Against All Better Judgment – by Aphrodeia

Response to the What Kind of Drunk Are You Challenge at WIKTT.

Disclaimer: All people, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. I just enjoy making them do my bidding.

Many thanks to Azazello, who beta’d this.

______________________

Professor Calderone,

Thank you for your most generous offer of Potions Fellowship, I gladly accept! I would like to get started as soon as possible; I plan to call in tomorrow. I leave Hogwarts in the early morning and will be at the University by two in the afternoon.

A ball of parchment bounced off the back of her head.

“I’m coming, I said! Hang on!”

“Yeah, but you said it half an hour ago, Hermione! Just finish the bloody letter.”

Hermione turned to glare at the grinning face poking around the door. “Honestly, Ron. I should think you’d be happy for me. The Potions School at the University of Rome is only the most prestigious school of its kind. It’s an honor to have been offered a Fellowship. I need to get this right. Now shut up. I’ll be right down.” Ron gave her another lopsided grin as he ducked back out of the room.

A slight smile crossed her face as she turned back to her parchment.

I look forward to meeting you!

Respectfully,
Hermione Granger

Hermione flexed her fingers, and pushed away from her desk, kicking away the crumpled bits and pieces of her first few drafts. I suppose that will have to do, she thought, and stepped in front of her mirror, straightening her dress robes. She frowned at her bushy mass of chestnut curls, smoothing and re-smoothing her hair to no avail. Resignedly, she tied it back in a frizzy knot at the nape of her neck, and with a few flicks of her wand cleaned off the ink spots from her fingers. Satisfied, or as satisfied as could be expected, with her appearance, she cast one last glance at the letter on her desk and dashed out the door with a renewed smile.

With Voldemort defeated several weeks past and the last of their exams but a memory of that afternoon, tonight was the biggest party of the year, and all members of the student body and staff alike seemed to be in the Great Hall by the time Hermione made her appearance. The Patil sisters were talking excitedly in the corner. Neville was playing Exploding Snap with a pretty Hufflepuff at one of the tables beside the dance floor. Draco was dancing with Lavender Brown, smiling lightly. A group of young Slytherins were huddled around their house’s Quidditch team. Ron was standing at the punch bowl with Seamus, who was casually pouring something into the punch…

“Hermione, you made it. Ron didn’t think you’d ever come out.” She turned to see Harry smiling, Ginny at his side. Hermione folded both of them into quick hugs. “What were you doing all afternoon, anyway? I haven’t seen you since the exams.”

She smiled broadly. “Oh, Harry! It’s the most wonderful news! I was accepted as a Potions Fellow to the University of Rome! The owl was waiting at my window when I returned to my room after my last exam. I had to write my acceptance letter.”

“And it took three hours?” Harry asked.

“No,” Hermione allowed, “but by the time I’d finished the letters to my parents, my grandparents, convinced Dobby that, no, I didn’t need half a lamb to hold me over until dinner, and finally finished my seventh draft of the acceptance, the day was pretty well behind me.”

“Wow… Rome. That’s great! But this is really sudden for you… I thought you’d decided on a University in England. Are you sure this Fellowship is what you want to do? It’s so far away.”

Hermione nodded. “You know, with as long as I’ve been in this castle, away from family, going to Uni won’t be any different. After all, we can do magic, and Portkeys are easy enough to create. I expect the lot of you to be visiting me from time to time,” she added with a smile.

Harry grinned. “You couldn’t keep us away.”

“Besides, you’re going to be a famous Quidditch player, traveling around and getting your scar back on the front page of the Daily Prophet, you’ll hardly have time to remember I’m in Italy.” Hermione sighed and looked to the Head Table, where the Headmaster was speaking with Professor McGonagall. “Seven years, Harry. Can you believe it?”

“No, not really,” Harry said. “But I suppose we got into so much trouble, it had to have been that long. You know, it would take most people twice as long to earn as many detentions as we three did. I suppose we should be proud.”

“We’ve helped change the Wizarding World. How do we become…” Hermione gestured, trying to find an adequate word, “normal?”

“It’s all relative.” Harry grinned. “I suppose just keeping out of trouble with the Ministry for a few weeks will be a step in the right direction.”

