Insight

The ubiquitous seventh year ball. The night before their graduation, Hermione and Harry decide to corner Professor Snape. [Post-War]

This is an attempt to try my hand at -- I don't even know what it's called, but I think it's present tense. It seems to be all the rage . . . and I wanted to push my skills (admittedly, it's bloody hard to keep this POV) . . . so . . .

Disclaimer: The 'Harry Potter' universe isn't mine.

IT IS THE DAY before graduation. The war is over.

They've planned a ball, but the details are so esoteric, so undisclosed, that no-one knows really what to expect. The teachers themselves are in the dark, metaphorically blindfolded so that they too, (or so claimed the Headmaster) can celebrate. For when is something as novel as when entered fresh, without knowing what shall happen? It will be the first time in years the teachers haven't had to plan the seventh year ball.

It is the first time in years Voldemort is no longer a name to be feared. Change is allowed.

And so, it is for this reason Gryffindor tower is draped in its House colours of red and gold; that Hufflepuffs are down in the dungeons with the Slytherins; that the Ravenclaws are no longer in the library studying, but out on the Quidditch pitch and swimming in the lake. It is for this reason Draco Malfoy stuck his hand out to Harry Potter at lunch and declared a permanent truce. It is for this reason Ron Weasley has brand new robes, fitted exactly to his size.

Hermione Granger is the most booklearned student at Hogwarts, and right now she is trying on a dress. It is the one she plans to wear at the ball, black because she's still mourning for those lost in the war, and formal. Its one indulgence, or her one indulgence, is the absence of back. She isn't wearing it to please -- her best friends are boys, and that's quite enough exposure to the opposite sex, thank you very much. She's going, and wearing this dress, for better reasons. At the moment those reasons are as intangible and abstract as the notion of the ball itself; she hardly knows what she wants.

She supposes, as she spells the dress closed with her wand, she wants closure. Hogwarts has been her home for seven years, and she's lost many friends to the war. She wants to say her proper good-byes. She wants her last dances with Harry and Ron. She wants to feel happy -- and she knows it's maudlin, but at this moment in her life, it's how she feels -- for one last time.

Harry and Ron are waiting for her in the Common Room, along with Parvati Patil. Parvati is going with Ron to the ball. Harry isn't going with anyone -- he's escorting Hermione, but only as a friend. He's as disinterested in girls (he has crushes, but hasn't found a permanent interest) as Hermione is in boys, and they're in tacit agreement that they aren't meant for one another. Harry's told Hermione she doesn't have to dance with him more than once, a condition that is reciprocal. Although she probably will. Hermione can't imagine dancing with anyone other than Harry or Ron, and Ron, she knows, will be very occupied.

Harry won't likely be dancing much, really. He loathes the attention he's been getting suddenly from girls, and tends to close up when he isn't around Ron or Hermione. He thinks people are only interested in him because he killed Voldemort. Hermione understands the feeling. Except that she hopes tonight -- tonight, with its mystery -- will be different. She carries her hopes in the wave of enchantment surrounding tonight, and wants to believe that, if only for an evening, Harry will find something to make him happy.

Harry offers her his arm. His dress robes are black, as hers are, and equally formal. Sometimes Hermione wonders if they read one another's minds. At any rate, Harry is dashing -- he radiates youthful heroism brilliantly in a stiff black suit -- and Hermione is rather pleased to be seen together.

The processional is long. There'll only be seventh years and teachers at the ball, but the younger students have come out to wish them luck -- and catch a glimpse of their own future. This is the last ball, the graduation ball, and it is extravagant in ways none of the others were. The girls are wearing expensive dresses and make-ups. Volumes upon volumes of dress material, cascades of ruffles and silk and long velvet skirts glide across the smooth flagstone floors; colours swirl and flash. Neville Longbottom is wearing canary yellow, Pansy Parkinson acid green. Ron and Parvati are in matching red.

And at last they reach the Great Hall. Hermione's hand tightens on Harry's arm. Here, finally, is the moment they've been waiting for. Here's the surprise. Here, in many ways, is the end.

They step inside, seeing nothing but darkness. Their feet land on grass.

Hermione and Harry both gasp.

"They've made it a forest," Hermione says in astonishment.

"Wonder how many spells it took?" Harry says, jokes, but she can see that he too, is enchanted.

