(September 17, 2004)
By brensgrrl
Warnings/Rating:M; Slash; Het (RW/HG)
Pairing(s):Harry/Severus; Ron/Hermione
Archive:Originally written for the HP/SS FQF (but missed the submission date)
Challenge:Meets the "Matchmaker Ron" Challenge;
Post Hogwarts/Post War;
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
"Ah, you're early," a familiar smooth voice called out,
"I wasn't expecting you until four."
"Well, I had a few minutes in between cases and I thought I would stop by."
"I'm not quite finished," the disembodied voice countered, "go have a
seat. I'll need about ten more minutes."
Ron Weasley made his way to the waiting area, a comfortable space adorned by a brown leather sofa and two armchairs. Various magazines were fanned across the top of a low-slung table in front of the sofa, and a silver tea service had been laid atop a nearby sideboard.
"Help yourself to tea if you like," the voice called out again, seemingly clairvoyant.
"Thanks." Ron got himself a cup and two tiny sandwiches. Taking a bracing sip, he stood back and looked about his surroundings once more.
He'd been in The Travelling Alchemist on more occasions than he could count, yet the place still held a fascination for him.
He took a deep breath and inhaled a heady combination of aromas.
This was no ordinary apothecary shop. Rather than the reeking miasma of odors usually present in such places, there was the persistent sweet smell of vanilla, the bracing scent of juniper, a clean sharp whiff of citrus and a bouquet of pungent herbs, all mingling in the air, competing for attention. Instead of leaking barrels of slimy stuff lined up on a filthy floor and walls filled with shelves of dusty jars, there was aisle upon aisle of polished oaken cabinets where ingredients were stored in neatly labeled bins, bottles or containers, and walls graced by tan brocade wallpaper and huge mirrors with sculptured gilded frames. The floors were of finished oak, as burnished as the storage cabinets. In place of the usual random bundles of feathers, fangs, and claws hanging from rough-hewn rafters, the ceiling was decorated in panels of antique brass artfully arranged around two magnificent crystal chandeliers. Just as in any such place, there was the obligatory rack of patent potions and nostrums, many of them cosmetics; and a special section, just for students, held the latest in items that would be needed to meet any school's curriculum. The whole place was clean, tasteful, stylish, orderly.
Of course it was.
Its owner and proprietor was one Severus Snape, holder of the Order of Merlin, First Class, unlikely Hero of the Wizarding World and former Potions Master of Hogwarts.
A bell on the door tinkled and a heavily pregnant witch stepped inside, bringing a blast of the cold late autumn air with her. The owner in question peered around the doorway of the compounding room and over his square-rimmed readers as he called out, "I'll be right with you, Mrs. Orr."
"Thank you Mr. Snape," Mrs. Orr responded as she awkwardly lowered herself to the sofa. "Just have to take a load off," she murmured, smiling at Ron. "You'd think I'd be lighter, what with the food not staying down and all. . ."
After several minutes, Snape rounded the corner from the compounding area, wiping his hands with a white cloth. He put the cloth into the pocket of his leather apron and drew a cup of tea for the seated woman.
"Don't trouble yourself to get up just yet, madam. I am without my apprentice today and so I am running just a little bit late."
The woman accepted the tea and smiled. "That's okay. I'll wait. Clementine said that you are the best at this sort of thing and it'll be worth it."
"Yes," Snape answered. Mrs. Farley is one of my best customers."
"I daresay she is," Mrs. Orr took a deep sip of her tea, "what with six children and all."
Snape gave her a curt nod and turned to Ron. "Weasley, could you stand in for Lovegood for a bit and assist me?" Snape made a gesture indicating that Ron was to accompany him and they walked back to the compounding room together.
'"Certainly, Professor."'
As Ron walked a step behind his former teacher, he considered that little had changed about him, despite his better fortunes and altered circumstances. He still favored handmade attire of unrelieved black, fastened with a multitude of small cloth-covered buttons; and when he wasn't in the shop, he could usually be found stalking about both Diagon and Knockturn in his typical drift of swirling darkness.
