Chapter Text
The invitation, stuck to the refrigerator with little cat paw-print magnets, flutters in the breeze from the open kitchen window.
She looks up from the pages in front of her as a stronger gust of wind rips the precariously adhered parchment out from beneath the magnets and sends it floating across the room. Sighing, she gets up and pulls the window shut a little so it’s not as disruptive and retrieves the fallen parchment, running her thumb over the gold-embossed border framing it.
It came in the owl post three weeks earlier, and she’d spent the entire time since catching glimpses of it every time she opened her fridge. She scoffs silently as she reads the line, “ To Hermione Granger, and Guest.” She can’t even remember the last time there was an “and guest” to consider inviting along. Fastening it back onto the fridge, Hermione wanders back to the table and continues with her revision.
Just as the sun begins to descend, she sits back and rolls her shoulders, trying to work out the tension in them.
She hears a soft meow behind her from the doorway and turns just enough to catch a glimpse of Crookshanks as he strolls into the room. His gait is a little slower in his old age; she has no idea how old he is now, but he hadn’t exactly been young when she adopted him. He stops by her chair and looks up at her expectantly, and she can’t help the smile that curves her lips upwards.
“All right,” she concedes with a chuckle. “I get the message, old boy.”
Standing, she bustles around and a few moments later places his food dish down so he can munch on the unappealing patê-like substance she’d upended from the tin. Scrunching her nose at the sheer delight on his face as he eats, she tidies up and packs away her work for the evening before dashing to her bedroom to change, slipping a casual charcoal robe over her Muggle jeans and blouse.
Gazing at her reflection in the long mirror behind her bedroom door, she thins her lips into a line and shakes her head. As good as it’s going to get, Granger, she thinks. Not that it matters anyway; she is only going to the pub.
Securing the flat, Hermione walks out onto the street to the small alley beside her building where she Apparates.
When she reappears in Hogsmeade, she makes a beeline to the Three Broomsticks and nods at Rosmerta as she walks towards the back, heading for the booth where she knows her companion will be waiting for her. Her heart briefly skitters to a stop in her chest as she spies him, and she forces herself to act normal as she plops down in the seat across from him in “their” booth.
“You’re late,” he drawls.
She nods. “I know. I got caught up editing a draft and feeding Crookshanks.”
She watches as Severus signals to Rosmerta, and moments later the proprietress saunters over with two pints of lager, offering a wink before heading back to tend her bar. Hermione gratefully takes a mouthful of her beverage and sits back to observe the stoic man across from her. It’s hard for her to pinpoint exactly when they’d gone from antagonistic allies to friends, too long since the transition had occurred as well, but she is glad for it. His friendship throughout the years, though unexpected, has been an important one.
Her only regret is that at some stage she went and fell in love with him.
Ridiculous, she knows it, but there isn’t anything she can do to change it short of not seeing him. And although it pains her to be around him, she can’t seem to stay away.
His dark eyes fix on her face as he drinks from his glass before setting it aside, steepling his long fingers before him. “You need to stop taking your work home with you,” Severus finally says quietly. “Why even have an office if you aren’t going to have a level of separation between your workplace and your home?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk,” Hermione huffs. “Don’t for one second pretend that you don’t drag essays and exams to your quarters to mark during the school year.”
“We’re not talking about me,” he argues, dropping his hands to lift his pint for a long swallow.
The way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows catches her eye, and she averts her gaze quickly, picking up her own lager to distract herself. She really needs to get her bloody hormones under control.
“So,” she begins, trying to change the subject. “The Anniversary is next week.”
He frowns into his glass. “Why did you have to bring that up?”
She snickers at him. “Because it’s drawing closer and I am becoming increasingly aware of the fact that I don’t have a date. Also, the wind knocked my invite off the fridge today, so it was on my mind.”
“Surely you would have no difficulty finding an escort.” One of his dark eyebrows lifts and she is suddenly struck by the desire to rip it off.
“I could, but I’m not very fond of stringing people along as dates when there is no chance of it going anywhere,” she answers.
“Why do you assume it wouldn’t go anywhere?”
Because of you, you prat , she thinks, annoyed with herself more than anything. If only she could let him go… She swallows, realising he is awaiting her reply. “I’m just not interested in dating anyone right now.”
Both of his eyebrows raise at that, but he says nothing further and they lapse into the comfortable silence they are both used to when they spend time with the other.
“Go with me,” he says, breaking the silence.
