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Hermione was grateful for the solitary, glowing lantern resting on a small table tucked in an out-of-the-way corner of the terrace. There were plenty of lights, and tables, and chairs in clusters close to the ballroom doors, but she desperately wanted a less visible place to compose herself.
She’d enjoyed the first hour or so of the annual victory celebration, truly she had. She had an excuse to wear a fabulous formal ensemble, and didn’t mind that so many people complimented her on it. It amused her to no end that the renowned Crabbe Estate had been confiscated as war reparations and turned into an “event space,” mostly due to the relative ease with which it was purged of Dark Magic, owing to the fact that recent generations of Crabbes had simply not been particularly powerful or clever wizards. She was genuinely delighted for the chance to catch up with Order members she hadn’t seen since the Christmas party. And, frankly, whoever Kingsley had put in charge of planning the dinner menu was a phenomenon– normally she still struggled a bit with eating, but everything tonight had been enticing and delicious.
But right as the Usual Suspects were all called up to the front of the hall for the Order of Merlin ceremony, the familiar tightness in her chest had begun blossoming. By the time the ceremony was done, and the stupid medal hung heavily around her neck, it was all she could do to plaster on a tight smile and nod her head dumbly at people who stepped up to congratulate her. Hastily she had made her way towards the wall of glass doors beckoning her to darkness and freedom, and stole outside as inconspicuously as possible.
She forced herself to control and slow her breathing, focusing on the sensation of the crisp night air filling her lungs, admiring how the stars glittered in the cool, black sky above. As her pulse slowed and the tension in her chest gradually unwound, she heard the balcony door opening, followed by footsteps.
His footsteps. Approaching her. His tread was unnaturally quiet, but sometime in the past few months she’d become hyperaware of his presence– in the classroom, in the Great Hall, passing in the corridors. She was pretty sure she’d kept these new feelings so carefully under wraps that even he was unaware, unlike the bouts of panic she’d been battling when school had begun last autumn.
Of course he'd noticed those. Nothing slipped past him. It was why he'd first reached out to her outside of normal classwork, back in September, when it became apparent she was struggling with panic attacks and dissociative episodes, and he'd modified a pre-existing potion to address her symptoms. Not that it was a cure, mind you, but it knocked back her symptoms to a manageable enough level that the tools she'd been working on in therapy actually stood a chance of being effective.
“Miss Granger.”
She shivered slightly at the sound of his voice, and turned to greet him.
“Professor Snape,” she said with a smile. “I’m astonished you haven’t made your escape already, sir.”
He shrugged. “I was about to, but I was concerned by your sudden exit, and wanted to check on you.”
She suppressed another shiver. “That’s very kind of you, sir, but please don’t linger on my account.”
Apparently she hadn’t suppressed the shiver enough, because suddenly he was removing his outer cloak and wrapping it carefully around her shoulders. It felt like a warm embrace, substantial, redolent of cedar and sumac.
“Oh, sir, you don’t have to do that!”
“Now now, Miss Granger. Your attire, stunning though it might be, is not quite adequate to the night chill.”
Now she was suppressing a gasp instead of a shiver. Stunning?? “No, I suppose it isn’t– errr, thank you. You’re looking well yourself, sir. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you in anything but your black teaching robes.” Oh no, no, no. Too familiar. Stop babbling!
Perhaps she was imagining it, but she could have sworn a faint blush crept up his cheeks. “It is not possible to be in Lucius Malfoy’s circle of friends and not own at least one really decent set of dress robes. Narcissa wouldn’t tolerate it, for one thing,” he smirked.
Chuckling, she nodded, not permitting herself to say anything else lest the babbling recommence. He looked up and cocked his head slightly as strains of Strauss faintly wafted over them from the party. “I believe the dancing part of the evening has commenced.” He held out a hand to her. “Do you know the waltz, Miss Granger?”
She nodded again and forced herself to put words together into something resembling a sentence. “I do, sir, yes. But–” she hesitated– “Is this appropriate, sir?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said coyly.
Was he flirting with her?!??
“Besides,” he added, “As of our last class meeting, I am no longer officially your teacher, at least in terms of impacting your grade.” Expectantly he held up his left hand, while reaching out with his right. Once her brain finished processing his gesture and words, she took the corresponding position and followed his lead. “Minerva insisted we submit all final grades for the seventh-year NEWT students before starting the exam revision. From this point forward, if Mr. Weasley, for instance, chooses not to avail himself of the practice and review sessions, I cannot dock his grade. But his NEWT scores, I suspect, would suffer tremendously.”
Again, her brain was struggling with the full import of his words. Not her teacher anymore? And he was telling her this now? She refused to read any deeper meaning into it. His proximity was already incredibly distracting. Mercifully, the height difference meant that she could avoid eye contact without being weird about it, instead studying the paisley on his waistcoat or gazing off at the fairy lights draped over the pergola. And she was grateful for his dancing proficiency– his lead was sturdy, but not pushy, so she could move through the steps almost automatically.
“So…” he began nonchalantly. “Do you have anything exciting planned after exams? Are you doing any traveling?”
“Oh! Well, I'm heading down to Australia to visit with my parents in late July, help them close up shop and prepare to move back home. But until then, I'm planning to do as little as possible, frankly. Catch up on some frivolous reading, maybe hit a few museums in London, that sort of thing.” She chuckled ruefully. “Horribly dull, sorry.”
“Oh I disagree, Miss Granger. That sounds… delightful, in all honesty.”
She finally met his eyes. “Yeah?”
For just a moment, his expression was unguarded. She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “Yeah.”
She flushed and forced herself to look away before she stumbled over her own two feet. But he continued in a slightly hesitant tone.
“I ask because I was thinking… Perhaps you'd like to meet up for a day in London? Grab a bite, ‘hit a museum’, as you say…??”
“Oh!” Then she did misstep for just a moment, her cheeks burning hotly.
“You don't need to answer right away, Miss Granger. Just file it away, think about it, let me know later…”
Disappointment warred with relief as the waltz came to an end. He stepped back with a courteous bow of his head and proffered the crook of his arm to her. He paused when they were still some distance from the ballroom doors, and removed his cloak from her shoulders while apologizing, “You might face awkward questions if you were seen wearing my cape. But permit me to cast a warming spell?”
She nodded mutely, already missing the weight and scent of his garment. They walked together up to the ballroom doors. “If you are amenable to my invitation, Miss Granger, I shall be at Hogwarts for a week following the Farewell Feast. Send me an owl if you’d like to make plans.” Then, with a smirk and a wink, he took his leave.