more to Pollock than Rubens.

His sideline business in skin and hair-care potions had been kept busy in the few days running up to the Ball - it seemed that every girl in the school had now heard of the concoctions and wanted them. Snape amused himself in the certain knowledge that he was making rather more money out of this venture than the Weasley twins had ever done from their various extra-curricular activities.

More surprising was his sudden popularity as a dress designer. The clothes he had transfigured for the Yule Ball had not gone un-noticed and were proving to be more popular than he could have imagined - countless girls had come asking where he got the clothes from and whether he could get more. His annoyance at the constant interruptions required some masking - not entirely, for Hermione would not have stood for this either, but it did need moderating. He distracted - and amused - himself by imagining just what the girls would do if they knew who it was that they were asking for clothes.

However, amusement, constantly repeated, wears thin after time. Occasionally Snape would recall just who and what he really was and be mildly disgusted; he told himself it was disgust at being forced to act the part - at having to be polite and listen to tedious deliberations as to styles and fabrics. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, he rather thought it was disgust at enjoying being sought out by his peers - sought out for help, and not for teasing or abuse. He should have grown out of the need for validation or, at the very least, he would have thought it had been beaten out of him by time and circumstances. Clearly, though, that need for the approval of others had only been cowed rather than annihilated as he had thought - hoped.

He consoled himself with the thought that, at least, he was not being sought out for his company - other than by those who usually sought Hermione's company. Even there, it was obvious to him - and, he thought, to Hermione - that they sought her company more for themselves than for something intrinsically 'Hermione'. Neither Potter nor Weasley - it was hard to give them the respect of their first names when he recalled how little they understood Hermione - had any clue what drove her, and only gave cursory respect themselves to her interests. After six years or so, they really should have had more idea, he thought. He acknowledged their affection for her - and didn't realise how much that acknowledgement revealed the change in him over the past few months - but wished they would simply grow up.

He had tried to say as much to Hermione one evening; one of those evenings that found the two of them in the laboratory, wrapped in each other's understanding. They had been drinking coffee, sitting in armchairs that Hermione had conjured from a couple of laboratory stools, and enjoying the warmth of the fire in the grate whilst they waited for the latest bath of experiments and potions to cool.

The conversation had been abstract and sporadic, occasional thoughts voiced in the silence. Abruptly, from nowhere, he had turned to Hermione.

"Why do you put up with Potter and Weasley? I know you are friends, but does it not irritate you that they ride roughshod over you most of the time?"

"Is it irritating you?" came the quiet reply from the depths of the other armchair.

"Well ..." Snape paused. "I don't think it irritates me that they ride roughshod over me, but that they do it to you."

Hermione looked up from her coffee and smiled at him, and Snape realised just what he had given away with that one sentence. He wondered whether he should try to ... no. It certainly wasn't going to come as a surprise to Hermione, no matter that they had never discussed the issue.

"Don't worry about it, Severus," she said at last. "They're boys. It would just confuse them if I tried to change them, and I can deal with it when their attitude gets in the way. They usually blame it on PMS," she added prosaically, "but it does the trick. They're good company otherwise, and generally stop me getting too serious."

"Has that been a problem for you these months - getting too serious?" asked Snape.

Hermione paused for thought, giving the question due consideration.

"I've had more to be serious about, I think. It's been appropriate to be serious. You've given me other ways to deal with it, lately."

An admission for an admission, neither specific but both understood. They lapsed back into silence, broken only by the hiss and spit of the logs being consumed by the fire, until Hermione had finished her coffee, put down the mug, and stood to hold her hand out to Snape. "Come on, let's go and see where we've got to with this latest batch." He took her hand and allowed her to tug him up from the chair. They had relinquished the touch when he was on his feet, but he felt it for a while longer in memory and desire.

---

Valentine's Day dawned chill and cold with hoar frost an inch thick, icing the world outside the castle so that it glistened almost painfully under the cold winter sun.

Snape woke with a vague sense of dread; some things never changed, regardless of the year and the body, and Valentine's Day was eternal. Eternally dreadful.

All deliveries and clothes transfigurations had been dealt with; he had avoided Lavender and Parvati very successfully after their 'suggestion' that they repeat the 'girlie evening', as they called it. He had - very rapidly - found some Depilatory Charms in the library and made frequent use of them (since they rarely lasted more than a day) to ensure that they had absolutely no excuse to corner him again, then ensconced himself in the dungeons with Hermione and pleaded pressure of work until they gave up. Hermione had been highly amused at his exaggerated indignation and disgust. Well, perhaps not all that exaggerated.