If she is surprised he is the first to speak, she doesn’t show it, keeping her expression schooled to neutral. It is her only weapon against his perceptiveness. “To the Anniversary celebration?”
“Why not? Minerva and Kingsley have been breathing down my back to help them organise it—I haven’t had time to even consider trying to find a date,” he explains.
It makes sense, she rationalises. And they are friends, after all. He would never be a boring date, and they could snark and poke fun at everyone they disliked together… “All right,” she tells him before a sly smile creeps over her features. “I’ll pick you up at your place—wear something pretty.”
His response is a snort, and they end up finishing off their pints just as their usual dinner order arrives at the table. Rosmerta is making eyes at Severus as she delivers it, but the man himself doesn’t seem to take any notice, fixating on his food immediately and beginning the process of cutting all of his pot roast into exact equal pieces. His quirks are endearing.
But the fact that he hasn’t noticed the proprietress’ interest means nothing to her; she still feels a pang of ugly jealousy grow in the pit of her stomach, souring her enjoyment of the meal. She picks at it, pushing it aside when he finishes his own plate. There is a brief conversation about their respective jobs, Severus complains about the latest issue of Ars Alchemica , and then before she knows it, their time together for the evening is up, and Severus is paying for at the bar before he ushers her out of the pub.
“I might not have time to catch up with you until the celebration,” she tells him when they arrive at the Apparition point. “I have a lot of meetings with my publisher next week.”
“No matter,” he says quietly, almost gently. “I will see you there.”
She gazes at him for a moment and nods before Apparating away without another word, wondering why butterflies were flapping madly in her stomach. She walks through the alleyway home and up the stairs. Crookshanks meets her by the door, looking for attention and butting her legs with his flat face. She lifts him into her arms as she walks through the flat, switching on lights as she goes and striding into her bathroom.
With a wave of her wand, she starts the water running in the small clawfoot tub before placing it beside the basin. Crookshanks wanders about the bathroom as she undresses, and as she sinks into the warm water, he settles on the tiles beside her. Hermione closes her eyes and leans her head back against the edge of the tub, letting the heat from the water melt the tension from her muscles.
For a moment, she allows her mind to wander, though she should have known better; it always drifts directly towards thoughts of the completely unattainable raven-haired wizard she desperately wishes she didn’t have feelings for.
The mirror in his bathroom is blissfully silent, having been threatened with destruction enough times that it knows not to turn on commentary.
He adjusts the cuffs of his white shirt where it peeks out just over his wrist. He hates formal attire, but with the Anniversary celebration that evening, Minerva made it abundantly clear to the staff that the theme was formal dress. Besides, if he knows his date well, she will be immaculately dressed, and Severus is not about to look shabby standing next to her. It would look like he was in a social recluse outreach program and she was his sponsor.
It’s not a date, fool , his mind supplies unhelpfully. And it isn't. They were just two friends without dates who would be attending together. Just friends.
Regardless of how fine his robes are, or how neatly his hair is tied back, he is going to look awkward and out of place with Hermione on his arm. She is vibrant, clever, and beautiful—people fawn over her even when she doesn’t realise it. He knows the same will happen this evening, and he will just stand by and let it happen, terrified of ruining their friendship by making his true feelings known.
Severus frowns and leaves the bathroom, slipping his wand up his sleeve and making his way out of his chambers, descending to the Entrance Hall. Earlier in the week, they agreed to meet at the doors, at her insistence. He agrees to whatever she asks without question because if he is honest with himself, he knows he would do anything for her.
When she ascends the stairs upon arrival, the air is knocked clean from his lungs. She is a vision; the silvery blue fabric of her dress robes hugs her figure in a way he wishes he could cling to her. He blinks and swallows the nervous lump in his throat, but the residual discomfort remains, even as he approaches her to offer his arm.
“Don’t you look dashing,” she says with a smile as she accepts his proffered arm.
Her warm touch sears him even through all the layers. “You told me to wear something pretty,” he says with a smirk. Her responding laughter causes a bubble to squeeze around the heart thudding wildly in his chest.
“Shall we?” She nods in the direction of the Great Hall.
Severus forces his feet to move, feeling ungainly. He is normally so in control, but whenever she is around, he is at a loss as to what to do with himself. The only way he manages is to use the skills he gained from his many years of spying and acting a part. The hall is tastefully decorated in navy with silver; the decision to omit using any black in the decor was his, and he doesn’t regret it. The look of amazement on Hermione’s face has made every ounce of effort he has put into the organisation of the event worthwhile.