Several yards behind Harry, Hermione spotted a teetering Ron, glass of punch in hand. Hermione groaned. “I’d forgotten. The punch. Seamus has gone and spiked it with something.”

Harry turned to look, and Ginny smothered a giggle as Ron tripped over his left foot, collided with a pillar, and asked it politely if it would please excuse him. Ron carried on his way, ignoring any glances he was receiving. In fact, he was receiving very few, as the rest of the student body – and most faculty members – were currently either dancing or enjoying second and third glasses of punch. Or both, if they were talented enough. Harry laughed and put his arm around Ginny.

“To Hell with it, Hermione,” he said. “We’ve finished our exams. We’re free, and everything is right for once. Let them have their fun. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some punch to drink.” Harry gave Ginny a squeeze and headed off in the direction of the punch bowl. Hermione looked after him.

“When did he become wise?”

Ginny shrugged. “Must be the feminine influence. I’m rubbing off on him. Anyhow, now that we’re alone, what’s the story? I don’t remember you mentioning the University of Rome before.”

“That’s because I didn’t apply,” said Hermione sheepishly. “Rome is the best there is for Potions study. The best of the best, even. Maybe that’s why I didn’t try.”

Ginny gaped. “But you’re the cleverest witch at Hogwarts. To hear the Professors, you’re the cleverest person Hogwarts has seen in generations. It’s rather annoying to hear it all the time, too,” she added with a wry smile.

“The world is so much bigger than Hogwarts. I suppose I got nervous. And I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to concentrate on Potions for the next few years. I thought it would be more sensible to aim for a University which excelled in other fields as well. I didn’t really decide on Potions until recently.”

“You think too much.”

“I always have.” Hermione smiled ruefully. “I was shocked when I got the owl today with the Fellowship offer. Just attending would have been an honor.”

“You’ve skipped the important part. How did they accept you if they didn’t know you exist?” Ginny had a talent for getting right to the point, which often proved to be a useful tool when dealing with six brothers.

Hermione chewed her lip a moment, and Ginny hummed questioningly. “Apparently Professor Snape sent a recommendation,” she said.

“To a University to which you hadn’t even applied?” Ginny’s lips were twisting into an amused smirk.

“It would seem so. I don’t know what he said, but their letter was incredibly nice. Offering me the position, asking would I please consider it, and if there was anything more I needed to let them know and they would do what they could to make accommodations.” She paused thoughtfully. “He must have said something remarkable for them to have contacted me at all, let alone offer such an opportunity…” She trailed off as she noticed Ginny’s expression. Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Are you going to thank him?” The smirk had become a leer.

“I intend to send him an Owl after I’ve settled in at University,” Hermione said, raising her chin a bit.

Ginny snorted. “That’s really tactful. ‘Dear Professor, thank you for making my life. I would have thanked you in person, but I was too bloody scared to be around you, for fear that either you would hex me for my foolishness or I would knock you down and suck on your tongue.’”

“Ginny!” Hermione covered her mouth with one hand and looked around, mortified. Satisfied that nobody had heard (those close enough to hear were most absorbed in imbibing and teetering), she turned back to the giggling redhead. “What are you talking about?” she whispered fiercely.

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen the way you look after him when he goes swooping through the halls, doing his ‘I’m a terrifying bat’ routine. Kind of curious and lustful all at the same time. I also remember the time you told me how much you enjoyed helping him prepare all those potions for Madame Pomfrey,” she added in a much lower voice.

“Honestly, Ginny! I respect him. He’s a brilliant Potions Master and, from time to time, he’s really quite witty.” And he’s rather attractive when he’s relaxed, like when we were working on the Headache Potions…

“You were practically swooning, Hermione.”

“I was not! It had been warm. I was just a little flushed,” she protested. It had been a warm night, even in the dungeons. He’d tied his hair back, it was only just long enough, and he’d foregone the heavy teaching robes, opting instead for a black linen shirt and trousers… And he looked at me with a grimace and told me if I ever mentioned his attire, I’d never make it to my NEWTs alive…

Ginny hummed non-committally. “Well,” she said, a knowing smile on her lips, “if you should happen to be looking for him, he’s over there.” She nodded minutely in the opposite direction of the punch table, behind Hermione.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but felt a small smile as Ginny gave her another quick hug and dashed off to where Harry stood with two glasses of punch. Hermione fought the urge to turn and scan the room for Professor Snape until Ginny appeared deep in conversation with Harry.