The floor is purplish, lush grass -- the ceiling is the night sky, moonless and scattered with stars. There are torches. Fairies, spouting golden dust from silver wings, flit about. There are trees and absolutely no sign of tables, or actually, of the Great Hall at all. Hermione has to look back at the door to be certain she's still at Hogwarts.

"Oh, Harry!" she breathes, and her cheeks feel warm and probably red. The air is cool, penetrating but not sharp, and she feels more happy and free than in ages.

"It is wonderful," he says, looking ruefully at the trees. "I'd love to live in a forest like this."

"No you wouldn't," Hermione says knowingly. "You'd be bored within days."

"Say look," Harry says, effectively changing the subject. "There's Snape."

"Snape!" she says, twirling around. Indeed, leaning against a tree, by -- why, is that a table with cordial? -- is the Potions Master. He is scowling ferociously, as though he is out of ways to explain his presence, which no doubt was forced, and thinks seventh year balls are the most horrid thing he's ever been to in his life. His dress robes are black -- but Snape always wears black, and if his dress robes are any different from the billowing ones he wears to class Hermione can't tell.

"He looks clean," she says dubiously, turning back to Harry.

Harry is still looking at him. "He looks lonely," he says, then glances at Hermione. "What?"

"Are you alright?"

"Quite," says Harry, compressing his lips. "I just couldn't help noticing him."

"You notice a lot nowadays," says Hermione, and after that they fall into silence.

There's music playing, but it's coming from somewhere within the trees. Couples are swirling over the grass, gripping at ready-to-spill cups of pink cordial. Some girls have taken off their shoes; some have hitched up their skirts. They laugh hysterically. Ron and Parvati swish by with a wink.

"Let's dance," Hermione says, feeling left out, and Harry obliges.

"I wonder where Dumbledore is," he says. "I've seen Snape, and McGonagall is dancing with Flitwick, but I haven't seen him."

Hermione studies Harry. He is pale, with black messy hair, tense in her arms and out of them. Somehow, despite the dark, his eyes glow green. He reaches up often to shove his glasses back on his nose.

"What are you thinking about?" she says.

He looks at her, then shrugs. "I can't believe it's the end. Much as I've loathed this place, I don't want to leave."

Harry has, in the last few years, grown bitter. He's hated being a child hero, he's hated being treated differently, and, more than once, he's threatened to run away.

"Hmm," she says, and playfully reaches out to prod at his glasses, which are slipping off. "And that's why you were thinking of Snape?"

Harry nods. "Sometimes I think he's the only adult that understood me. He was horrible to me in class, but . . ." He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'd give anything to be treated like the scum of the earth again."

"Harry," she chides.

He grins slightly. "What? It's true."

"Fine then," she says, pretending hurt. "If you want to be tortured so badly, go and get us drinks."

"That's alright," he says quickly. "I'm not feeling particularly suicidal --"

But Draco Malfoy, in resplendent robes of silver, is tapping on his shoulder.

"Malfoy," Harry says.

"Potter," Draco says, nodding his head. He looks apologetically (who would have thought a Malfoy could look apologetic?) at Hermione. "Sorry, Hermione, but can I steal him for a moment? I need his help."

She is suspicious. "What help?"

Draco wrinkles his nose. "Girls. They're all over me. . . I'm never going to have time to make my escape. They'll be more than happy to attack Potter, though."

Draco's escape is to the gardens, where he'll meet Ginny Weasley. Hermione suspects Draco has a great deal to do with Snape's presence at the ball; were Snape not here, he'd most certainly be prowling the garden, assigning Draco and Ginny detentions.

"Sounds lovely," she says dryly, and releases Harry's arms. "Go," she says, meeting his eyes. "I'll come rescue you later."

Harry rolls his eyes, secretly pleased she understands, and if not by the prospect of dancing with other girls, by his budding friendship with Draco.

"Go," she says, laughing.

He gives her a grateful look, then shoots off after Malfoy.

She is surprised at how empty she feels without him, as if his absence has created a gaping hole. She shivers, disliking very much all of a sudden the swishing dresses, and garish colours. The music is too loud. There are too many people. She glances at the one table she's seen, the one with the cordial. Snape is there, and as a direct result no-one is daring to approach it.