Snape lay in bed and watched the weak sunlight struggled through the windows, his mind still fuzzy with warm sleep, and tried not to wonder whether he and Hermione would be able to dance together at the Ball. He distracted himself with a run-through the timetable for the day, recalling classes and mentally checking whether he had reviewed the homework that Hermione had done to ensure that he knew all that she knew.

If this experience had done nothing else, it was certainly ensuring that he was thoroughly up to date on a multiplicity of subjects that he had given little thought to since leaving school. Transfiguration, for a start. Revisiting Arithmancy was interesting - he had kept up with it to a reasonable degree even after school, since it was a useful tool in predicting the potential outcomes of more volatile experiments. Similarly, Runes continued to be of help in his work on some of the more historical aspects of Potions-making.

History of Magic, though, was never going to be of any interest - and certainly hadn't advanced since his own lessons. Defence Against the Dark Arts was an exercise in frustration and tongue-biting as the latest in the series of hapless morons that had been scraped up from who-knew-where tried to instruct him.

It was, finally, impossible to put off the moment any longer and Snape slid out of bed to head for the shower. Pleasant as it would be to sleep the day away - and the evening - it wasn't a practical solution. Someone would undoubtedly come looking for him, quite apart from his own sense of obligation.

The day was as appalling as he had thought. Leprechauns, of all things. On broomsticks, delivering Valentine's cards. He itched to hex them into oblivion and had to smother a grin when he over-heard a couple of second-years discussing how 'Snape' had dispatched the first to try and enter the Potions classroom.

His worst fears were realised shortly after that smothered grin; he, Harry and Ron were walking to lunch when a shwish of sound through the air announced another leprechaun and Snape instinctively ducked. When he straightened up, the creature was hovering in front of him, grinning like a lunatic, and abruptly tossed him a rose in a shower of coins. Snape caught the rose instinctively, hearing the coins chink musically as they fell on the stone floor around him.

The leprechaun turned and sped off on the ludicrous little broomstick as Snape looked at the somewhat sorry-looking flower in his hand. Harry and Ron had one each as well, but were looking at him with no little interest.

"So who's that from?" asked Ron, glee in his voice. "Don't tell me you've got a boyfriend?!"

"Ron!" hissed Harry. Ron looked at him, clearly wondering what he'd said wrong. Snape almost thanked Harry for at least noticing that Ron's tone of incredulity was less than flattering, but Ron appeared to suddenly realise and blustered slightly.

"Well, I mean ... you couldn't have time ... you're always in the library ... or the Potions classroom ... and with being Head Girl."

"Ron," sighed Snape, dragging on Hermione's character in his voice, "shut up, before you put your foot even further into your mouth." He smiled, well aware that it wouldn't reach his eyes, but hoping that Ron would take the comment as an affectionate tease. Thankfully, Ron was obviously too pleased to have an excuse to shut up to notice that 'Hermione' wasn't necessarily overjoyed.

Harry had turned his attention to his rose, and laughed. Snape looked at him quizzically and Harry showed him the note attached to his rose.

"To my fresh pickled toad" read the lettering on the note.

Snape must have looked as uncomprehending as he felt, because Harry laughed again and said "it's from Ginny - you remember, the Valentine she sent me in the second year. 'His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad'. Fred and George didn't let go of that one for weeks!"

Snape laughed, since it was clearly expected of him, and made a mental note to ask Hermione what on earth Harry was talking about. That the Valentine was from Ginny Weasley was no particular surprise - Snape assumed Harry had sent her something similar. Ron's was undoubtedly from whoever the girlfriend of the week was: some Hufflepuff, but Snape couldn't remember her name. Ron didn't seem terribly pleased to have received it - presumably she was on her way out of favour.

All this had managed to distract him for his own rose for a few moments but he couldn't put off looking at the note for any longer; the boys were obviously waiting to see who had sent him the rose as well. He turned over the tag and read it.

"Happy Valentine's Day, with love from Neville Longbottom."

A moment of panic seized Snape. Please, please, let this be a joke - he had survived Alice Lacock's attentions to 'Snape' by proxy, but he wasn't sure he could deal with Neville Longbottom's attentions to 'Hermione' directly.

He was saved from terror by Harry's comment. "Oh, of course. I'd forgotten Neville was planning to do that."

"Do what?" asked Snape, nervously.