Finally, Hermione turned to the dark corner Ginny had indicated. Sure enough, there he stood. She summoned up every ounce of self-confidence she possessed and approached him carefully.

Professor Snape stood in the rear corner of the Great Hall, sneering into his Firewhiskey. Another year gone, he mused, and to what end? The Dark Lord is dead, taking so many with him. Men who shouldn’t have died. Children who shouldn’t have died. And here we are, throwing a party. How nice.

His eyes flickered about the floor, noting the actions of each student in attendance. The party was well underway and, by his estimation, well over half the attendees would be plastered by the time the night was out. They never did know when to stop. Any other time, he would have looked forward to all the point-taking opportunities such a drunken festival could present. He found himself utterly disinterested tonight.

If it were possible, he had withdrawn even further into himself in the weeks after the Final Battle, and the quiet resignation had extended into his classroom. No more than a dozen points had been gained or lost by any house during Potions class, and his after-curfew rounds were punctuated not by lost points or detention threats, but by warnings and advice that the students return to their rooms immediately. One couple, interrupted in mid-snog in the Astronomy Tower, had the cheek to smile at him when they escaped without losing house points.

He snorted at the memory. He was going soft. After all these years of scraping and spying, of treachery and deceit, he was without a hobby. If you could call his time spent as a Death Eater spy a “hobby.” Which, he conceded, you might as well.

Miss Granger. Fashionably late. How unlike her. He’d seen her dash into the Great Hall, wisps of hair falling out of an obviously hastily-tied hairstyle. She was clad in the same twilight-blue dress robes she’d worn earlier in the day, but here Snape could observe her uninterrupted. She had grown into herself admirably, finding a poise within which he hadn’t suspected she’d possessed. She wasn’t of exceptional beauty, no more or less special than anyone else he’d ever seen come out of Hogwarts. But she had so much potential; he found himself cultivating a grudging respect for her – her, who had once been one of the banes of his existence. She had talent, and that talent drove him to ask her for assistance with brewing medical potions toward the end of the year. That time spent had been, for want of better terminology, most pleasant – much to his surprise.

Since when do I desire the company of another person? he thought, with another scowl at his drink. He was slipping, rather dangerously. If you don’t find some motivation to compel that sarcasm soon, you’ll never have a moment’s peace.

“Excuse me, Professor,” came the small voice. His eyes snapped up from his glass and met those of Hermione Granger. She flinched visibly. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No more than anyone else usually does.” He took another drink from his glass and gazed blandly out at the couples dancing, waiting for her to continue.

Hermione cleared her throat nervously. “I heard from the University of Rome.”

“Indeed.”

“I wanted to thank you for whatever it is you said to them.”

“Nonsense, Miss Granger. I told them the truth. You earned the words. I merely wrote them.” Out of the corner of his eye he noted her startled look, and he suppressed a smirk.

She composed herself quickly. “Well… thank you, just the same.”

He inclined his head slightly and raised his glass to her, then lifted it to his lips and drained the contents. He savored the last bit, and when he opened his eyes, Hermione still stood beside him, studying him intently. He turned slowly to look at her. “Is there something more, Miss Granger?”

“No. Yes.” She looked down at her hands for a moment before continuing. “We all owe you a great deal. You’ve sacrificed everything for us, and we took it for granted. Even those of us who knew you were a spy for the Order… I think we were a little surprised at the Final Battle. And we were wrong.” She took a steadying breath. “I don’t know if anyone else will ever say it, but we appreciate everything you’ve done,” she finished hurriedly. There. You’ve said it. Now get out, Granger.

“Everything?” There was a glint in his eye, which anyone else would have construed as dangerous, but coupled with his raised eyebrow, the impression was almost comic.

A small chuckle escaped her lips. “I expect Neville could have done without some of the swooping about and deducting points.” Hermione smiled wryly up at the professor, and he fought to control the small twitch at the corner of his lips. Soft, man. Absolutely bloody soft. Her smile faded gradually as he continued to hold her gaze, and she shifted under his eyes.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know.” She looked away quickly, focusing on a point beyond the couples on the dance floor. The silence stretched. Their game abandoned, Neville was now dancing with his Hufflepuff friend – Sarah, Hermione thought her name might be. Sarah was at least two years behind them. Draco stood unsteadily beside Pansy Parkinson, who was gesturing dangerously with her glass of punch as she railed at Lavender. Now that was an accident waiting to happen…

“You’re welcome.”