Since the war's end, though, Snape seemed to have acquired a few atypical habits that evinced an altered personality. He did seem less given to fits of temper, especially after the grueling Inbhir Nis Trials, but he was still as taciturn as ever. Then, he'd adopted the atypical habit of doffing his sack coat and rolling the sleeves of his white cotton shirt up to his elbows when working, notwithstanding the appearance of the pacific Dark Mark that still stained his left arm.
Perhaps freely displaying the most shocking evidence of his past seemed to be his way of sneering at anyone who couldn't or wouldn't "get over it." In light of what Snape had gone through Ron understood this eccentricity and it did nothing to harm his own civil working relationship with the man. Nevertheless, these little things also helped him to understand why Snape was still living a solitary life.
Who would want to be with so openly notorious a person?
The more Ron considered that exact thing, though, the more he wondered.
There was something intriguing about Snape's sharp intellect and intensity. His unflinching way of assessing a person in a calculating manner was oddly compelling, even though age and time was now claiming his vision such that those inquisitive dark eyes peered through spectacles that rested low on his hawkish nose most of the time.
Another strange thing was the twinkle .
At times, Ron could swear that Snape's obsidian eyes actually "twinkled" behind those geometric lenses, just like a certain other former teacher's eyes did. Oftentimes, the little glimmer would show when the Professor was delivering his most caustic comments, contradicting the words uttered.
But that was just a trick of the light, wasn't it?
"By the way, how is Luna working out?" Ron asked.
"She is actually quite good, if one is able to ignore the inane chatter
and offhand things she says. And the infernal singing." Ron laughed out loud as Snape continued, " I am fairly certain that she'll make an excellent Potioneer one day, but only if she learns the value of silent contemplation. I am even thinking of recommending her to Minerva eventually."
"She's out today?"
"Yes. I've given her the month off, actually. It's her father. I fear that he's finally come to the end. He isn't expected to survive the week."
Ron sighed. "Well, that could be a mercy, then. Victims of those types of curses rarely last a year and here he's gone on for nearly five."
"It will be a mercy, as you say."
"And Quentin—what's he been up to lately?" Ron asked.
The pair entered the compounding room where Ron could see that Snape had already prepared a number of phials of the Meton Elixir and placed them in the hospital case. The glass beaker still had several doses in it, evidence of the interruption of his work.
"Apparently he's been up to getting his education."
"Prefect, then?"
"No. He didn't get it. He was rather disappointed for a bit; things were a little rough at the beginning of term. But he seems to be throwing all of his nervous energy into his books now. I've been receiving glowing reports from Minerva."
Ron laughed, "I'm not at all surprised."
"Well then," Snape sighed, I need three more phials for the Meton and then that's done and you can be on your way. Why don't you go to the storeroom and get the phials for me, while I take care of Mrs. Orr's requisition." Snape turned abruptly and mounted a stepladder to retrieve a jar of Strigare from a high cabinet.
Ron started for the storeroom, then turned to ask, "Where would the phials be in there?"
"Erm, just behind the desk in a box on the lower shelf."
"Right then," Ron called back from the storeroom, "I see them."
Ron reached down and retrieved four phials from the box. It was when he turned back toward the door that he saw it. Unhidden, openly lying on the top of the desk.
A silvery-white invitation ingraved in deep green lettering.
He knew that he shouldn't look at it.
It was none of his business.
But the last one he'd seen had been Charlie's, three years ago, and he was intrigued and curious.
So he went over to the desk and stood so that he could read it without touching it.
BAL DE CORDON VERDE
Festival
Saturday, Thirteenth December
Two-Thousand Three
Emerald City AuditoriumNew Orleans, Louisiana
No: 479
Admit M r.Severus Snape
Strictly Personal
So Snape was finally going to do it.
He was finally going to find a mate.
About time, too.