She thinks she'll like the quiet better. She purses her lips, steeling herself, and takes the bulk of her skirts into her hands (for she doesn't really like the idea of dragging the fabric across grass). She stalks to the table, for really, there isn't any other way to approach Snape.

After all, he's there to make certain no-one spikes the cordial.

She's slightly curious about him after her talk with Harry, and she can't help but think that perhaps his dress robes are different from his classroom ones. There's silver cuffs protruding from his sleeves, and right under his chin -- his collar goes all the way up to his neck, and his sleeves cover nearly all of his hands. And perhaps he looks a little better than he does ordinarily. (She thinks his hair is washed.) But nothing can hide that scowl.

"Miss Granger," he snarls, and indeed, she's the first person to come to the table since he got there. "What is it you want?"

"Drinks, sir," she says. "For Harry and I."

"Of course," he sneers, looking absolutely disgusted. "Naturally, Potter's already abandoned you for his fan-club."

"It's impolite to refuse a dance," Hermione says smoothly, ready to ladle cordial into a cup, then suddenly drops the ladle to stare at him. "Why, Professor, I should thank you for your concern."

"I am not concerned," he sniffs.

"No, you were merely trying to provoke me," Hermione says dryly, and turns her attention back to the cordial. "I know."

Snape looks astonished. Then he looks furious.

"I should remind you, Miss Granger, that I am still a professor of this school, and you are still one of its students. Points can be taken from your House."

How he hisses, Hermione thinks. He is beginning to irritate her -- not that he hasn't many times, over the years. She thinks of exacting revenge.

Perhaps it's the cordial. She's certain it's spiked; she feels heady after only a few sips. Well, that's Snape's fault, because he's supposed to prevent such things. She slams her glass down on the table and glares at him, baring her teeth.

"Would you care to dance?"

Snape's eyes widen. He starts to cough.

"WHAT?" he shrieks.

Hermione wonders at herself. Revenge is one thing, but having to dance with the man is another . . . and Snape certainly is not Harry, or even Ron, who at least has a Quidditch build and moderately handsome face. Snape is sallow, bony, and if not ugly most certainly unpleasant, and he's her teacher, for heaven's sake.

But she doesn't have anyone else to dance with. And she remembers how Harry had looked at Snape, and said he was lonely. She thinks, almost, she can see what he meant.

"I asked if you'd like to dance with me," she says.

"For Merlin's sake, I HEARD you, Miss Granger! Fifty points from Gryffindor!"

"For asking you to dance with me?" she says incredulously. "Professor, if I may, that's ridiculous. I haven't done anything wrong."

"What you have just done is so fundamentally wrong that --" Snape breaks off, a large vein throbbing on his forehead. "That's it. I've had enough. Albus, if the little sods poison themselves, it's their own ruddy faults." Ruffled as a proud mother hen, glaring, he snaps his cloak around himself -- like a bat, thinks Hermione -- then stalks away.

"That didn't go over so well," murmurs a voice in her ear.

Hermione starts. "Harry," she says, whirling around.

Harry smiles. "Hermione."

She pushes him playfully in the chest. "You scared me."

"Actually, I rather think you scared him." Harry glances at the door, which is swaying still with the force of Snape's exit, then grins at Hermione. "And here I thought you had no interest in men whatsoever."

"I don't," she protests weakly. She doesn't. "He was just being so . . . argh. . . Harry, you know how he is."

"Do I?"

Hermione narrows her eyes. "And what are you doing back so fast? I thought Draco needed loads of help."

"He's gone already," says Harry, "so my duties are over. And I saw you in your predicament, and decided to come help."

Now Hermione glowers. Seethes. "Harry, I absolutely can't stand that man! He took fifty points from Gryffindor just because I asked him to dance with me!"

Harry fights back laughter. "You must admit it's a little strange."

"He could have at least refused! Instead he takes away fifty -- fifty, mind you -- points and runs away!" Hermione pauses. "It was insulting!"

"Hermione," Harry says, "why did you want to dance with him?"

"Oh I don't know." She purses her lips and waves carelessly at the cordial on the table. "Because the cordial was spiked and he didn't care. Because I wanted revenge."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Dancing with Snape is revenge?"

"Yes!"