Hermione released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Bloody hell, Parkinson!” Draco’s cry was somewhere between a shriek and a whine. “Look what you’ve gone and done!” His robes, unbuttoned and rumpled, gaped to display a crisp linen shirt, which was once white, but was now seeping into a deep, fruity chartreuse. Pansy stood, one hand holding an empty glass and the other clapped firmly over her mouth. Several young girls – third year Slytherins, mused Hermione – raced over carrying bits of napkin and began enthusiastically dabbing at Draco’s chest. He threw his arms up in the air, muttered something under his breath, and began shrugging off his robes.

“So,” Snape said suddenly, taking a seat in one of the many chairs around the perimeter of the Hall and conjuring another Firewhiskey. “What did the University of Rome have to say?”

“Oh! They’ve offered me a position as a Potions Fellow!” she said excitedly, turning back to him.

“Good,” he remarked. “I trust you’ve accepted?”

“Oh yes, of course. The letter is on my desk, waiting to be owled.” She accio’d a nearby chair and had a seat beside him.

“When will you begin there?”

“I plan to visit tomorrow afternoon to meet with Professor Calderone and drop off a few of my personal effects. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

“Always the overachiever,” he remarked.

She grinned widely. “It hasn’t led me amiss yet, Sir.”

He’d always been a man of few words and even fewer friends, he considered as they sat in an oddly companionable silence. Friends weren’t something he could have afforded while Voldemort lived; they were nothing more than a liability. With the Dark Lord gone, he’d be damned if he was going to start making them now. Making friends was a project for women and school children. Exactly what he was doing, chatting personably with Miss Granger, he didn’t know. Nor did he care to analyze why he was so acutely aware of every movement she made, every hitch in her breath, every smile on those beautiful, soft lips. He took another drink. Better to drown myself than think too hard tonight, he thought. He looked at her sideways as she conjured up a glass of water.

“No punch?”

She laughed deeply. “No, I don’t think so.” Hermione looked to where Draco had successfully, after three attempts, removed his robes without falling and was now twirling them above his head. “I think it’s a bit off.”

“Ah yes. Mr. Finnegan. I always wonder to whom the task of spiking the punch will fall. It’s an annual event at the closing ball.” He took another sip of his own whiskey.

“You mean the staff know?” she asked, surprise on her face and exasperation in her voice. He looked at her calmly.

“Of course. Contrary to how it may have seemed to you and your two comrades,” he waved vaguely in the direction of Ron and Harry, talking near the punch bowl with Ginny, “there’s remarkably little trouble into which the students can get themselves here. They’ll dance around, make arses of themselves, pass out, and vomit all morning. A lesson learned, I’d say,” he added dryly, looking to Draco, who had unbuttoned his soiled shirt, much to the delight of the younger female Slytherins.

“You know, Professor,” she said with a hint of patronization, “I think you have a sense of humor that you’ve never told us about.”

He snorted. “It wouldn’t do for me to be personable.”

She considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Being nasty works so well for you. Don’t change your strategy.” Where did that come from, Granger?

“Some would think you have a death wish, speaking to the great bat like that,” he said flatly, looking back to her.

“Come now. He can’t be that fearsome. He got me into University.”

The conversation again lapsed into silence as the two drank; she her water, him his whiskey, both of them wondering what precisely was happening here. A chorus of cheers brought their attention back to a very inebriated Draco, who was slowly pulling off his soiled shirt, hips swiveling with the beat of the music. Ginny caught Hermione’s eye and spared a smile in her direction. Seamus was laughing as he surveyed the Hall, clearly satisfied with the evening’s results. Colin Creevey, camera in hand, staggered uncertainly across the floor in their direction.

“Merlin, help us,” Snape muttered. Colin weaved slightly as he raised the camera to his eye and snapped a photograph of the twosome. Rather, he tried to, but Snape surmised Colin had gotten a rather artful shot of the wall.

