Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended.

Warnings: A smattering of profanity throughout, as well as references to amorous affairs. I should probably also toss in a caveat about sensitivity here, as this story plays with some well-worn clichés, but also tries to call out any attempts to oversimplify the incredibly complex spectrum of human sexuality.

Pride, or What Goeth Before a Fall

(M)

Part the First

In hindsight, Hermione should have known it all along.

Observant, sensitive, and keenly attuned to the emotions of the people around her, she routinely picked up on the little things that other people missed. She was cautious and she was smart, and she let the details speak for themselves, never relying on what some called 'intuition' and what she called 'lucky guesses made by those who couldn't be arsed by facts'.

She'd met him—met them all—when she was just eleven years old.

She should have seen it coming.

She should have known better.

She should have known that Severus Snape was gay.

Hermione was the brightest witch of her age, wasn't she? Top of her class every year in school from her kindergarten year straight through her N.E.W.T.s, with Muggle A-levels in French, critical thinking, psychology, and mathematics to boot.

Not to mention the more-than-passing success she'd had throughout her extracurricular activities at Hogwarts. There was the legal work—pro bono, mind you—on Buckbeak's behalf, the successful capture and use of interrogation techniques on a certain malevolent beetle during her fourth year, and the assistance she provided to help her best friend save the world.

As for all the men in her life? She should have seen the truth because she was Hermione Jean Granger, and Hermione Jean Granger was (almost) always right.

The first surprise was Malfoy.

Well, that one wasn't a surprise per se, but she had held back her judgment until incontrovertible proof was staring her (naked) in the face. Draco had always been a little too pretty for his own good. And he knew it, the bastard. Perfect, porcelain skin that made a fourteen-year-old girl weep from jealousy. Silky, baby-fine blond hair that she would have killed for during every one of her pre-ball/pre-date/pre-photo-for-work-badge-at-the-Ministry-day hair-taming sessions. Hermione had never been caught up in the Draco Malfoy craze that swept through her year with abandon (something about being routinely insulted within an inch of her life prevented such longings), but even she couldn't help but admire the clean lines and beautiful proportions of his straight, even teeth.

Looking back on the androgyny of his upbringing? If Freud was right about psychosexual development based on parental models, Draco was screwed from the get-go.

o O o

FACT: MA AND PA MALFOY MIGHT AS WELL HAVE HAD INTERCHANGEABLE SNAP-ON BITS FOR PHYSICALLY DIFFERENTIATED AS THEY WERE OTHERWISE.

HIM: TALL AND LITHE, CONSTANT EXPRESSION OF DISDAIN, WITH LONG, STRAIGHT BLOND HAIR.

HER: TALL AND LITHE, CONSTANT EXPRESSION OF DISDAIN, WITH LONG, STRAIGHT BLONDE HAIR.

o O o

The difference between them? An 'e'. A single letter. Well, that, and Narcissa may have had a slightly stronger jawline.

Of course, she wasn't going to make any assumptions without proof. She was a practical girl, and she was enlightened and empowered in ways the wizarding world could barely comprehend. Her Freud and Adler and Jung (accompanied by her Friedan and Beauvoir and Kristeva) filtered Malfoy down to a complicated mass of intentions and desires, but she wasn't going to assume that she could fully understand him or his enigmatic sexuality, no matter how well-tailored his suits were or how many times he showed up at Ministry events without a date.

She had wondered for a few years: perhaps he was gay. Perhaps he wasn't. He never said anything on the subject, and it wasn't her right to out anyone, not even an annoying wanker like Draco Malfoy. Until he said otherwise, he wasn't yet filed under Hermione's mental heading of 'charming young men who sell antiques.' Forcefully resisting any heteronormatising urges she (or Society) may (or may not) have held, he was likewise not filed under 'football hooligans with pin-up calendars in their garages.'

It wasn't until Harry's twenty-sixth birthday that the hard evidence about Draco Malfoy presented itself.

When she had sneaked into Number 12, Grimmauld Place, at 5:45 in the morning to set up a cake from her favourite bakery and a series of presents for her best friend, Hermione had expected to find a quiet, empty house.