"I see," says Harry slowly, as if pondering a complicated maths problem he'd never solve in a million years. "Well, in that case, I'd say you overdid yourself. He's going to have nightmares about tonight for the rest of his life."

Hermione squints. "You can't really think so."

"Oh, I do," says Harry solemnly. "I saw it on his face."

Hermione sighs, putting her forehead on Harry's chest. The cordial, she thinks, was very spiked. "But Harry, all I wanted was to see what you meant." She looks at him. Harry is absorbing what she says. He is serious. "You said he was lonely, and . . . well, I remembered all the times he'd saved you, and us, and everything he did for the world in the war, and I just wanted to talk to him. And he just" -- she begins to shake -- "spits on my face, only literally of course, but naturally I felt as if just thought me another muggleborn Mudblood, that I had no worth at all . . ."

She pulls away, and Harry sighs.

"I'm sure that's not true." He wrinkles his brow. "Maybe you should go talk with him, Hermione. I mean, he can't be that far, and what do points really matter now? I think you should get this off your chest."

Hermione wipes her eyes, which suddenly -- how did that happen? -- have spouted tears. She says,"That's rich, coming from you. He hates you more than me. You're the one that always hated him, remember?"

Harry smiles sadly. "I made my peace with him long ago, Hermione." He wipes one of her tears away with his thumb. "You should do the same."

"Oh, and what will it accomplish," she says crossly, but she's already imagining what she will do, and the horrified look Snape will have on his face when she does it, and is feeling a good deal better. "All right, Harry, you win. I'll be back."

"I'm here if you need me," Harry calls, before she reaches the door. She waves acknowledgement, then steps from the lush forest into the stillness, and silence, of the castle.

The door shuts behind her with a soft thump.

"Alright," she says to herself, still a little woozy. "The dungeons. But would he go to the dungeons or the gardens first?

"Hmm," says Hermione, now quite thoughtful. "If I were a social recluse with no sense of humour whatsoever, and someone had asked me to dance, where would I go?" She peers down the hall, which is lined with suits of armour. "Why, I think I'd go to the library. But Snape wouldn't do that -- he probably has a better library of his own. So he'd go to the dungeons, to his rooms.

"The fact that I don't know where his rooms are is inconsequential," Hermione cries, rushing down the hall. There's a staircase here somewhere that leads to the dungeons. "I'm sure some Slytherin does."

And, in a blur of black velvet, Hermione speeds down the hall, hoping only that her rate is greater than Snape's, and that she can accost him before he disappears entirely. Hogwarts has hidden many things before, and it wouldn't be very hard for Snape to conceal himself -- especially in the dungeons, which Hermione has avoided as much as possible and hardly knows . . .

As luck has it, she finds him on the second staircase down (for there are three levels to the dungeon), yelling at Peeves.

Peeves is the resident poltergeist. In a single, succinct moment, Hermione understands him perfectly. His purpose at this moment is to make Snape's life hell. At this moment, isn't that her purpose as well?

How lovely it is indeed to be driven by purpose, and to recognise that drive in others.

"Professor Snape," she says crisply, or rather as crisply as one under the influence of cordial as alcoholically potent as hers was can. She looks over the fact that Snape is cursing very colourfully at Peeves, and that Peeves is jumping from foot to foot in the air, twirling around and ignoring Snape (rather stoutly, she must say) by cackling at the top of his lungs. "I would like to speak with you, Professor, if you'd only give me a moment of your --"

Snape whirls around. "Not you," he says.

"-- time," Hermione finishes, before she grows affronted. "What do you mean, not me?" she says. "I am your student, and as such you should treat me --"

But Snape has pulled out his wand, and Hermione, whose eyes have sprung wide, trails off. "You . . . wouldn't . . ."

He whirls around, looking deeply malicious -- rather like a spider, turning on its prey; and certainly his limbs are long enough that he looks like one -- and screams something unintelligible at Peeves. Peeves looks momentarily surprised before he is carried away by a thick puff of smoke.

"Oh, was that an exorcism charm?" Hermione says, greatly intrigued. "We were supposed to learn those in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but then the curriculum changed to accommodate the war, and so we never got to." She pauses. "Of course I went to the library and read up about it anyway, but it was somewhat difficult to --"

"Miss Granger," Snape says. His voice rubs like a knife -- like a knife, serrated, cutting into a piece of bread, that piece of bread being Hermione. "Go. Away." With a glare that is meant as a death wish, he whips around -- his robes flaring behind him -- and strides away.