“Professssir Snape,” Colin slurred, pointing an accusatory finger toward the Potions Professor. “I bin meaning to tell you. You were very, very unfair on the third exam we had last Janurary… ry. You,” he leaned forward and poked Snape in the chest, “gave me no marks for my Draught of Peace. And tha’ss not fair.”

“Mr. Creevey,” Snape said, sneering down his nose and removing Colin’s finger from his chest. “Your draught ate through the cauldron and is very likely still on its journey to the center of the Earth.”

“But I tried! I tried! You never gave us any marks for trying! And that’s not right!” He darted his hand back to Snape’s robes to clutch a handful, tugging to punctuate each phrase. He took a deep breath, doubtlessly to launch into another tirade, when he stopped. Colin looked at Hermione, and his face split into an uneven grin. “Hermione!” he fairly squealed, releasing his handful of black robe. “Did I tell you? You look killer in those robes.” He raised his camera, snapped another photograph, and wandered away humming tunelessly.

Hermione blinked, trying to clear the spots from her vision, and Snape failed to suppress a smirk. He opened his mouth to comment, but thought better of it and took another drink instead.

She did look lovely tonight. The thought came unwillingly to his mind and wrapped itself around him relentlessly – a side effect of the alcohol, no doubt. He remembered with some satisfaction the night she assisted him with the Headache Potions, barely two months before. It was a warm night; she looked taken aback by my attire when she entered the room. She tried to act casually enough, but I noticed the way she looked at me when she thought I couldn’t see. It was so… unexpected. Perhaps it had been selfishness that compelled him to ask her assistance each evening for the next three weeks. Time well spent, he had thought. They’d made enough Headache Potion to last the next year. But they hadn’t been friends. He couldn’t afford those, nor could he afford wayward attractions to ungrateful, know-it-all students. Or so he’d kept telling himself. She’s not a student anymore…

A peal of laughter from the dance floor snapped him out of his unbidden thoughts (Thank Merlin) and he saw Minerva McGonagall twirling madly across the floor in some attempt at a Spanish dance. Which was curious, considering the band was playing a slow American tune from the fifties. He cast a sidelong glance at Hermione, who was gaping openly at the scene.

Apparently Minerva has seen fit to enjoy the punch. “Why aren’t you out dancing?” he asked as he noticed a fifth-year Gryffindor cast a longing look in her direction.

“I’m not much for dancing, particularly with a drunken teenage boy intent on a grope in the corner afterward.” She heard a light chuckle, and her eyes widened at the sound. She looked at him carefully.

“I know, joking and laughing in the same night. I think I may have even cracked a smile,” he said sardonically. She smiled, and he noted the way her eyes crinkled just so at the corners.

“And how much have you had to drink tonight, Professor?” she chided.

“Not nearly enough.” He again raised his glass to his lips and finished it off. He set it resolutely on a low table beside his chair.

“Why aren’t you dancing?”

He narrowed his eyes and looked to her sharply. “And with whom would I dance, Miss Granger?” he snapped. “The line of women waiting to spend time in my arms is remarkably short.” She stared intently into her glass, the color rising in her cheeks. He sighed.

“I apologize.”

“No, it was inappropriate of me to ask.” Hermione studied her hands in her lap as the silence again threatened to settle. “Would you like to?”

He stared at her. When it became clear to her that he didn’t intend to respond, she got to her feet and looked at him levelly. A lively waltz was underway. “Well?”

He sighed. “Are you any good?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never had anyone to compare myself to. I just might be.”

He stood and straightened his robes, maintaining an air of dignity, and took her hand in his. She noted with some surprise that his hand was warm and soft, but for slight calluses on his fingertips. She’d watched those hands, mesmerized, each night of those three weeks as they chopped and minced with exacting precision, how each finger flexed and danced gracefully with its task. And she’d felt those hands, after dark, each night of those three weeks when the dreams came, unbidden. She never remembered the dreams, but for impressions of fleeting touches and intense pleasure, and she woke breathing raggedly.

The color rose again in her cheeks, flushing her face a faint pink as some of her classmates took note of the mismatched pair approaching the floor. He stopped abruptly, pulling back on her hand.

“Here will do.” She looked down; their feet had barely touched the dance floor. She smiled and turned to him as he pulled her to him, his hand firmly at her waist.