She had expected to find to find the house dark. She had thought that Kreacher might perhaps have been up and about, preparing breakfast for the young master before he woke. After all, the elf was significantly friendlier to everyone these days (even to her, which was probably residual thankfulness for the quilt that he still curled up in at night), so she didn't think much of it when she saw the light under the kitchen door and heard some odd noises beyond it at approximately 5:46 A.M.

Didn't think much of it at all.

She had a great deal more to think about at approximately 5:47 A.M. That was when she quietly opened the door, not wanting to disturb the house elf as he worked on whatever she had thought he must have been doing so diligently on Harry's behalf.

She had more to think about because the steady, rhythmic slapping noises behind the door were not the sounds of a house elf punching down a slab of dough for pastries of any kind, and the occasional groaning was not Kreacher's sciatica acting up.

Nope.

Not at all.

She was never eating from that counter again.

The first question that ran through Hermione's mind? 'Damnit, Harry, you can't even bother to tell me when you're shagging someone?'

The second: 'Damnit, Harry, you can't even bother to tell me you're gay?'

Shock thankfully silenced her tongue while her brain rattled through those two items. Then her brain had rolled around to its third observation: 'I need to affirm Harry in all his sexuality and personhood.'

She repeated this mantra internally as she watched her dearest friend peel his naked self off an equally naked and aroused Draco Malfoy.

Hard evidence, indeed.

Should she have guessed about Harry, too? His interest in Cho Chang and Ginny Weasley never sat quite right with her when they were at Hogwarts together.

Harry scrambled off the counter, knocking a jumbled pile of spatulas and rubber scrapers onto the floor. He whipped on an apron she'd given him a few years back with 'May the Forks be With You' boldly emblazoned across the front, and ran over to the doorway where she stood, her jaw metaphorically on the floor along with all the wrapped presents she'd been carrying.

He had ruffled his hands through his (even messier than usual) hair, spluttered out a few 'Well, you see, Hermione's and 'I've been meaning to tell you's, and peaked over his shoulder to admire an entirely nude Draco Malfoy proudly displaying himself. When it was clear to Harry that his lover wasn't going to attempt to cover himself up, he tossed him the nearest available snippet of fabric (in this case, a bright orange oven mitt) and hissed out a 'Pleasssse' at the blond.

Smiling, Draco slipped it onto his right hand.

Harry collapsed into a coughing fit, turning red with embarrassment.

So Draco moved the oven mitt to a more propitious location.

Hermione decided that it was a good thing she couldn't bake herself out of a cardboard box, since she was never touching that oven mitt again, either.

At first, she assumed that Harry would take a few weeks and get Malfoy out of his system. Then he could move forward with more of a long-term relationship. The boy had wanted a family ever since he'd grown up without one, after all. This thing with Malfoy would be a torrid affair in which Harry could have lots of regular, lovely sex with a beautiful, beautiful man, but her dear friend needed someone a touch more reliable and much more emotionally available.

When it was over, Hermione thought, she could casually invite Harry out to lunch with her co-worker Tim Tambling-Goggin, a thoughtful, steady man who shared an office with her at the Ministry. He had a sort of sandy brown hair and a kind (if somewhat generic) face, and he was always prompt and tidy. He just screamed Dependable Family Man, and Hermione knew he hadn't seen anyone seriously since his last fellow had run off a few years ago to work on a cruise ship circling the Caribbean. She could casually invite Harry and Tim to lunch, casually 'forget' that she needed to be someplace else to do something else, and Harry and Tim would fall madly and casually in love.

Or maybe she could encourage Charlie Weasley to cast a glance his way. He wasn't married yet. Mum Weasley already thought of Harry as a son, even if she had thought she would be acquiring him legally via her daughter in marriage rather than one of her sons. She'd still be thrilled. Plus Charlie still lived in Romania, so he could date Harry from a distance and they'd still be fine if it didn't work out.

Kingsley? He was a real possibility. He was taller than Draco, and he was stronger, and he was just as handsome. A wall of man. He'd also personally promoted Hermione twice, so he clearly showed good judgment. Of course, he was in the limelight at all times due to his political role, and Harry didn't like a lot of publicity.

It's just that Harry wasn't in a hurry to leave Draco.