Ron had but a second to muse on this and all of its implications when he was called.
"Weasley!"
Ron set a phial on the floor and kicked it under the desk to buy himself time while he read the date on the invitation once more.
"Erm, yes Professor," Ron answered, "I dropped one of them and it rolled under the desk."
"Well leave that one, then. It's probably contaminated anyway. I'll get it later. Just get another one and get out here."
"Right then," Ron responded as he fled the room.
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
"Earth to Ron Weasley, are you there?" Hermione crooned as her fingers made lazy circles on Ron's bare chest.
"Wha?"
Hermione leaned up over him on one elbow, one of her nipples grazing his.
"Ronald! You've been distracted all evening, even when we. . ."
Ron gave a lazy smile. "Not distracted at all. I managed it then, didn't I? You weren't complaining."
Hermione lifted a pillow and hit him with it. "You're insufferable, you know that!"
"Yup. And that's why you're marrying me in Feburary." He rose up on his elbows just enough to give her a peck on the mouth and then dropped back into the prone position, his arms folded behind his head.
She threw her fluffy weapon off to the side and laid her head on his chest. "Do you think he'll come to the wedding? I really do want him there."
"Severus will come. He told me. . ."
"Not Snape, you prat. Harry. Do you think that Harry will come. We haven't heard from him in months and months."
"He'd better. He's to stand up for me."
After a long silence, Ron sat up abruptly, throwing Hermione off.
"Hey! I was just getting comfortable there. . ."
"Sorry love, but I just thought of something. If we don't tell Harry that Snape will be there, we might be able to ambush him into patching up his differences with the man. If we can just get the two of them into the same room. . ."
"Humph!" Hermione muttered, lying back and tucking Ron's pillow beneath her touseled head. "If the two of them are in the same room, a riot is liable to start. We both know that Harry is in some kind of denial. He'll never admit that he was wrong—that he tried to send Snape to Azkaban and execution. Everytime we try to get Harry to talk about his feelings, he tells us about the next ship he's been assigned to."
"But Severus knows that Harry will be there, and he's not letting that stop him from coming," Ron countered. "Besides, I'm thinking that there's more than mere guilt involved in Harry's avoiding him. It's something that Harry said to me the last time we talked." Ron reclined once more.
"The last time you talked?"
"Yeah. It was after I asked him to stand up for me. Did you know that Harry likes blokes?"
Hermione shifted and turned to face her fiancé. "Harry's gay? " she frowned.
"Does that bother you?"
"No," Hermione replied with a slow deliberateness that revealed that something about it did bother her. "It's just that he never told me. Wait until I see him next! Whatever does that have to do with Snape anyway?"
Ron took a breath and breathed out a sigh.
"You aren't saying," Hermione shook her head, "that even after all that's happened. . ."
Ron proferred no answer, but continued his consideration of the ceiling.
"Well, Professor Snape's moved on with his life. That's been pretty clear for a while now. And we don't know that Snape is even of the same inclination as Harry. What we do know is that he's not a forgetting person. There's no way he'd have anything at all to do with Harry." Hermione hit the pillow again for emphasis.
"Speaking of 'moving on,' guess what Severus is up to now?" Ron asked.
"I can't imagine," Hermione responded with an irritated tone.
"He's in the marriage market."
Hermione sat up. "What do you mean?"
"I was in between cases so I went over to Snape's to get the Meton Elixir for the cancer ward. Severus had a customer, so he asked me to help out by getting some stuff from the workroom. There on his desk was an Admit Card for the Cordon Verde Festival."
"Cordon Verde," Hermione was thoughtful for a moment, "Who would have guessed that he would even apply? But that Contract Ball is to be held in the United States this year."
"Yeah. New Orleans, the card said. December 13th. "
"Snape's really going to go through with it, then. That proves that he isn't gay. Quentin's going to get a mother! That means that we can expect him to bring a Mrs. Snape with him to the wedding. " This is exciting!" Hermione smiled as she rested her head on Ron's chest once again.