“It’s beautiful,” she says softly, gazing up at him. “I know you are responsible for this—Minerva had no hand in it, there’s not a scrap of tartan in sight.”
He cannot help the chuckle that bubbles out of him. “Indeed, Minerva had her decorating committee privileges revoked when she tried to suggest theming the celebration with representation from all the school houses.”
Hermione’s nose wrinkles in a way that only further endears her to him. “That sounds revolting. It would be like going to watch Quidditch. Could you imagine?”
“I didn’t have to,” Severus snorts.
The round tables set up in place of the usual school tables are decorated elegantly in white and gold, and as he leads her over to the seats they’ve been assigned with other Hogwarts staff and alumni, he tries not to feel too self-conscious. Minerva is already seated when they arrive at their table to join her. She looks at him with a slight narrowing of her eyes and her lips thin in question. He chooses to ignore it.
The dinner is fine.
Despite Potter, his wife, the youngest Weasley male and his date being seated with them, the meal is still tolerable. He is lucky that several other staff members sit with them and loses himself in conversation with Filius. The wine that is served is elf-made and moreish, and he notices that Hermione doesn’t seem to have realised how much she has consumed while only picking at her food.
The speeches that follow the meal are tedious, and Severus wishes he could sink into the floor and disappear when his name is mentioned by Kingsley amongst those who were responsible for organising the event. He hates being put on the spot, and a natural sour look takes up residence on his features when people turn to look at him upon announcement. He is gratified when they quickly avert their gaze.
When the tables disappear, the hall is left open to mingle and dance, and the band that Minerva organised begins to play.
Severus stands to the side with his goblet of wine and sips at it as he watches Hermione mingle, smiling and laughing with her friends. She is too good for you , he reminds himself, and a bitter taste fills his mouth.
“She looks very beautiful tonight.” He glances beside him and sees Minerva has seen fit to join him.
“I see no difference,” he grumbles. And it’s true—she is always beautiful to him.
“I know how close you like to guard your secrets, Severus,” Minerva begins, “but you can’t fool me—I’ve known you most of your life. That girl means something to you.”
His frown deepens into a scowl. “We are friends, Minerva,” he huffs impatiently. “Just friends—like you and I.”
Severus can tell from the look on her face the Headmistress is unconvinced. He isn’t entirely convinced himself.
Her pulse thunders in her ears as she absorbs the information she has just overheard, passed between Severus and Minerva.
Just friends …
The words ring in her ears and hang heavy around her, and she feels almost suffocated by them. She knows that they are friends. She knows that there was no chance for there to be anything else between them. But to hear the words spoken aloud—to have it confirmed —makes her feel queasy.
It was silly, she realises, to have clung onto even the faintest scrap of hope. Just friends . Her new mantra—something she can remind herself of every time she sees him from now on so that she can make attempts to pull herself together enough to move on. Why is it that she always seems to be interested in men who do not return that interest?
The answer to the question evades her, and she glances up, only to lock eyes with Severus who is standing a short distance from her. Her mouth goes dry.
She forces a smile onto her face before looking away and touches Luna Lovegood’s arm to get her attention. “I’m going to get more wine,” Hermione tells her friend. “Want any?”
“I’ll walk with you,” Luna answers.
Wine in hand, they end up drawn into a conversation with Cho Chang who is there as Luna’s date. She isn’t sure when she’s gotten so far behind on her friends' lives, but the two of them certainly make a lovely couple. As happy as she is for her friend, and as thrilled as she is for all of those close to her that have someone in their lives, Hermione can’t help but feel as though she is behind. She lives alone, in an admittedly lovely flat, with only Crookshanks for company.
Maybe all the people over the years predicting she would become a crazy spinster had it right?
“You seem distracted,” Luna says as Cho is drawn away by a group of Ravenclaws Hermione doesn’t remember the names of. Marianna? Marilyn? She feels like she should know as she’d hexed one of them in her fifth year.
“I’m not,” she lies immediately, her eyes automatically flicking across the room to where Severus is still speaking with Minerva.
Luna’s eyes follow the direction hers had taken and widen. “I sort of suspected a while ago, but Cho told me I was barmy.”
Hermione waves her hands in front of her frantically. “Cho is right,” she hastily argues. “There isn’t anything between us. We’re just friends .”
The last two words out of her mouth are strained, and she can tell her friend is not convinced, but Luna simply raises an eyebrow and smiles before shaking her head. Hermione takes another solid gulp of her wine, finishing the goblet before returning to the refreshment table to pour another. She sips on her wine as she gets drawn into conversation, and eventually relents and agrees to dance with a slightly tipsy Harry as Ginny’s feet are too tired, and her ankles swollen from pregnancy.