"Professor Snape," Hermione says breathlessly, rushing after him. "You are going to hear me out, or I shall hex you."

"Miss Granger," says Snape without turning around, "thirty points from Gryffindor for the suggested assault of a teacher."

"But it was a joke!" she bursts out. "That's incredibly unfair!"

"It was," he declares, "a very bad joke."

Hermione sees red. Fists clenched, eyes narrowed, she takes a running dive and smashes into Snape -- slamming him onto the floor -- and pins down his arms and knees to make certain he can't escape, but -- now he's screaming bloody hell --

"Shut up, shut up," she says.

"Miss Granger," he howls. "Five hundred points from Gryffindor!"

"You know I don't care about points anymore," she says. "Now you listen to me, Professor. I've had enough of you and your big talk. You are going to listen to someone else for once in your life and yes, that someone is me!"

"Miss Granger," Snape pants, eyes darting in search of an escape. He's so thin, and she has him pinned so well (she considers putting her wand to his throat, but that would be dramatic), he'll never find one. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

Hermione considers this.

"Maybe I am," she says, pleased by the way he starts, "and maybe I'm not." Suddenly she is angry. "Why did you run away from me at the ball?"

Snape tries, unsuccessfully, to worm from under her. "I wasn't running away," he spits through clenched teeth. "You merely gave me an excuse to leavean already wretched affair I'd been planning to leave anyway." He grinds together his clenched teeth. "Are you satisfied now, Miss Granger? Can I go?"

"No," Hermione says. "I'd like to talk with you, and if you're not going to dance with me, you're going to talk. And since I don't want to miss the entire graduation ball, that means you're coming back with me."

"Forty points from Gryffindor for reasons that should be obvious."

"You know Professor Dumbledore will just put them all back," she says, although she isn't certain of that at all, and is in truth quite worried by the six hundred and twenty points she's already lost. "You might as well just give up."

"I hate you."

"What a bad comeback," she says, rising carefully from him to make certain he doesn't get away. He gets to his feet like a baleful slug. "Very good, Professor."

She knows they both look terrible. Snape's hair (which she has to admit, is cleaner) is flyaway and sticking up in the wrong directions, and his normally impeccable robes are crumpled. She doesn't need to see herself to know she's sticky and flushed. She pulls out her wand -- gleefully noting Snape's flinch -- and mutters two neatening charms.

"There, all better," she says, threading her arm through Snape's. "Off we go."

Snape growls.

They reach the Great Hall, and Hermione is surprised to see that everything in the forest -- for what else can she call it? -- is much the same as when she left it. In fact, nothing seems to have changed at all, except that there's a clearing in the trees with a big fire, and tables around that, and what has to be several gigantic kegs of --

"Butterbeer!" Hermione exclaims, dragging Snape forward with enthusiasm. "Yes, isn't this perfect? Let's get something to drink. And we can sit at those tables. Oh, how lovely -- I only wish I'd seen it before . . ."

She plops Snape down at a table, pulls out her wand and summons them two mugs of Butterbeer. She sits across him at the table. "Cheers, Professor."

Snape makes no move to touch his Butterbeer. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he is glaring. In the dusky forest, and half-light of the fire, his skin is not so much sallow but pale, and his black robes and hair are especially dark. He looks, Hermione thinks fleetingly, like an old photograph.

"What, it isn't strong enough?" she says, taking a frothy sip of her mug. "You can always turn it into brandy."

"I was under the impression you wished to talk with me, Miss Granger," Snape hisses. "If this is your idea of talk, then you might as well forget about it."

"You're absolutely right," Hermione says. "Very well, Professor, let's talk. Riddle me this -- why are you such an utter git?"

Snape narrows his eyes. "I don't have to answer that."

"That's absolutely right, too," she says, nodding. "But if you don't want to be here all night, I suggest you do."

Snape snarls. "You are an impertinent, insufferable child that's wasting my time, that's why. And I should think that explanation enough."

Hermione nods. "Why do you hate Harry?"

"I --" Snape scowls. "That is between him and I, and is none of your business."