He’s an excellent dancer, she thought as they made their way around their corner of the floor. It didn’t surprise her; nothing could possibly surprise her tonight. First the letter from Rome, and the odd conversation with Ginny, then the amiable discussion with Professor Snape just now…. it had all piqued her curiosity toward a man about whom she apparently knew very little. And now, dancing with him, she found herself wondering what she hoped to discover.

“So?” she asked a bit breathlessly after a turn. “Have you reached a conclusion?”

“You are… an acceptable dancer.”

She smirked. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Thank my mother for that.” Hermione cocked her head slightly in question. “No good pureblood wizard should be without such a social skill as ballroom dancing.”

She snorted in reply.

“And that, my dear, was incredibly ladylike.”

My dear? She started, and hoped her expression came off as indignance.

He met her glare with one of his own, and when hers turned into a slight pout, his eyes momentarily slipped to her lips. They glistened alluringly, as if she had recently moistened them. He dragged his eyes quickly back to meet her gaze as the waltz ended. A beat, and then a slow, soulful tune began, drifting through the Hall.

“Oh no,” she muttered and took a step away. A waltz is one thing, she thought frantically, but a slow dance is entirely another. Bad idea. What was that bit about knocking him down and sucking on his tongue?

A small smile crossed his lips. “Gryffindor, indeed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

Hermione glowered at him, which again had the odd look of a pout. Which, again, was not helpful. He managed to hold her gaze as she stepped back into his embrace.

“Don’t let me force you,” he said, small smile still in place. “I’m sure one of your esteemed classmates would be more than happy to share this dance with you.” He looked pointedly over her shoulder, out to the crowded dance floor.

“No. No,” she repeated hurriedly. “This is fine.”

She felt his hand resume its position at the small of her back as the other cradled her hand gently near his chest. She’d been so busily concentrating on avoiding Severus’s feet during the waltz that she’d effectively blocked out her irritating inner monologue. Now, her mind was spinning, trying to absorb everything that had happened. She was dancing. With Severus. Who happens to be disarming when he risks a smile… and when had he become “Severus?”

He’d been someone she’d considered a friend, though she knew better than to mention it in polite company. She’d always held her Professors in high esteem, often confiding in Professor McGonagall during her sixth and seventh years when a teenage male opinion was not the one she sought. Harry and Ron were good for conspiring, great for a laugh, but neither for advice. Not that she’d ever gone to him for advice. He wasn’t exactly the type of person from whom you wanted dating tips. But deep respect was just a stone’s throw away from affection, and she supposed she’d bridged that gap long ago.

While she had wanted to dance all evening, after considering the possibilities, she decided conversation was a safer choice. This wasn’t exactly an option she’d considered. And if anyone had told me this would be happening tonight, I would hex them into next week.

Her arm was draped across his shoulders, wrapped around him almost possessively. They stepped to the music, carefully avoiding one another’s gaze. She breathed deeply, enthralled by his scent, and he was acutely aware that she, ever so slightly, was drawing nearer. His fingers splayed slightly on her back as he took up the slack she’d created, allowing them to drag lightly across her robes. She felt a hint of a caress, and she blinked rapidly in surprise. He couldn’t. But I wonder… She adjusted her arm across his shoulders, letting her hand slide to the back of his shoulder, and a moment later she felt the returning touch feather at the small of her back. Her breath hitched. Maybe he could.

He smiled. How he’d gotten himself into this game, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to be the one to back out. The heat of her body against his was nearly as intoxicating as the whiskey. He lowered his lips to her ear. “Your classmates are beginning to take notice, Hermione.” He felt her shiver in his arms, and satisfaction slid through him sensuously.

“Oh?” she asked incoherently. My, how my name sounds lovely when he says it, especially in that voice. It’s like rich chocolate. Or velvet. Or chocolatey velvet.

“Mmm-hmm,” he hummed.

She opened her eyes. Funny, I hardly remember closing them. A group of young Gryffindors were watching in rapt fascination. Ron was standing beside the punch bowl, ladle in hand, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Harry watched from several feet away with raised eyebrows, until Ginny took notice and swatted him on the arm. She cast a grin toward Hermione and dragged Harry into the crowd for another dance. Neville had paused, mid-dance, and stared openly at the couple with abject horror.