"He's sent a Valentine to every girl in our year in Gryffindor," explained Harry. "He thought it was a shame that not everyone got one last year, so he decided to make sure no-one missed out this year."

"So you don't need to worry that Neville has a crush on you," teased Ron. Snape smiled weakly at him.

Relief. Palpable relief. It was a very Longbottom thing to do - a very Gryffindor and thankfully impersonal. He was saved from having to duck and avoid the boy for the rest of the day - week - year ... no, Snape brought himself up short. Not year. The mandrakes would be ready soon, and this would all be over. He waited for the rush of relief at that thought and found it odd that, although there was relief, it was mixed with melancholy.

Too many other things would be over at the same time.

The rest of the day passed as usual; the leprechauns disappeared by lunchtime, to the relief of many, and the afternoon wore on in an increasing excess of high spirits.

Dinner was the usual Hogwarts' blow-out feast - Snape had never quite understood how anyone was supposed to move, let alone dance, after the quantities of food that were provided. He picked his way through vegetables, half-listening to the excited chatter around him, and trying not to look at the decoration that overwhelmed even this space. As usual, little effort seemed to have been spared and the Hall was pink. Very pink. Pink candles, pink ribbons, pink balloons, red hearts floating in mid-air and a general tendency on the part of the girls throughout the Hall to dress in shades that ranged all the way from pink to red. Only the ceiling remained untouched, reflecting the clear black night with a myriad of stars.

His own concession to the occasion had been to alter the shade of the velvet jacket from his Yule Ball outfit from black to a very dark red; in low light it was hard to tell that he'd changed the colour at all. Lavender and Parvati had tried to be outraged that he hadn't come up with something new but, in the end, had to admit that it worked and did, after all, suit 'Hermione' very well.

From time to time during the meal he glanced up to the High Table; Hermione was sitting there as uncomfortably as he would have done, somewhere between a sneer and disinterest. He caught her glancing his way from time to time but made sure to look away before she saw him watching her; he wasn't sure why he didn't want to catch her eye just now, he simply had a feeling that it was best not to distract either of them.

Finally the meal was over and the Hall cleared for dancing; the music began and Snape instinctively drew back and avoided any potential dance partner, hiding in plain sight in the melee of Gryffindors. From time to time he saw Hermione prowling around the room, patrolling effortlessly with nothing more than presence.

Snape's luck eventually ran out, though, and Neville approached him with a request to dance that was impossible to politely refuse. They moved awkwardly through the steps for a while, Snape keeping clear space between them - particularly after a near miss from Neville's wayward feet. Conversation was almost as awkward as the steps, with Snape forcing himself to thank Neville for the rose.

Dancing with Neville Longbottom and thanking him for a rose. Someone, somewhere, was laughing themselves stupid at this, thought Snape.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Hermione heading rapidly for the gardens. She looked ... odd. As though she desperately needed to escape, rather than simply going in search of errant students.

Snape disentangled himself from Neville as quickly as possible, without raising alarm, and headed out to the gardens as well; he was stopped along the way with a couple of queries directed to him as Head Girl which he dispatched as quickly as possible, then let himself through the doors to the terrace.

In the distance he saw a shadow, standing still, and made his way over. Hermione was standing quite still, looking back at the castle, her only movement the exhaled breath that hung momentarily in the night. She didn't seem to have noticed him approach.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly as he reached her. She was paler than he usually was, and definitely distracted. The hard edge that she kept as his public persona had softened in her face and she seemed distant, lost in memories. He had a fairly good idea where her memories had taken her; they took him to the same place not infrequently.

No, not really; but their short conversation brought her back to the present and confirmed their communication. Time and understanding stretched and accommodated more than mere words, a coiling warmth that dispelled the chill night air between them. The wrong time, and the wrong place, and they both understood that although Hermione was the first to acknowledge it, sending him back to the Ball with a promise to meet later.

Her voice was as unsteady as his thoughts, which tripped over each other with possibilites and warnings and dismissal and more possibilities and - in the end - a certain inevitability. Not now, but a question of when and not if.

"I will see you after the Ball."

The sounds of the dance brought him back to the present, out of an speculative future, as he left Hermione and headed back to the Hall. It was difficult to go back into the noise and pressure and the battering assault of the tide of relationships forming, ending, changing, within the teenagers there.

Moments after he re-entered the Hall, Snape felt a touch on his shoulder and turned quickly. Ron stood there, face slightly red.

"Where were you?" he asked, and Snape thought he had wanted to ask something else.

"Outside, getting some air," said Snape.