"Rather," Hermione says dryly, "It is very much my business. Half of the reason you hate me, I believe, is because you so very much hate Harry."

"I don't hate anyone!" Snape exclaims, black eyes glittering. "You really do have cheek, Miss Granger, to be making such stupid assumptions --"

"Off of very solid facts?"

Snape's face contorts. "One more word, Miss Granger, and my patience --"

"You have patience?" she says, then thinks she's gone too far. He's glaring as usual, but she thinks she can see embarrassment, and old anger, in his eyes -- self-loathing. She's been slapping around a very sensitive and fragile man, and he hates her for it.

"I apologise, Professor," she says, sincerely. "I'm afraid we got off to a wrong start. Let's start over, shall we?" She notices his hand slowly unclench on the table, and hides satisfaction in her Butterbeer. "So, what are your plans for the summer?"

Snape obviously doesn't trust the question. He looks at her suspiciously. "Research," he says.

"Oh?" she says, interested. "With potions, naturally -- what are you researching?"

"I am trying to nullify the aftereffects of the Cruciatus," he says, giving her another suspicious look. Hermione understands: it is very rare to find someone truly interested in research. But she is. Honestly.

"There are many aftereffects, though," she says. "Are you trying to cover them all, as in making a general solution, or are you targeting a specific symptom?"

"Specifics first."

"I see," Hermione says, nodding. "And what is your proposal?"

Snape purses his lips. "Miss Granger, are you asking out of courtesy or do you really care?"

"I'm interested, Professor," she says. "Why else would I bother to ask?"

Snape seems to accept this, or at least decides he's better off talking about his research than answering Hermione's pointed questions. He frowns, his fingers playing with his collar.

"Very well . . . a victim of the Cruciatus, as your friend Potter knows, generally suffers mild to moderate nerve damage if he is exposed to it for up to but less than five minutes. Thankfully, this covers most instances. Most victims that survive never were exposed longer than that. However, repeated exposure to the curse, less than five minutes each time regardless, causes steady degradation of the nerve tissue, which can end in long-term infirmity and sometimes permanent hospitalisation . . ."

He isn't finished, but Hermione has a question.

"What of the Longbottoms?"

Snape's face is closed. "What about them? They are no exception."

"But could your potion help them?"

"Not yet, no. Miss Granger, the Longbottoms were under the Cruciatus for over ten minutes. They went mad . . . they need far more than a nerve restoration potion. You see, before you so rudely interrupted me, I was going to add that the Cruciatus permanently destroys the nerves. There isn't any potion or magic currently available that can repair the tissues."

"Thus the importance of your research," Hermione breathes. She suddenly feels far more sober -- far less silly, and far more understood. Yes, she feels understood. She never has been treated this seriously by Snape, and if she'd known this was what it was like to be treated seriously like Snape all along she would have asked him to dance with her years ago. All of a sudden this ball is quite ridiculous. Why should one dance when there are potions to be made, and research to be conducted, and Snapes to talk to?

Snape glances at her, but he doesn't -- can't -- feel her joy. "Yes."

"I'd be fascinated to know what exact approach you're taking, but that would be prying, wouldn't it."

Snape is surprised. Then, to Hermione's surprise, his lips curl up, just slightly, into a thin smile. "Yes," he says. "Yes, it would."

A comfortable silence settles between them. Hermione studies his face (for he is sniffing at the Butterbeer she brought him), the sharp contours of it, the dark shadows under his eyes and at his cheeks, and glinting black of his eyes themselves. It is a face of intelligence, appealing to her in ways she doesn't understand -- before, he was always just foul, at best striking. His hair, dark and cropped right beneath the chin, has never been more fascinating, and when he leans over the Butterbeer and it falls across his eyes and prominent nose, Hermione almost wants to brush it away.

But naturally she wouldn't dare. She takes a swallow of her Butterbeer to hide her rising embarrassment. Wanting to dance with, and then touch Snape! What an idea!

An idea with rising appeal.

Snape looks up, hearing some suspicious noise she'd probably never notice were she taught to recognise it, and immediately scowls. "Potter," he says.

Harry! She'd forgotten him -- he must be dying to know what's going on -- but not now, she thinks, not right now, when things are going so well . . .