“I’m not sure what scares them more – you dancing or me dancing with you,” she commented with a smile. She squeezed his hand gently. This can’t be happening. But far be it for me to end it. This is wonderful…

“You don’t mind being seen with the greasy git?”

“I’ve never called you that.”

His voice was no more than a whisper. “I know.”

She settled back into him, her eyes closing again as she pulled closer. She felt his chest rise and fall gently, a sigh slipping past his lips and rushing warm over her cheek. He rested his jaw lightly against her temple.

“I think you’ve had too much firewhiskey after all, Professor.”

“I think you’re right.” He released her hand and reached up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. Or maybe just enough, he mused as his finger traced the shell of her ear.

It was such sweet torture, the undulating dance guiding them as puppets in an almost unwilling game of seduction. Almost. Her open palm against his chest registered his pounding heartbeat, nearly as fast as her own, as her other hand caressed his shoulder. In a careful gesture, she brought her thumb to brush his neck above his high collar. She wondered fleetingly how long it had been since he last held a woman. Perhaps it was like riding a bicycle, because he was very good. The thought trailed off as his fingers slid along her jaw line, and she drew back slightly to look up at him. His expression was one of apprehension, but his gaze when her eyes met his glittered with lust. His hand stilled at her chin as the song ended. His lips were parted slightly, and she noted with some satisfaction that he was breathing heavily. She dragged her eyes back to his and took a steadying breath.

“I’m not your student anymore, Severus,” she murmured, voice thick with desire.

She closed the gap between them, meeting his lips with hers, as his hand slid to cradle behind her neck. The kiss was something electric, drawing the need out of them, deepening exquisitely, and soon all was forgotten as he brushed her lips with the tip of his tongue in silent question. Her lips parted, welcoming, her tongue sliding against his as if she’d done this a thousand times before. He tasted faintly of firewhiskey, warm and mysterious. She marveled at his control, the kiss balancing on a razor’s edge between gentle passion and wanton lust, threatening to tip with every ripple of her tongue against his. Her arms had moved to wrap around his neck, she felt rather than heard his deep groan as one hand buried itself in his hair. She absently noted his strong embrace, both of his arms firmly around her, clutching her to him as if she were something precious.

After a long moment, their lips parted reluctantly and he rested his forehead heavily against hers. “Never let it be said that you are not brave.”

She smiled and opened her eyes. A slight flush had risen in his cheeks, and his own lips were quirked into a lopsided smile. His hands moved to rest on her hips as the fog lifted and he again had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.

The silence was palpable. Severus and Hermione raised their eyes slowly, cautiously, as if to move slowly enough that they could escape without being seen. The whole of Hogwarts, students and faculty alike, stared openly. Ron still stood by the punch bowl, rooted in place, his jaw still dropped. Ginny had relinquished her hold on Harry, who wore a similar expression. Ginny herself simply grinned widely. Neville had apparently backed away slowly and had run up against the wall, not able to tear his eyes from the couple. Draco stood in the center of the floor in mid-gyrate, clad only in deep green boxers and tasteful knee-high white socks, and was staring, wide-eyed. Colin Creevey wore a suitably maniacal smile as he lifted his camera to photograph the slightly flustered couple. Behind them, at the head table, Albus Dumbledore smiled, twinkling incessantly, and raised his glass.

Torn between horror and a demented sort of glee with which he wasn’t previously acquainted, Severus settled for a smirk and turned to the woman still in his arms.

“Would you care to accompany me on a walk around the lake?” She nodded, smiling shyly up at him, and the two swept out of the Great Hall, arm in arm.

Seamus looked down at the cup of punch in his hand, up at the pair, back at the cup, and hastily set it on the table beside him. Ron blinked out of his stupor, looked at Seamus, and smacked him soundly on the back of the head.


Professor Calderone,

Thank you for your most generous offer of Potions Intern, I gladly accept! Something has come up and I will be unable to move my things to the University until next month, I hope this will be convenient.

I look forward to meeting you!

Respectfully,
Hermione Granger

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A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! I would thank you each individually, but I would turn into a raving fangirl, so I hope this will do. Thank you so much!

Now posted: Throwing Caution to the Wind, the follow-up to Against All Better Judgment.