He was too nice to drop a bloke, her Harry.

Then why wasn't Draco moving on? There was nothing nice about him. The sex couldn't be that good, could it?

Apparently, it could be.

Since Harry wasn't bothering to correct his number one place on Witch Weekly's 'Most Desirable Bachelors' List, he needed an ear to talk to about his relationship. She had listened to him for everyone else he'd ever dated, so she wasn't about to turn him away simply because his current paramour had made her life miserable once upon a time. She tried to be supportive.

Draco shagged like a daemon, according to Harry, and kissed like an angel. He also cooked dinner for him every evening and fussed over what ties he wore and nibbled behind his ear in this way he'd never known he liked and... and...

Frankly, Hermione was jealous. Not of Harry so much—he deserved every iota of love thrown his way after surviving his ghastly upbringing and willingly walking into the face of Death to save all of wizardkind.

No, she was jealous of Malfoy. The evil little wanker stood by while she pissed herself on the drawing room carpet and his mad Auntie Bella carved her remembrances into Hermione's skin. What did he do to earn someone like Harry loving him?

After the Birthday Incident (as they were calling it), Harry had invited Hermione over to brunch with Malfoy on Saturday mornings. For Harry's sake, she begrudgingly showed up to try to Get to Know the Real Draco. She tried to withhold judgment as they affectionately puttered around the house, and she hated herself for thinking it adorable that Draco ruffled Harry's hair when he was nearby and kissed the tip of his nose when he thought she wasn't looking. She showed up every Saturday—for Harry—and she ate the proffered Quiches of Peace that Draco baked.

If the sex was half as good as the food, Harry was a lucky man.

Hermione was not surprised to learn that Draco cheated in every game of Exploding Snap or that he exhibited a delightfully inappropriate sense of humour at all times, but she was startled to discover just how badly he wanted her to like him and approve of the relationship. This knowledge gave her a peculiar kind of power, one that humbled Malfoy, and Hermione found herself slowly coming around to the man he had become.

After all, Malfoy couldn't be all bad. He'd chosen Harry, which demonstrated excellent taste, and he willingly read the Muggle newspapers she brought along every week. When she needed a new cocktail dress for a Ministry do, Draco whisked her off to Paris to his mum's favorite clothier. He was a bit needlessly handsy with her, but Hermione didn't mind when her coworkers' jaws hit the floor upon her arrival. She had never looked better than she had in that red dress, even if she couldn't tell you what kind of pleating the gown had or even what the material was.

Slowly but surely, Hermione had come around.

When the relationship hit five months, Draco had moved in with Harry. By that time, Hermione had been delighted.

There was a brief rough patch at around seven months when Harry and Draco had finally rehashed the past and said all the unspoken things they'd been avoiding. After receiving a note by owl, Hermione had stayed at his home for about a week, doing her sisterly duties. She ordered takeout from all her favorite places while Harry cried and shouted himself to sleep in an ugly, snotty mess, and she sent him off to the Burrow to work out his anger with Ron and others on their makeshift Quidditch pitch. When he complained about his argument with Draco, Hermione curled up beside him and stroked his hair, encouraging him to see things from the other man's perspective. The blond arrived with an apology and some overpriced ale he knew Harry liked at the end of day eight, and Hermione knew all was well with the world.

She left her boys to make up and Floo'ed home to her quiet flat.

Their routine Saturday brunches then expanded to include other close friends and family. First was Narcissa Malfoy, who doted on Harry with an affection that rivalled Molly Weasley's. She never knew quite what to make of Hermione, and peppered her with womanly advice—charms to straighten her hair, lengthen her eyelashes, and tailor her skirts. She was always dressed to the nines herself, and couldn't comprehend why Hermione would show up in flats and leggings when she could be in tailored dress robes. Hermione suspected that Draco was subject to this treatment in his formative years, as he often came to her defence with his mum.

Harry and Draco managed a reconciliation of the Black sisters, so Andromeda and little Teddy Lupin joined the ever-growing clutch of people as well. Hermione warmed to Draco considerably when she saw the man making pancakes shaped like broomsticks and snitches for the young boy. Andromeda simply adored Draco, and Hermione was glad to have the opportunity to spend more time with the warm, friendly witch. Teddy simply adored Harry, and often mimicked his appearance when he was there. He was eight years old now, but still on the smallish side.