"Shows how much you know," Ron responded, "gay witches and wizards go to those contract balls too. He might be bringing back a Mister Snape, for all we know. "
"Oh!" Hermione paused for a moment, more than a little surprised. .
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
The two of them peeled off from the rest of Ron's entourage in front of Madam Malkin's, waving goodbye to the Twins, Dean and Seamus.
Harry sighed. "No offense, Ron, but I, for one, will be glad when this is all over. Malkin's assistant very nearly castrated me with those scissors. Besides, I feel awkward. I've almost forgotten what wizarding robes are like."
"Sorry Harry, but Hermione's parents are insisting on a big wedding. We would have been happy with a Handfasting in the back garden at the Burrow, but her mum and dad want everything perfect. They are paying for all of this." Ron chuckled. "'Mione's dad told me quite firmly that they only have one daughter and they've been looking forward to this all their lives. I guess I'm just along for the ride."
Harry stopped and turned to face his friend, "As long as you two are happy, that's all that matters."
"We ARE. Very much so. We'll survive all the fuss."
"Right. Next thing, they'll all be nagging about kids."
"No problem," Ron laughed, "we both want lots. Mom'll be knitting till the day she dies. And what about you--are you happy? Guess you don't get much chance to even be a wizard, what with working among all those muggles."
Ron's question caught Harry by surprise.
"I suppose I'm as happy as I can be," Harry answered slowly. "It's rough work, I know, but it's good work. I actually love fishing. I mean, it's cold most times and dangerous sometimes, but the men I work with are good, simple people, and I guess that's what I needed. No one treats me as if I should be packed in cotton wool and I'm respected. None of my shipmates are wizards, so everything is done by hand and without magic. But just working with my hands seems to give me time to actually think about things."
"What things?" Ron asked. "What are you thinking about?" Ron stopped his friend's forward momentum with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Harry jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and paused for a moment, considering. "All sorts of things. How things were; how things are. What happened and why it happened."
"Harry, that's even more reason for you to come home. You're isolated out there. All you have time to do is brood over what happened during the war. It's all over now. You need to be around people of your own kind, people who understand you."
"I don't brood," Harry responded with a soft smile. "I just needed time to think about things. About me and my life. And I like it there." He gave Ron a direct look before continuing.
"There are times when the work lulls and you're not pulling gear and you just stop and look around. When the waves are spiking and the gulls are following and the skies are sparkling clear, you realize exactly how small you are and how vast the universe is. You get perspective. God knows I needed perspective."
They stopped for a moment to gaze in the window of the Quality Quidditch Supplies shop.
"Haven't played in years," Ron mumbled, "Not since finishing my mediwizard training. Don't you miss things, Harry?"
"Some things, yes. I've missed you and Hermione. . ." Harry paused to blink back the sudden wetness of his eyes. "but the Faroes are beautiful, especially in summer. We stop there sometimes. One of these days you and Hermione should go for a visit. The scenery is awesome. And, like I said, the deckhands are my mates and I don't have to spend time looking over my shoulder anymore. It may not seem like much to you, but I don't feel at home anywhere else."
"So that's what perspective is like," Ron responded.
Harry sighed and pointed at the broom on display. "Funny this, then," The Firebolt 2004. Fastest broom ever." He gave a soft little laugh. "I remember a time when having one of these would have made me the happiest person on Earth."
Ron paused quietly for a moment before speaking. "Well, what would make you the happiest person on Earth now?"
Harry ducked his head, looked down, and then turned from the window display.
"I'm fine just the way I am, Ron."
"No you aren't." Ron touched Harry's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity. "Harry, why don't you do yourself a favor and go to the last Contract Ball. You're a Hero of the Wizarding World. You're sure to find someone there, someone to take your mind off of him."
"Ron! I told you that I'd given up on all of that," Harry protested.
"But you haven't have you? It's written all over you. I'd even bet that you're still collecting articles about him and following his life. "
Harry ducked his head.