As the dance draws to an end and she makes to leave the dance floor, she is surprised when Severus cuts in. She finds herself at a loss for what to do. One hand wraps around hers and his other rests warm and gentle on her waist as they move to the music. Her head begins to spin; she’s forgotten to breathe.
“Having a nice time?” he asks.
She looks up and swallows the lump in her throat. “It’s been lovely,” she manages to choke out. “And you?”
He shrugs, not missing a step as she awkwardly follows his lead. The wine is going to her head and she curses herself for picking at dinner. She just wasn’t feeling very hungry; her stomach had been in knots before she’d even arrived at Hogwarts. At the end of the song, he leads her off the dance floor and summons a glass of water before handing it to her with a pointed look in his eyes.
“Drink,” he tells her.
She does so without question. The water is cool and slides down her throat uncomfortably, but she doesn’t stop because Severus is gazing at her intently with dark eyes that practically dare her to try and defy him. She almost stubbornly does, but she is tired, tipsy, and a little bit lightheaded, so her focus is on remaining standing.
“You can’t Apparate like this,” he comments as she sets aside the empty glass.
She is inclined to agree. “Probably not.”
His heavy sigh makes her feel a pang of momentary guilt before he catches her elbow and gently urges her to walk with him towards the exit. She almost argues that she needs to bid her friends goodbye, but the words die on her lips. They climb the stairs and she is all too aware of his warm hand resting on her back, providing support as he leads her ever upwards. They arrive at the portrait guarding his chambers, and she looks up at him in confusion.
“You can stay here,” he says gruffly. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. Minerva would murder me if I sent you off to splinch yourself trying to Apparate home.”
“But Crooks,” she begins to argue as the portrait swings open for them.
“That menace will be fine for one night,” he says as she walks in ahead of him.
His chambers smell like parchment, wood, and ink. She’s been here several times before, and it never fails to astound her just how many books the man owns. The walls of his sitting room are lined with shelves full to bursting, and almost every other flat surface has a pile of them gathered with loose scrolls scattered around the place. It isn’t messy per se—just the living space of a scholar.
He marches ahead of her into his bedroom, and she follows him, though she wonders why the moment she’s done it. He comes out of the bathroom with a vial in hand, and for a moment he looks as stunned as she feels. His bedroom is full of rich brown and cream tones—unlike anything she had imagined it would look like. Not that she had any business imagining such things.
“A sobering draught,” he explains as he hands the vial to her.
“Oh,” she says softly, lifting it to stare at the fluid. It is perfect, as she knew it would be as Severus has no doubt made it himself.
There is an awkwardness between them that she has seldom felt before. Perhaps it is because they are in his private rooms, standing mere feet away from his bed. Perhaps it is that she is tipsy from the wine she has consumed and just feels awkward around him. But as her eyes finally travel up to meet his, there is a shift in the black depths, something she might not have caught if she wasn’t paying attention.
“You really do look very nice tonight,” she tells him, the words tumbling out before she can catch herself. She is embarrassed for a moment, but realises the lid has already been lifted off that can of worms. “You look very dashing with your hair tied back.”
His eyebrows raise in surprise, but the rest of his face remains shuttered. “I should leave you to get some rest,” Severus says after a beat.
“Yes,” she says breathily, feeling ridiculous again. “Sorry, I—sorry.”
He turns and moves towards the door, and her heart sinks in her chest, burrowing itself away so she can prepare to lick her wounds alone, when he stops.
“You look very beautiful tonight.”
Hermione stares at him as he turns around, and this time she is certain she isn’t imagining things. She sets down the vial of sobering potion on the stand beside the bed, knowing if she drinks it, she won’t be able to be brave. Walking towards him, she closes the distance and places a hand on his shoulder as he turns to face her. It’s as though magnets draw them closer and after a moment and an almost imperceptible nod of agreement between them, their lips meet in a kiss that makes her feel even dizzier than the wine.
Seconds turn into minutes as their mouths tenderly mate. Hermione clutches the front of his fine dress robes, and one of his long-fingered hands weaves into the hair at her nape, guiding the kiss. She has no idea how much time passes as they discover the taste of one another, but when she pulls back, the knot of anxiety in her stomach has eased and she falls hopelessly into another kiss.
Whether it is the wine or simply raw attraction, she doesn’t know. And as his long fingers slide down her spine over her dress robes, she thinks that she doesn’t care.