Snape, A History

Chapter 10: Facing the Festivities

By the end of November, Friday nights at the Plaid Pony had become the norm. Hermione wasn't quite sure how it had happened, exactly; neither she nor Severus - she'd begun to think of him as Severus, instead of Snape - had deliberately intended to make a routine of it. Snape still refused to give Hermione a proper interview, and it was beginning to be something of a standing joke between the two of them. But then, the very idea of using the word 'joke' in connection with Severus Snape was rather remarkable, she thought.

Not that Snape was suddenly charming and polite. Hermione had the feeling that he rarely had a chance for an intelligent conversation with a peer, and that she was therefore bearing the brunt of all his comments, both good and bad. As a result, she ignored the acerbic remarks, buoyed by the knowledge that Snape seemed to accept her as an equal and not a useless former student. Hermione looked forward to Fridays, finding their talks stimulating, wide-ranging, and far from dull.

Harry, when he heard of the Friday night dinners, was incredulous. "You've been seeing Snape?"

Hermione blushed a violent shade of red. "I haven't been seeing him, Harry! We've only been going to a pub!"

"Every week?"

"No, not every week... Well, almost, but not every week."

"And this is all research for your book?"

"Well, yes. More or less. I mean, it started out that way, but he's not willing to talk about himself much."

Harry leaned back in his desk chair in the Auror Section of the MLE, crossed his arms over his chest, and eyed his friend with undisguised suspicion. "I can't believe that you're doing this."

"Doing what, Harry?" Hermione demanded in frustration. "You're acting as though I'm having an affair or something."

"Oh, please, do not put plant that image in my head," Harry groaned. "Merlin knows what Ron would say to that!"

"Ron? What does Ron have to do with this?"

"Nothing. It's just... absurd, Hermione. To go from Ron Weasley to Severus Snape is the most preposterous thing I've ever heard."

Hermione was almost shocked beyond words. "Have you listened to a thing I've said? I'm not going from Ron to anybody!"

Harry sat back upright and the chair tilted forward. He planted his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Hermione. Really. But the idea of you and the Greasy Git..." An expression of utmost disgust spread across his face.

"If you're going to act the idiot, I have better things to do." Hermione was halfway out of her chair before Harry reached over to grab her arm and tug her back down.

"Come on now, don't go away angry. I just can't imagine why you'd want to spend any more time with Snape than necessary."

There was no point in trying to persuade Harry that those Friday nights were anything but an exercise in sheer self-torture, Hermione knew. Severus Snape was the Devil incarnate in Harry Potter's eyes, no matter how much proof showed the man to be firmly on the side of the Greater Good all those years. Their mutual loathing went so far back that nothing would ever dislodge it.

"Can we change the subject?" she asked. "I've written my letters of inquiry to the publishers, and I want you to look them over."

"Me?" Harry repeated, startled. "Since when do you need my input on anything you've written?"

"This whole book thing started with you, so it seems appropriate somehow," Hermione pointed out as she pulled four envelopes from her robe pocket. "See what you think."

Harry quickly read through the four nearly-identical letters. "They seem fine to me."

"Really? Do you think that perhaps they're too stiff, too formal?" Hermione looked worried.

"Hermione, I'm not a literary expert, all right? They're not too formal, they're just short and to the point. Besides, you're trying to write books, not letters."

She felt vaguely disappointed that Harry could find no way of improving on them. "All right, then. I want to stop off at the Post Office in my lunch hour."

"The Post Office?" Harry asked, his face blank. "Why? You can put them in with the outgoing post here."

"You know we're not supposed to put our personal mail in with the business post. Besides I want to make sure that they - they - "

"- don't get lost in the mail?" Harry finished dryly.

Hermione blushed once more, a sheepish smile on her face. "I'm sorry, I know it's silly..."

"It's not silly. It's very you." He grinned in encouragement.

When noon came around, Hermione Floo'd to the wizarding post office in Diagon Alley. She found herself virtually trembling with anticipation as she handed her letters to the Postmaster, visions of flat-out rejection alternating with dreams of The War as We Saw It topping the wizarding best-seller list.

"Are you all right?" the Postmaster asked in alarm as the letters quivered in front of him.

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "It's just that I'm really hoping for a positive response from these."

The man glanced at the addressees on each letter, then winked at her. "I'll put my best owls on it," he said reassuringly.

Hermione could scarcely keep her mind on work the remainder of the afternoon. When she returned home, green flames lit in the fireplace almost immediately. Heart in her mouth, she raced to the hearth, only to be keenly disappointed when Molly Weasley's head appeared.

"Hermione, are you quite all right, dear? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

She could only chuckle feebly in response. "Sorry, Molly. I sent off my letters to the publishers today, and when I saw the flames I thought perhaps one of them was so impressed that they couldn't wait to talk to me."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you'll hear soon," Molly said bracingly. "I just realized that it's nearly December, and I wondered if you had made plans for Christmas."

Christmas? Hermione couldn't even conceive of what the festive season would be like this year; she'd taken somewhat exaggerated care to avoid thinking about it.

"Ah - well, no, I hadn't made plans yet."

Molly brightened. "Wonderful! We were hoping that you might be able to join us as usual."

"'We'?" Hermione repeated warily. Surely she didn't mean Ron...

"Well, Arthur and I," the older woman amended hastily. "We just wanted you to know that you'll always be part of our family, Hermione. You should be here for Christmas."

"That's lovely of you, Molly, really. But it wouldn't be right."