Ron sighed before continuing. " If you're not going to go tell him how you feel, you may as well go to the damn Contract party and find someone else."
"I dunno, Ron. Makes me sound sort of desperate, if you know what I mean. "
"No it doesn't, mate. Some of the best people go to those. Charlie did, just a couple of years back. Don't worry. It's late but Hermione can get you in. It's over in the States, in New Orleans, so why don't you just take a bit of a vacation over there. A change of scenes will do you good. You CAN afford it. Besides, it's just one night. Whattya say? Give it a go, then?" Ron turned his brightest and most earnest 'Best Mate' smile toward Harry.
The pair of them had ganged up on him. There was no use in arguing.
"I suppose," Harry relented.
"Great!" Ron gave him a hearty pat on the back. They suddenly found themselves in front of the Leaky Cauldron. "Here, now. I'll go fire-call Hermione for the particulars, and I'll give the information to you over a pint."
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Harry threw the cigarette over the balcony railing and watched the faint glow of it's lit end disappear into the dark water below. He hated London; he hated England itself, in fact. From Land's End to O'Groats it was nothing but bad memories and constant reminders of every mistake he'd ever made. That was why he'd chosen this distant hotel. If it weren't for his friends, he never would've returned.
He winced when he thought of his behavior that night: how he'd let anger blind him for so long; how foolish he'd felt at Inbhir Nis when he finally found out the truth; how desperately he wanted to make amends.
How he couldn't dare tell anyone how he really felt.
He finished what was left of the Guinness in a single go, and stared up at the unsympathetic stars.
Why won't it stay in its grave where it belongs?
sssssssssss
He'd been following Snape for hours, dazed by the storm and his own rage. Lightening illuminated the bleak landscape around him, and then he saw Snape striding determinedly toward the rotting pile on the pier. Trying to hide and hurry at the same time, he'd felt violence singing in his blood as he watched the swirl of the man's black robes.
As the rain sluiced down and the sea bellowed, he had anticipated the moment, rehearsing it over and over in his mind—catching Snape off guard, hexing him and taking his wand. After breaking it, he'd beat the man to death. A beating would be so much more satisfying than just using one of the curses. He pictured Snape lying at his feet in a cowl of his own blood and himself standing triumphant over the broken body.
A strange fog rolled across the littoral rocks and Snape disappeared into one of the dilapidated pavilions. Harry followed him eagerly, thoughtlessly, anxious for the kill.
For long minutes Harry had stumbled through one dark, empty room after another--the smell of decades of mildew and dust assaulting his nostrils; the splintered floorboards grabbing at his cloak; strange dark-twisted hulks of fallen debris throwing themselves into his path. He rounded yet another corner, and noticed a much different odor, a smell like rotting flesh, the odor of putrefaction.
There was a sudden loud scrabbling, scraping sound in front of him; something was crawling near. Then the darkness decended, a familar thick, sepulchral darkness that he'd once experienced in a alley in Little Whinging. There was a sound of breathing just a few feet in front of him, a loud rasping noise in the dark. Voices were screaming inside his head as something rubbery and moist wrapped around his ankle and Harry felt his muscles lock with terror.
And then, the room filled with a bright white light that provided enough illumination to define the horror that was crawling about his feet. A thing as large as a sheep with four arms, three tentacles and a human head, backed away from him with a squeal. Harry lost a heartbeat as he watched the creature spider into a large hole in the wall. Suddenly, the Invisibility Cloak was jerked away. Harry turned, flailing, only to see Snape smirking at him from the doorway, the shimmering garment in his hand, the shining silhouette of a great four-footed bird forming a glowing nimbus above his greasy head.