Sometimes Severus Snape would show up to eat with them and work the crossword puzzle in Hermione's paper at the table in the corner. He usually ignored them all, the only clue that he was aware of them being the frequent and dramatic eye rolling when Harry and Draco were being sweet and demonstrative. Oh, he occasionally piped up when Andromeda and Hermione got into debates on politics and magical theories, but only to correct and rebuke them. He was quiet about his own life. Most of the time, that was. On one occasion, he had gone off on a tirade about his failing apothecary, but then he'd bottled himself up tighter than ever. Hermione had heard it rumoured that Snape was Draco's godfather or some such business, and he was evidently trying to make peace with the idea of a Potter shacking up with the closest thing he had to family. A prickly man, he never really seemed like he wanted to be there, but he came with great regularity nevertheless.

When the relationship hit a year, Hermione was sold. Harry and Draco were in it for the long haul. She'd never seen her friend so deliriously happy or so eager to redecorate. Anyone who saw Harry with Draco knew that they were meant to be.

That, unfortunately, was the problem, since nobody outside of their small circle knew that they were close, much less lovers. They managed awkward and stilted conversation at public affairs, ignoring one another until they returned to their home.

As much as Hermione loved the wizarding world, it was strangely anachronistic and backwards at times. There was no acceptable reason for Dumbledore to hide the truth about his sexuality for all those years. Hermione considered what Harry and Draco and Kingsley and Charlie and every other gay wizard or witch was going through. How many more people were living in the closet (cupboard?) out of fear of social backlash?

'Dear girl,' Narcissa said to Hermione one Saturday morning, 'you know, there's a simple charm to firm up your you-know-whats.' With a genteel flick of the wrist, the woman gestured towards Hermione's décolletage.

Hermione looked down at her chest. They seemed as perky as ever to her, but maybe Pureblood ones were supposed to be up at her armpits?

Perhaps it was the angle. They were all seated around the dining room table, a Black family heirloom covered in ornate carvings, most of which looked like flowers and leaves. Surely the portraits on the walls had a better view down her shirt.

'Breasts, mother?' Draco poured himself another cup of coffee.

'Draco!' Narcissa gasped, dropping her fork with a clatter. 'Where are your manners?'

Hermione held her breath. It was best to sit back and let Draco handle his mother in his own way.

'Her baps? Bristols?' Draco's grin grew from ear to ear. 'Hermione's knockers?'

Andromeda burst into laughter.

Snape's cheeks tinged a shade of pink Hermione had never seen before, but his eyes never strayed from the Guardian unfolded before him.

'You do not need to be deliberately provocative!' Narcissa snapped, hissing the words under her breath as if she were speaking to adolescent boy rather than a full-grown man.

Draco shrugged. 'Saying "you-know-whats" sounds ridiculous. Just say the word aloud, mother.'

That's right, Hermione thought to herself. Dumbledore always said that the fear of a name increased the fear of the thing itself. Of course, given the Grindelwald stories, Dumbledore himself was probably afraid of breasts.

'But Teddy—' Narcissa continued, scrambling to find a reason to quiet her son.

'Left with Harry for the library twenty minutes ago,' Draco said, interrupting. He walked over to his mother and leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek. 'I know you have a plethora of wisdom you wish you could have passed down to a daughter or daughter-in-law, but since that day's never coming, please leave Hermione be.'

'That's just it,' Narcissa huffed. 'A girl learns these types of spells from her mother. Since Hermione's mother is a Muggle—not that I'm saying anything about your unfortunate parentage, dear—she has missed out on the opportunity to learn them.'

'She doesn't need them.'

Hermione smiled, appreciating the absurdity of the situation. By now, she knew better than to interrupt Draco and his mum when they got going on a topic, even if that topic was her breasts and they were speaking as though she weren't in the room. She had learnt weeks ago that the point of a Malfoy argument was never to determine what was correct but who was correct.

'Hermione, dear, I hope you know I'm not saying that you don't have lovely...' She waved an elegant hand in the air, clearly at a loss for words.