She twists around to see him. Harry winks behind his glasses and then, to her great astonishment and Snape's great horror, seats himself next to Snape. Snape, who was already sitting quite near the edge of his seat (for they are at end of their table), shifts quite obviously away from Harry. Harry pretends not to notice.

"It looked as if you were both having an interesting conversation," he says, then notices Snape's untouched Butterbeer. He frowns. "Would you like to drink that?"

Snape shakes his head.

"Could I take it? Thanks," and Harry drags the Butterbeer over. He takes a small sip, sighing. "Well, I hope I wasn't interrupting anything . . . I just really hate dancing."

"If you hate dancing," Snape says sullenly, although it's truly astonishing he's saying anything at all, "then why did you come?"

Harry and Hermione exchange a significant look, Harry looking almost triumphant.

"To say goodbye," Harry says. "And certainly, Professor, you have to admit that the idea of a secret ball is tempting. I mean, how often does one get to see the Great Hall," he gestures widely, "decked out like this?"

"Every bloody year," mutters Snape, and Harry and Hermione are shocked.

"But Professor Dumbledore said --"

"I thought --"

Snape waves a hand. "Yes, it's a little different from last year." He squints. "Last year was worse."

"Worse?" Hermione echoes.

"Yes. Worse. Last year Flitwick --" His nostrils flare. " -- and Hooch were in charge." Suddenly his eyes are hooded. He folds his hands over his arms, clearly determined to be impossible, daring them to break his pose by asking another question.

Hermione glances at Harry, but he's drinking his Butterbeer.

"I suppose it's better not to ask," she says, and Snape's eyes flash with approval. "In all fairness however, sir, have you ever planned a ball?"

Instantly he stiffens. "Of course. Miss Granger, one cannot change the fact that a ball is a ball; one can only make it more nauseating. Unfortunately, it is impossible to get this fact across to some people." He glares pointedly at one of the fairies, which have been freely flitting about, showering the grass and tables with golden dust. Hermione is certain that if looks could kill, the fairy would be a pile of ash.

She giggles.

Snape scowls.

They settle into another comfortable silence, although this time Harry's in on it too -- and yet that hardly seems to change things. Hermione is at that moment immensely proud. Two years ago, Harry never would be sitting next to Snape and not thinking of ways to kill him. Now, here he sits, not dancing, not talking, just sitting and understanding that sometimes silence speaks louder than words.

"So, Potter," Snape grunts eventually, "what are you planning to do when you leave Hogwarts?"

Harry is sipping at his Butterbeer; he lowers it. "I'm going to be an Auror, sir."

Snape raises his eyebrow -- Hermione, trying to gage his reactions, imagines he is surprised. "Not a seeker for the Cannons?"

Harry shakes his head. "No," he says. "Ron is on the reserve team for the Cannons, though." He seems suddenly to feel like he must explain himself. "It's not that I don't love Quidditch, but I think . . . after everything, it's better if I stay with the Ministry . . . I mean, not with the Ministry, but I want to be around. . ."

It is clear to Hermione that, despite whatever he says about an improved relationship with Snape, Harry is still intimidated by him. It looks like he's expecting some sort of blow -- something about delusions of grandeur, or being an airheaded celebrity. Snape certainly never hesitated to slam him before.

At that moment, Hermione feels an inexplicable anger towards Snape.

"That's a wise choice," Snape says quietly, and Harry turns pink.

"I almost . . . I almost want to teach one day, sir, maybe Defence . . ."

"Inform me when you do," he says. "I'll be sure to retire."

Hermione glares. Harry drowns himself in Butterbeer -- Hermione suspects, in his usual boyish fashion (do males ever grow up?), he found that funny.

"I suppose you'll want me to send you a letter too," she snaps at Snape. Snape stares at her.

"You want to teach?"

Hermione stiffens. "Well, naturally. Is there anything I'm better at? I'd looked into research at the Ministry, but none of the positions were lucrative." She purses her lips. "I'd have to start off as an assistant. Nevermind the fact that I have some of the highest --"

"We know, Miss Granger," Snape says dryly.

"Yes, well," Hermione says, cheeks hot. "I spoke with Professor Dumbledore about my conundrum, and he said that in a few months, he might have a position for me at the school. Perhaps in Charms." She looks at Snape. "I thought you'd know."