"I see that you've learned nothing, boy!" Snape hissed. "You are still broadcasting, even after all my warnings. I knew you were behind me the whole time, stumbling about in this, your mind screaming for my blood." Snape threw the cloak into a corner as the glittering, hovering bird-like form spread massive wings and dissapated in a cloud of silver smoke. "Too imprudent and too reckless to see that you've staggered into a nest of elemental dementors and a fight that you could never win. Then again, your narrow-minded fixations have never restrained your behavior before, have they?"
"SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!" Harry shouted, as he drew his wand.
Snape took out his wand and tossed it into the corner with the Cloak.
"So then, " he continued silkily, "you want to beat me to death? You want my guts for garters, do you?"
Snape waved his arm at the ceiling, a warding gesture. Then he swaggered over to stand in front of Harry, oblivious of the wand pointed at his chest.
"Let's do it then if you think you've the stones for it," he hissed.
With a howl, Harry dropped his wand and lunged at the wizard who mocked him. He felt his fingers close about Snape's throat and he squeezed as hard as he could, digging his thumbs into Snape's Adam's Apple. The two lurched about the room in a wild deadly silence until Snape wedged his forearms underneath Harry's, and in an upward thrust, broke the boy's grip on his throat. Harry stumbled back, only to launch himself at his enemy once again. Harry smashed his fist into Snape's face and felt the jawbone collapse with a satisfying crunch. He drew back his fist and struck again, the force of the blow sending a blast of pain echoing up his arm. Snape's face contorted with rage and he gave Harry a backhand slap that sent him reeling. Harry felt his feet slipping out from under him and he fell to the floor, landing on his back. It was then that Harry realized that the slickness underfoot wasn't water.
The rush of smell was rich, ripe, coppery.
Blood.
Who had died here? How many would die because of Snape's betrayal?
"You MONSTER!" Harry bellowed, as he rose. "You've killed someone in here!"
"How very astute," Snape rasped. "Only, as usual, in your arrogance you have it wide of the mark. ."
Harry sickened as he felt a familiar feeling of paralysis claim his body. He fell backwards onto the filthy floor, immobile. For long minutes, all he could see as he lay was Snape's shoes flashing in and out of his field of vision as the man paced next to his head. Harry heard a cracking sound as Snape muttered a charm to repair his shattered jaw. The feet stopped next to his head, and Harry feared a kick.
"I am only going to say this ONCE, Mr. Potter, no repeats, so please let this sink into that amorphous mass between your ears," Snape hissed venomously. "I'll put this plainly since it is obvious that you couldn't get a clue from what I told you the last time we spoke. How you feel about me is irrelevant. Before you attempt any return to the presence of the Dark Lord, you must master the use of non-verbal spells and occlumency.
"You are the same sort of loudmouthed, overconfident fool that your father was. You are an idiot, Mr. Potter. You take everything at face value and think you know it all, when you know absolutely nothing. You need to go back to Lupin and learn some subtlety. Bravado will gain you nothing except a premature end. Your teenage egotism and inane wand waving will be disastrous."
The feet retreated away, and Harry heard the sound of a muttered spell.
"Believe me, Potter, the feeling is mutual. If everything were up to me, I'd let the baby dementors have you for dinner. That is exactly what happened to the last fool who ignored my warnings about this place. But I AM a better man than your worthless dogfather. I don't feed people to monsters."
Snape had returned then, knelt next to him and pressed a piece of broken crockery into his hand, before continuing, "Even if they deserve it."
Harry had felt the familar tug behind his navel as the dark room whirled out of existence and the Hogsmeade Square clocktower winked into his vision.
sssssssssssss
Once again, Snape had saved him. Because of Snape, he'd lived to fight another day. And another, and another until the destruction of the final horcrux.
And time had passed, and he'd finally come to appreciate. . .
"It's useless. I was wrong. . .so wrong. I screwed it up. I fuck everything up! Harry murmured aloud as the empty stout glass followed the cigarette to a watery grave.
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
It wasn't like any of the usual places Harry sought out to take the edge off his lonliness. There was no crowded, smoky dance floor loaded with nearly naked people pounding their bodies together to a heart-jarring beat. There was no meat-market bar with its expected gauntlet of leering trade.
