Disclaimer: Anything recognizable is owned by J.K. Rowling; I'm merely playing in her sandbox.

This interlude takes place sometime after Arabesque. Someday, I need to go through these for continuity, and figure out exactly how they fit. Someday, I need to find a good beta reader, also.

Plans

I am sitting in my office, adjacent to the Muggle Studies classroom at Hogwarts, sipping mint tea and nibbling on my favorite lemon cookies, shaped like half-moons. The house elves have been serving them to me ever since I can remember, and they always come arranged on a plate with a paper doily, arranged to look like the rays of a sun. My desk is beneath a skylight, even though my office is on the second floor of the castle. It's an enchantment my grandfather put in, probably as a concession to my extremely Californian love of the outdoors, or, more likely, because it amused him to do so, at the time.

Today, there's no sun streaming down, as it's raining outside, and I'm tapping away on the keys of my contraband laptop, charmed within an inch of its life. It's not so much that technology and magic cannot coexist, though the use of it is discouraged in the British and European Wizarding communities, as that a fundamental factor of magic is belief in it, and most techies don't believe in any magic beyond the parade of ones and zeroes that makes their hard drives flicker and whir. Clapping your hands doesn't actually save the life of fairies, but the Muggle-born who grow up in extremely rigid families never make it to Hogwarts. It helps, I suppose, that my classroom is on the outer edge of the second floor, with large windows.

In any case, I'm working on a letter to friends back in the states when there's a soft knock at my door. I call out, "Come in," knowing that neither my grandfather nor Severus would wait to be invited, and that Minerva's knock would have sounded crisper. I look up, curious to see which student needs my attention, and am not at all surprised when the bushy-haired form of one Hermione Granger comes in.

"Professor? Do you have a moment?" She's tentative in her greeting.

"Of course. It's Miss Granger, isn't it?" I ask, even though I know full well. "If I ask you to call me Elise, would you let me call you Hermione? I come from a much less formal tradition."

She's thrown off by my informality, and her brown eyes blink twice in rapid succession. "You wouldn't find that disrespectful?" she asks.

"Respect is earned," I tell her gently, "not forced. And I believe people should be called what they wish to be called. Have a seat?" I gesture to the comfortable denim chair with the purple sun-and-moon throw pillow, and she sits in it. "Cookie?" I ask, offering her the plate of lemon crescents. She's confused for a moment, and I quickly amend. "Biscuit, I mean."

She takes one, and laughs slightly. "I read once that England and America are two countries separated by the same language, but I hadn't realized it was quite so true." She's silent for a beat, and then adds, "Thank you."

I smile at her, taking another cookie myself. "So, I'm guessing that you're not here to discuss the grade on your last essay, as you topped the class. Do you mind if I ask, though, why a Muggle-born witch is taking Muggle Studies at all? You don't seem the type to need a bird class."

"Bird class?" she asks. And I share that it's an easy class one takes to boost one's grade point average, so nicknamed because you know you'll fly right through. She's quick to explain, "Oh. I wanted to experience Muggle history from the wizarding point of view."

"Makes sense," I affirm, adding, "I often wish we had an 'Intro to the Wizarding World' seminar for Muggle-born first years. So many innocent mistakes could be avoided...but I digress. What do you need from me, Hermione?"

She looks down, and around the room, anywhere but at me. I see her eyes flit to the collection of Muggle literature on my shelf, to the knick-knacks scattered among the books, to the laptop, and then, finally, she meets my eyes, while I wait, and try not to be overtly amused. "Professor McGonagall mentioned that you were a dancer, and I was wondering if you'd consider starting a small dance class for us. Some of us don't play Quidditch, and would like to learn."

I wait until she's done, and ask, "Did you breathe at all during that?" But I can see she's hurt by the question. "I'm sorry, Hermione," I tell her. "Forgive me. You remind me a little of myself at your age. If there's a group of you, say, up to 10, who can spare the time, I'll arrange it. Check with me on Friday, or I'll send a note through Professor McGonagall."

"Oh! Thank you!" Her response was enthusiastic, and completely unaffected. She left the chair and opened the door "I really appreciate it, Professor."

"Elise." I corrected. But the word was doubled by Severus, as he arrived in my open doorway.

"Elise," he said with me, then in a much more formal tone. "Miss Granger. I trust you've finished monopolizing your Professor's spare time."

The girl blanched, and I made a mental note to address that with Severus as soon as she was gone. "Friday," I called as a reminder.