"The Headmaster rarely tells me anything," Snape declares, "because he thinks I like not being informed. But thank you for informing me, Miss Granger. I would have hated to be surprised."

Harry snorts. Hermione glares at him. A fairy spouting golden dust zooms over the table.

"Damn it all," says Snape, and takes out his wand. He looks carefully around, then mutters something, and a small shotglass of brandy appears.

"Not a word," he tells them.

"Not a word," say Harry and Hermione, grinning.

Who would have imagined it?

"This ball," Snape says without looking at them, "might almost be bearable. I should congratulate Albus."

"Where is he, by the way?" says Harry, leaning forward. "I've seen every teacher but him."

Snape shoots his dark gaze at Harry, thoughtful. "Neither have I." Then his eyes narrow. "Nor have I seen Mr Malfoy. I suppose you wouldn't know where he is, Potter?"

Harry coughs. Hermione can't think of a better way to look guilty than by coughing, so she says, "I saw Draco earlier. He was surrounded by girls."

Snape coughs.

"I . . . see," he splutters. "Thank you, Miss Granger, that is all I needed to know."

"It's so nice," Harry says suddenly. "Just . . ."

Snape swivels to Harry. "Just what, Potter?"

" . . . this," says Harry. He leans back from the table, craning his head up to the sky (ceiling, Hermione reminds herself; it's just a spell) and taking a deep breath. Hermione tries not to cringe at Harry's display, although she's used to them -- he often will start running on and on about the beauty of the day or the absolute freshness of the air. But that's all right in private -- but what must Snape think?

Surprisingly, he seems to think nothing at all. His eyebrows raise, just for a moment, and he absently rubs his left arm. Then he takes a sip of his brandy.

Perhaps they really do understand one another, Hermione thinks, looking at Harry, then Snape. Anyone else would have blasted Harry by now, or at the very least been uncomfortable, or exchanged glances with his neighbour -- and the Snape she'd known previously would have done that too.

Obviously there is more to Snape than she'd known previously.

Hermione doubts highly that he'll ever associate with them again; tonight is a fluke, of that she is sure. None of them have made truly life-changing revelations about the other: it's just the three of them, strangely or not, sitting in comfortable silence. That this is a moment of importance is something sensed only by them; that they are all not merely sharing a table is something only they understand. And yet it is far more brilliant that way. It is knowledge that is thrilling, profoundly esoteric, and it fills her so deeply she feels no need to go talk about it to the next person she sees. It is just as shrouded in mystery as the idea of the ball, and somehow, somehow, that is wonderful.

Little is said for the remainder of the evening, but never does Snape threaten to leave, or take points. In fact, he will give them all back the next day (surreptitiously of course, but Hermione knows it was him). Harry offers Hermione a last dance, but never does Snape say a harsh word -- he scowls, but that was expected. They return tired and red-cheeked, and he says something predictably horrendous about adolescents and their dreadful idea of fun. Harry laughs.

"See you tomorrow, Professor," he says, ready to escort her out of the hall.

"Good-bye," says Hermione, looking Snape straight in the eye. She sees many things there -- amusement, annoyance, satisfaction, sadness -- memories long gone-by, swimming in his mind, flashing past his eyes. She knows, without speaking, they will meet again.

Not as fellow teachers, mind.

Snape looks ready to say something like Good riddance -- he's still sitting at the picnic table, with fairies buzzing over his head, the firelight flickering over his pale, pale face, dark otherwise -- but says instead, "Good night." He seems surprised that this, indeed, is what came out of his mouth, so automatically he scowls. "And good riddance."

Harry and Hermione laugh. She feels Harry tug gently on her arm, and gives him a reassuring smile.

And without a glance behind, they turn and leave the Hall.

THE END.

Originally, this was intended as an exploration of the mysterious present tense, and, more importantly, as an exploration of the many-faced character that is Hermione. Hermione changes so much -- at some points she is irritating, at others loveable, and at others fiercely loyal. She is at times the perfect student, unwilling to break rules, and yet she also is one of the first students to rush into danger. She is at times blithely unaware and at other times deeply perceptive. It was my intent to capture this -- er -- chameleon of a character into one chapter. I believe what I got instead was something quite different; something both silly and philosophical at once, with times of rather godawful stupidity.

Do with this as you will.