But, of course, it couldn't possibly be like those places.
The sorts of people who went to the usual places that Harry went to weren't looking for serious relationships.
These people were. And Harry finally was, too.
Harry sighed a little and pulled himself to full height, which hadn't turned out to be all that impressively much, given his childhood history of malnutrition. For a minute, he looked out into the ballroom where the atmosphere, though festive, was sedate—nearly stately.
The room was full of all kinds of elegantly dressed duos; witches with wizards, witches with witches, wizards with wizards.
In one corner, a band was playing tasteful dance music, and several couples whirled about in each other's arms on the burnished floor. Harry noticed that the people who weren't dancing were accommodated at some of the surrounding tables, which had been designed to seat only two people at a time. Yet other couples were lounging in the loveseats that were discreetly recessed into alcoves. In a room beyond, billiards was being played. Above, there was a shadowy gallery illuminated only by the soft glow of candlelight. The room's décor was opulent in varying shades of green, gold and silver, and Harry mused for a moment on how Slytherin it looked.
Clearly, the place was full of people, but it didn't seem crowded, because everything about the space invited pairing off to be alone with someone……Everywhere there was the gentle hum of serious conversation punctuated by occasional high soft laughter, so unlike the feral shouts and screams in the clubs.
A young black woman glided toward him, beautifully dressed in deep blue formal robes, her hair done up in elaborate braids and one of her arms swathed in strands of green and gold beads. She offered her hand and Harry shook it.
"Welcome, welcome to the Bal de Cordon Verde. Krewe Emerald City welcomes you!" She untangled two of the gaudy necklaces and lifted them over Harry's head. She was about to drape them around his neck when she paused, gaping, wide eyed.
"You're. . ."
"Harry Potter," he breathed, finishing for her.
She gave her head a shake and finished settling the beads around his neck. Then she held out her hand to take his Admit Card. "Forgive me. I tend to be somewhat star-struck. I'm Elyse Moore. Chair of the Ribbon Balls U.S. this year."
"Yes," Harry sighed, "some friends recommended me."
"Your friends are both discreet and caring, then. You've come to the right place." She gestured toward a nearby office, and he followed her in.
She slid the ropes of beads off her arms and took a leather bound book out of a drawer. Then she inserted the Admit Card between the leaves and tapped it with the tip of her long, thin, oddly speckled wand. She noticed him watching and spoke right up.
"It's American Sycamore. Fourteen inches, Eagle feather."
"I've never seen anything like it."
"You wouldn't. This particular type of Sycamore is not generally found in the old country."
At that, a piece of parchment bearing a list of names appeared on top of the closed book. She took an unadorned, small, round badge out of the drawer and fastened it to the collar of Harry's robe. Then she pointed a finger at the parchment.
"This is your list of most compatibles. You can seek them out or if you want more privacy you can wait in the gallery above and we will send them to you. The pin is so they can find you as well. It will give off a little glow when you are close to each other. Much more discreet than awkward first lines, don't you think? "
Harry nodded in assent before answering, "I think that I want to walk around a bit first."He tucked the list into an inside pocket of his robe.
"Very well then. But there is a little rule. We want you to circulate fully so that everyone has a chance, and so after you've spent fifteen or twenty minutes with a person, you'll get a gentle reminder." She clapped and a short rotund man suddenly appeared in the doorway.
"Monsieur Laurent, this is Mr. Harry Potter." She turned to face Harry, "This is Jaques Laurent, one of my associates. There are several of us who will keep le bon temps roulement, as it were. He will show you to a table."
Harry shook the man's hand. "Near the dance floor, please. I enjoy dancing."
"As you wish."
With practiced aplomb, Monsieur Laurent wove his way through the tables toward an unoccupied one that was at the corner of the dance floor. As he passed the full ones, Harry could hear his name repeated in low murmurs, feel himself pursued by pairs of inquisitive eyes. Harry was more than glad when one of the brocaded chairs was withdrawn so that he could be seated.