"Yes, ma'am. Excuse me, Professor Snape." And with that, Hermione Granger was gone, as if fleeing for her life.

"It's customary to keep some distance from the students, Elise," Severus chided me, taking the Granger girl's vacated chair. "I deduct house points for such familiarity."

I met his eyes, certain that there was anger in my own expression. "I don't believe in unearned respect, Severus, and I don't believe that false formality breeds earned respect. In any case, Hermione was here asking if I'd consent to teach a dance class, and I've agreed to do so. You might send some of your Slytherin girls. It wouldn't kill them, and it might foster some better inter-house relations."

"I will mention it in the next house meeting," he told me, grudgingly.

"Thank you, Severus," I answered sweetly, then waited. He wasn't the type to come and chat – he was here for a reason. I watched him as he sat in the soft chair, momentarily losing myself in watching him. His hair was nothing to speak well of, but those deep dark eyes always drew me in. I forced myself to blink.

"Your wand skills have improved markedly in the last few months," he told me. "I no longer need worry that you cannot defend yourself. Indeed, I came to seek your assistance."

I blinked at him, much the way Hermione had earlier blinked at me. "You need my help? Has the world gone off its axis?"

"Sarcasm does not become you," I was told. I refrained from pointing out that it was justified sarcasm. "There is a ball being hosted by Lucius Malfoy in three weeks. It is...customary...for all of us to attend. As it happens there are few of us who are not married, and the options for escorts are few. I would like you to accompany me." As an invitation, it lacked enthusiasm, his tone was flat, his voice soft.

I knew that by 'us' he meant death eaters, and that he had probably exhausted all other options before asking me. "You don't think it's a bit,"- I wanted to say asinine, instead I chose a more diplomatic word – "risky bringing someone who is both Muggle-raised and related to Albus Dumbledore into that company?"

"There is risk," he agreed. "Though I had thought to ask you to play a part. You mentioned that even dancers at that school of yours were required to take some acting classes, did you not? A judicious use of charms, a bit of transfiguration, and whatever acting skills you posses, and - in truth Elise, it might not be horrible for you. And it would help the Order."

It took me a minute to see how wearing dressy robes and fraternizing with death eaters would help the cause, but then everything clicked. "The wives." He nodded, even though I'd made a statement. "You need someone to gain the confidence of the wives. And I'll be told off as...what? Daughter of a pureblood sympathizer from abroad, betrothed to you in childhood?"

"Will you do it?" he asked.

I hesitate, and am instantly ashamed. This man has given up so much of his life to the cause, and to some personal atonement, and yet when he asks the woman who loves him for assistance – a rarity in itself – she pauses. I look down at the ground, take a deep breath, and tell him softly, "Of course I will. But I'm concerned...what if I let you down, blow your cover? I'm not sure a night out with you is worth that." I put a teasing inflection in my voice, to lighten the moment.

He remains somber. "You will not let me down," he tells me, as if his saying it makes it so. "Elise..." there was a question in the way he said my name, but I wasn't certain what it was.

"Severus?"

He hesitated. "We've missed the beginning of dinner," he observed. "Dine with me in my rooms this evening?"

I smile, and rise from my chair closing my laptop as I do so. "I'd enjoy that," I tell him, amused that after months of sharing one another's beds he still can't ask me to stay the night outright. I brush my hand across the back of his move past him, to the door. He stands up, steps around me, opens it. "The students might see us together," I can't help but point out.

"Do you not think they already know we are seeing each other?" It's asked in his customary dry tone, but there's the merest glint of humor in his dark eyes.

"I'm sure they know. I merely offer a chance for you to keep up the pretense that we are no more than colleagues," I return.

"There is no need." He clearly has no intention of offering an explanation, but I remain silent, and he humors me. "Elise. It is unlikely that we will be seen, as most of the students are either still in the great hall, or have dispersed to their common rooms. If we are seen, Gryffindors will think you are softening up the hated potions master, and Slytherins will assume I'm using their Muggle-born teacher as a plaything. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs will not care either way."

He seems to be waiting for me to connect dots I haven't even found yet, and I stare at him for a long moment. Then it comes. "And the children of death eaters will see you with me, and assume you're toying with me for some purpose."

"I see it's not just your wand work that has improved under my tutelage," he comments.

I let the sarcasm wash over me, and link my arm in his. I've found that I gain more ground with this prickly man, by letting him think he's had the last word.