"Why wouldn't it be right?" Molly demanded, lifting her chin defiantly. "You're still my daughter-in-law. It's not as though you and Ron parted on bad terms."

"I know. And I'll certainly drop round for a visit. It's just that I'd better become accustomed to Christmases away from the Burrow."

"When you visit, you must bring your delightful parents, of course. You know how Arthur loves to talk with them."

Hermione knew all too well how Arthur loved to talk to her Muggle parents. Both Julia and Lawrence Granger had been cornered on more than one occasion and pelted with all manner of questions.

"Of course. Let me talk to Mum and see what day would work for them."

They chatted a few more minutes - Charlie and his wife were expecting their fifth, and Fred and George we thinking about expanding their stores onto the Continent - and then the fireplace went cold. Hermione sat staring into the gray bricks for a few moments. The sad truth was that divorcing Ron meant that she was divorcing his family as well. Hermione fervently hoped that she and the Weasleys would always be on warm, friendly terms, but for now, it was time to back off.

* * *

The approaching Christmas season also meant a spate of official parties, something that Hermione dreaded this year more than most. The Department of International Magical Cooperation went all out at Christmastime, hosting an annual party for foreign dignitaries, as well as sending its employees out to represent the Ministry at other affairs. Hermione, who had attended countless diplomatic functions over the years, had lost her fascination with them long ago. Ron had usually accompanied her on these occasional forays into the glamorous side of international wizarding relations, and while he had never embarrassed Hermione, it was clear that he was far from his element at those times. And now, he wasn't even around.

She would have to go alone this year, Hermione thought unhappily. While attending alone was perfectly allowable, there were perks to having an escort. It meant that there was always had someone to talk to in the event that the other guests were less than chatty. It also was a surefire way to discourage anyone who might take an unacceptably keen personal interest in her after a few too many drinks. She found herself wondering whom she could round up to go with her.

The idea struck her suddenly, out of the blue.

Snape.

Snape? Hermione immediately burst out laughing at the thought. The man would probably hex her ten ways from Sunday if she even suggested it. Still, he could hold his own among the wizarding elite - or had done so at one time, anyway - and would probably be content to loiter in the background while she did the necessary handshaking and political schmoozing.

On the other hand, Snape probably no longer owned a dress robe, or even a decent pair of shoes. Then there was the matter of that hair, which had not improved one whit over the last four months. Severus had mentioned only once that he was intending to let it grow out, but the re-growth had not begun to take place as far as Hermione could tell. There was still the odd variety of lengths, the ends frizzy and damaged. Privately, Hermione thought that he would be better off to shave his head and start from scratch.

She spent a week searching out another option, trying to find an available male to keep in her pocket for the holidays. The trouble was, most males she knew were married, and the unmarried ones seemed to have holiday plans already. If she was lucky, Hermione decided, she might be able to beg off all the parties save the one sponsored by her own department. But by the time December was underway and the invitations began arriving, she had yet to find a date.

Hermione checked the calendar at work and noted that the annual DIMC party was scheduled for the twentieth of December. And decided that perhaps she should give serious thought to how one went about asking Severus Snape on a date.

* * *

Snape froze, the glass of ale nearly to his lips, the look in his eyes one of sheer disbelief.

"You want me to what?"

"I would like you to go with me to a Christmas party."

"Granger, have you completely lost your mental faculties?"

Hermione had braced herself for this. "No," she said quietly. "I knew when I walked into the pub that you wouldn't agree, but I was hoping that you might give it some consideration before you flat-out refused."

Severus lowered the glass to the table with an audible thunk. "You want me to accompany you to a Christmas party," he repeated, incredulous.

"It would only be for a couple of hours," Hermione put in. "The party is given every year by the Department of International Magical Cooperation. It's a tradition. Madam Phyfe-Duncan invites dignitaries and leading businessmen from other countries. It's actually a 'working party', if you catch my drift; it's not the sort that's limited to employees and spouses."

"What a relief. I was afraid that I might have to marry you," Snape snapped.

For some reason, his words stung. Hermione pushed past it and decided to play her trump card.

"There would be ample opportunity to talk with the foreign Potions manufacturers. If," she added lamely, "you were interested in that sort of thing."

Snape finally raised his glass and took a long drink of ale. "Do you feel that I need to speak with foreign Potions manufacturers?" he asked finally.

"Of course not." Hermione felt her cheeks blush red. "I only thought that you might enjoy that aspect of the evening."

"Did you?"

It was too much to expect that Snape would make this easy for her, Hermione decided. "My point is that there would be something at the party that you might enjoy. You won't be required to dance with me, or do anything else that might make you uncomfortable."

Severus gazed at her, his eyes narrowed. "I see."

Hermione thought that she might as well blurt out the remainder. "I realize that you probably don't have dress robes, and I'd be happy to arrange those for you."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

Unfortunately, Hermione's eyes strayed to Snape's hair just at that moment. It did not go unnoticed.

"Give me one good reason why I should help you with this, Granger," Snape snapped.

She slumped in her seat. "Frankly, I can't think of one," Hermione admitted. "I mean, you certainly could make some contacts with the foreign potions people, but other than that..."

"Other than that, your Madam Phyfe-Duncan would love nothing more than to have a convicted murderer at her soirée."

"A convicted murderer who happens to be a war hero."

Severus sighed, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge some cobwebs that wouldn't quite go away. "I'll think about it," he said flatly.

"The party's next Friday," Hermione noted.

"I'll let you know."

And he refused to discuss it further.