'Breasts!'

'...that you don't have a lovely figure,' Narcissa continued, ignoring her son, 'but every woman can use a lift once she's on the wrong side of eighteen.'

'Her tits are glorious,' Draco insisted, setting down his cup. He marched over to Hermione, stood behind her, and protectively wrapped his hands around the body parts in question.

Hermione let out a startled squeak as he jiggled her breasts, punctuating his speech in a rather sweet, if misguided gesture. Privately, she agreed with Draco. Her thighs may have been a bit more voluptuous than she liked, and her hair a bit more chaotic than she'd have preferred, but she loved her breasts and thought than any man she let near them should be thanking his lucky stars. Not that they'd seen many men over the years, she thought, or any men lately at all.

'Glorious,' he declared. She heard the edge in his voice that signalled his determination to win. It was the same tone as when he'd persuade Harry to wear the striped Oxford with a tie in a coordinating plaid for New Year's. He then turned to the others. ''Aren't they, Andromeda?'

Poor Andromeda could barely breathe, doubled over in her seat as she was, laughing.

'Severus?'

Snape's head shot up so fast Hermione thought she could hear a skeletal snap. He had obviously learnt to butt out of Malfoy debates as well, and held his tongue.

But Draco was looking at him, expecting an answer. 'Well?' he asked, squeezing her again.

Hermione gauged his reaction out of the corner of her eye. He was steadfastly focussed on his godson rather than on her. He pressed a napkin to his mouth, folded it neatly, and dropped it to the table.

'Draco,' he said, speaking quietly and deliberately, 'I am not the sort of man who goes around appraising women's bodies in this… fashion.'

His eyes dropped to Draco's hands on her breasts, and Hermione felt all strangeness of the situation washing over her anew. Although she was more comfortable around Snape now than she ever was in her younger years, there was something about the man the kept her a bit on edge.

Still, the kind of bored disinterest he displayed while staring down her glorious tits was depressing. He had permission to ogle her all he liked, and he wasn't even really paying attention. Her breasts were rather difficult for most men to ignore, and here was Snape, treating them like dreary wallpaper that he'd rather not look at it.

She pried Draco's fingers off her body and turned around to pat him on the cheek affectionately before grabbing her own mug. Then she scooted into an empty seat beside Andromeda, who was still recovering the ability to breathe again.

'I didn't think you were that sort of man, either,' Snape said to Draco, folding the paper he was reading in half. His lip curled in distaste. 'There's nothing wrong in admitting you don't know your way around a woman's body. Especially now, seeing as you've taken up with Potter.'

'Did I hear my name?' Harry asked, bounding down back staircase into the dining room with a giggling Teddy on his heels. He lifted the miniature version of himself onto the counter and tossed him an orange.

When nobody answered, Harry looked around the table.

Gulping down the last of his coffee, Snape folded the newspaper and stood. When he spoke, his voice was sharp. 'I've filled my quota of you lot for the month.' He stalked out of the room in the direction of the Floo. 'I'll return when something akin sanity has been reestablished.'

The whoosh of the Floo could be heard faintly in other room.

'What's going on?' Harry asked Hermione, befuddled by the odd tension in the room.

She dropped her head to the table and groaned.

Looking back, that exchange should have been her first clue. Yes, she should have known it then, since no straight man had ever ignored her breasts. And did Snape just compare himself to Draco? He did, didn't he? This newfound realisation hit her like a proverbial tonne of bricks.

Was Severus Snape really… gay?

UP NEXT:

Hermione missed having someone special in her life. She knew she could be overbearing at times, even if most people thought she was oblivious to her own bossiness. She'd mothered Harry and Ron through years of schooling, and she continued to look after them even now. While the independence of the single life was satisfying in its own way, Hermione longed for someone to care for.

Maybe karma would be on her side if she helped Snape find the love of his life.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Dear readers, I hope you enjoy this novelette! It's been polished and beta'ed by the incomparable hikorichan, whose SS/HG stories you should be reading if you haven't already. I'll be publishing chapters every day or so until we're through, with seven in total. Any initial impressions? I'd love to hear from you.