"Oh. Good idea. I could do with that - will you come with me?"

Snape eyed the boy curiously; the request was unusual. Ron usually assumed Hermione would follow at his command, or so it seemed, and the request made it impossible to say 'no' without ensuring that he wrecked Hermione's friendship - and that wasn't something he was prepared to do.

He followed Ron back outside, away from the immediate bustle and crowd, back into the chill air. Snape instinctively looked over towards the shadow that he had left moments before but Hermione had left already, presumably heading for the dungeons.

Snape shivered, the chill now seeping into him - the short foray back into the Hall had done nothing to warm him up - and was startled to feel Ron's arm come around him.

"Let me warm you up."

Oh please, no, please, no ... no ... no. This wasn't happening, this could not happening. If Snape had thought someone was laughing themselves stupid earlier - well, whoever that someone was, they were probably a candidate for St Mungo's now.

Before he could move, he found himself caught up by Ron and held in an embrace with the touch of his mouth now on his own ... no. No!

He had obviously spoken, at last, because Ron suddenly let him go and stumbled back.

"I'm sorry," they apologised at the same time, and then stopped, Ron red and embarrassed and Snape white with shock. Snape swallowed and gestured for Ron to continue, trying hard not to give in to the temptation to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I - I'm sorry," he said again. "I just ... well ... I hoped ..."

For the sake of Hermione's friendship, Snape took pity on Ron and shook his head slowly. "I wish," he said slowly, "I wish I could be who you want me to be. What you want me to be. But it just wouldn't work, Ron. We're too different - I'd drive you mad in no time, always in the library and studying and so on. Let's just leave it at that, can we?"

"Can we?" echoed Ron, slightly bitterly. "You can just forget that I've made an idiot of myself? I'm not sure I can."

This was the last thing Snape wanted to have to deal with now; his mind was still full of that last exchange with Hermione, shot through as it was with subtext and more. All he wanted to was find his way to the dungeons and explore that conversation, not stand here and massage the ego of a teenage boy in this conversation; he knew too well just how much damage he could do to Ron right now, if he so chose. But Hermione would not so choose, so neither could he.

In the end, he had no choice to make - Ron muttered something about needing some time on his own and headed off into the shadows of the garden; Snape knew better than to follow and went, instead, in search of Harry. He found him dancing with Ginny Weasley - unsurprisingly. Harry had clearly known what Ron was going to do - when he saw Snape his eyes widened and he looked behind him, his face becoming worried when he obviously didn't see Ron. He whispered something to Ginny, who nodded, and then made his way over to Snape.

"I think Ron might prefer to talk to you right now," he said.

Harry nodded. "I was expecting to have to do something like that," he explained. "I tried to talk him out of it - nothing personal," he added hastily, "but it wasn't one of his brighter ideas. But it's difficult to talk someone out of acting on hormones," he concluded wryly.

"Thank you for trying," said Snape drily.

"Are you ok?" asked Harry. Snape nodded.

"I'll be fine, but I think Ron is feeling a bit of a prat right now."

"There's one at every Valentine Ball," muttered Harry. "I'll go and check on him, though."

"I'll leave now," said Snape, "so you can bring him back in here to drown his sorrows if you want to. I'm tired anyway," he added as he thought Harry was about to protest that he shouldn't have to leave.

He had every intention of leaving anyway - with the appointment to keep in the dungeons he had no intention of remaining in the Hall in any case.

The corridors were cool and darkened with night, small pools of light from the sconces dispelling only part of the gloom as he headed down the well-worn path to the dungeons and his - Hermione's - rooms. The music and babble of the Hall faded rapidly away until the only sounds were his soft footfalls and softer breathing. Snape's heart thudded in his ears, though.

He slipped through the office and knocked on the private chambers' door, suddenly uncharacteristically shy.

The door swung silently open and he entered, hearing the catch click shut as the door swung back behind him. Hermione stood by the fireplace; her hair was more disarrayed than usual, as though she had been dragging her hands through it. The room was warm, the fire lit and built up. She looked up as he stood there, and he saw her eyes glittering in the candlelight; not tears, but something more elemental - and Snape tried to convince himself that it was nothing more than a reflection of his own feelings.

That conviction was rendered impossible as they met without speaking in the middle of the room and Snape found himself, for the second time in half an hour, enfolded in an embrace and the touch of lips on his.

This time, though, there was no disgust and nothing to make him pull away; only a burning need to get closer and to open to both the embrace and the kiss.