Hiding in the noise. Hiding from the noise, the glare, the glitter. How much longer would he have to stay? A swift glance towards Dumbledore suggested that reprieve would be a while in coming; the Headmaster played his guilt trips as though they were music and he a musician. Voldemort was dead, life had continued, and still he was caught by obligation and honour.

Frivolity, a seemingly endless whirl of celebrations and parties and meaningless chatter, now emptier even than before - at least before the fall of Voldemort such things were tinged with the desperation of knowing too well the possibilities of the future, with a sense of trying to live and not knowing when you would die. Not that he had ever really participated, despite a keener sense of impending doom than most; he had faced it at each meeting. Perhaps that was less stressful than awaiting a final battle. It was hard to tell and, in any case, it almost certainly would depend upon the individual.

But this, now - Halloween balls, New Year balls, graduation balls, Quidditch dinners, Valentine dinners, Summer balls, Autumn dances, Christmas parties and too many people and more ... and more ... each day, each week, some new reason, some new excuse, and someone new called everyone else together again. He was tired, and it was tiring and ...

... and he was being unreasonable. The parties were no more numerous now than they had ever been - Dumbledore was simply more sociable than anyone had a right to be, thought Snape sourly. This Quidditch match was a case in point - if it could even be said to have a point. He certainly hadn't seen one, unless Dumbledore was suddenly providing parties for Hermione to drool all over that fool, Queroz.

That particular train of thought derailed abruptly. He sounded jealous, even to himself, and that would never do. Why should he be jealous? Just because he had sat next to her yesterday - had ensured, by pulling on a scowl and frozen expression even more voluminous than his cloak, that the only free space was that beside him. And then she had spent the entire match following the idiot's moves on a broom. Whilst he spent the entire match watching her.

Damn it, this was intolerable. Not the noise, the chatter of students and High Table - although that was bad enough - but the incessant churn of his thoughts. It felt almost like an obsession, watching her, wondering when he would next speak to her, thinking up reasons to speak to her. Then forcing himself not to speak, not to watch, and not to accidentally stray across her path in the castle. Analysing everything she did, everything she said, just to see whether ...

He didn't even know where it had come from, this - well, obsession really was the only word for it. It had sprung, fully grown, from a meeting in London and a handful of letters in the last ten years; developed overnight on her appearance at Hogwarts. It had - he wanted to think - come from nowhere. But, in this case, nowhere would have to be given a name: Longbottom.

They never had found the mystery potion that the Gryffindor incompetent had produced, despite the experiments at the time - and since, in his spare time.

It had been a time out of time, for him; full of horrors and yet free from the single horror that was his life then. More than anything, it had been an unusual connection, a long moment of mutual understanding unparalleled before or since. Little wonder now that he felt so called to Hermione.

Wonder was, however, irrelevant. And frankly bloody useless at this point and after so much time. So he had pulled on the mantle of the 'greasy git' with fervour, deliberately opening up a gap, a chasm, between them. Anything else would risk her knowing about this compulsion; if things were awkward now, it was nothing as to what would happen if she were to know. At worst she would pity him, and that would be intolerable. At best she would never speak to him again. And that was also not an option.

He had, perhaps, overdone the persona - and certainly done it too late. She had deservedly called him on it yesterday afternoon and, to be fair, he couldn't fault her anger although he could most definitely use it. All the same, perhaps he could come down the lab more often, no matter how much the chatter in his mind screamed danger to him.

Snape looked around the table again, trying to blank out the monologue that paraded through his mind in turns and twists like a mobius strip of insistent consciousness. Old boys, old girls and staff, all gossiping and switching from one person to another, one topic to another. Snatches of conversation drifted above the verbal melée from time to time, repeating moments of yesterday's - and history's - Quidditch matches, catching up on personal histories or continuing a friendship in miscellaneous words.

Queroz was leaning towards Hermione, eyes bright with attention and attraction. Snape watched for a moment as Hermione responded to the interest with flattered amusement, and then shook his head. Jealousy was a waste of energy. If that was what she wanted, well, it was being offered to her. He would do better to simply get her out of his mind.

Dumbledore caught his eye and winked; please let the old man not be able to read minds. Probably a forlorn hope but heartfelt none the less. The last thing he needed was a geriatric Cupid playing on his behalf.

The plates changed in a moment, distracting the chatter for an even shorter moment as everyone took in the change of courses; then the level rose again, the conversation now on food for a short time, debating the merits of the various desserts in front of them, recalling other desserts and still, of course, discussing the Quidditch match.

Patil was gazing at her husband in almost as adoring a fashion as Queroz at Hermione; and for the same reasons? Perhaps, although she had won him. Maybe it was a defence mechanism to protect her position; Quidditch had its fair share of unscrupulous female followers, he understood. Here, it made an interesting counterpoint to the brittle pink ego that had demanded his time and his energy - albeit it indirectly - and was, no doubt, thinking up ways to demand more.

Men's toiletries ... He shook his head again, avoiding the eyes of those few who took notice. Hermione would love that; a decade late, but no doubt revenge for his usual routine was about to be visited upon him.

And back again; no more than six degrees of separation that ensured that his mind would never stray too far from that topic. Snape closed his eyes; a benefit of a personality cultivated over decades was the ability to do that which others would be criticised for, and still be ignored. This was ... it had to be unhealthy. He wasn't even interested in the girl - the woman - for heavens' sake. Too easy to call this love, and too wrong. It was safe, certainly. Most likely the sign of a mind bored by an easy life, for all the superficial danger of Potions lessons. Something to pick at, like the scab of a scar, with no danger of being called upon to actually do anything about it. A stab of pain, to remind him that he was alive. A mental slash, with metaphysical wounds. A distraction, decorating the edges of lunacy. Maybe that was it; a delayed effect of Crucio and other assorted hexes and Unforgiveables. It would make for an interesting research topic - the long term mental health implications of being a spy in the Death Eater movement.

Hermione was still talking to Queroz, a conversation too low for even a word to escape, with the odd comment to others around her when the conversation flowed in her direction. She seemed, perhaps, just a little reserved, uncomfortable. That almost certainly his imagination, or simply wishful thinking.

"Severus, are you coming to join us?"

He almost jumped, startled by the voice behind him, then realised that the meal was over and the party was moving on. Dumbledore was looking at him over the tiny half-moon glasses that he wore when he chose - more fashion than necessity, since he rarely if ever actually looked through them. The rest of the staff and guests were starting to leave the table, still talking, still chattering.

"I don't think so, Headmaster. If you'll excuse me."