"For tonight, we offer a very light fare and our best champagne, a Dom Perignon." A silver ice bucket with a frosted bottle and two flutes appeared, along with a plate of canapés. "Of course, should you require anything else, you have but to ask."
"Thank you."
For a while, Harry sipped champagne and watched the soft whirl of dancers on the parquet. Many witches and wizards smiled at him, some nodding approvingly his way, but no one approached him, probably out of reticence or fear of rejection by someone so famous. He was left to muse for a bit on the circumstances that brought him here.
The oddest thing of all was that it seemed to be Ron who had insisted that he come here. Usually, it was Hermione who nagged about his seclusion, and Harry had worked hard to hide his private life. He'd even left England to put distance between himself and his loved yet nosy old friends. They couldn't know about the shore leaves and the clubs, the one-nighters, could they? They had to have found out somehow. Why else would Ron hit him with the idea of coming to this gathering? That had to be it. His discretion must have broken down at some point. He hadn't seen the Prophet in months. Could it be that some reporter had been sniffing about his trail, following the fishing fleets about? There wasn't any other reason why this would be so important to Ron all of a sudden. No. If that was it, then, there had to be a 'Hermione' involved in this.
Well, he'd play along, just for tonight. And then, after the wedding, he'd ask them nicely to mind their own business.
As he gulped down what remained of his champagne, a cool breeze drifted over his table, alerting him to the open French Doors in the room just past where the band was playing.
Harry refilled his glass, rose from the table, and meandered through the billiards room and out onto the balcony. There, just beyond the ornate wrought iron balustrade, he was treated to a magnificent view of Bourbon Street below.
He had been standing for a bit, one hand upon the railing, listening to the soft echoes of jazz from a nearby bar, when he was interrupted by a low baritone voice.
"Someone said that Harry Potter was attending tonight, but I didn't believe them until now."
"Why?" Harry responded, without turning. "Were you thinking it impossible that someone like me would come to a place like this?"
"Not actually," the possessor of the voice moved closer, "it's just that you've got a following of thousands. Everyone knows that. Women—men—all willing to fall at your feet. You could have your pick of any bed at all. Why the hell would you need to be in this place?"
"I don't want thousands." Harry said, raising his glass to his lips and emptying it. "I am looking for just one person; what I need is a somebody, somewhere who will see past all the hype and just see me."
For a bit, the two men stood in silence, letting the night noises of the street below wash over them.
"I know what you mean," the man then offered softly as he moved next to Harry and placed his hand on the balcony rail. Harry turned to see a mane of unruly golden hair framing a broad, handsome face. Delft blue eyes met his, teasing and beckoning. Harry gestured with the hand that was still holding the champagne flute, forefinger extended.
"You're. . ."
"Curt Matthews. . ."
"Drummer for the Beggar's Banquet." Harry smiled then, and let his eyes drift down and up again, taking in the appearance of the man. No glitz, just a guy wearing a soft white shirt tucked into tight, faded jeans. On the point of his collar, his pin was glowing softly. This prompted Harry to look down to see his own, shining in response.
"You'd know something about having a following of thousands."
"Maybe. The Banquet isn't as popular as the Sisters," Curt grinned.
"Yet," Harry added, returning his smile.
Curt took Harry's free hand in his. The fingers of his other hand skimmed over his own badge. "I guess we're. . ."
"Yeah," Harry breathed, as he set his empty glass on the balcony rail.
"Wanna dance?"
Maybe this was one of Ron's better ideas, Harry thought to himself as his new friend led him to the dance floor.
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Monsieur Laurent stood in the doorway yet again, looking impatient, and the young man stood hesitantly.
"I guess my time's up," he said, offering his hand, a hopeful look on his face "I do hope you'll consider. . ."
"Indeed."
The young man sighed and followed Laurent from the room.
Severus Snape had been sitting in an upper gallery of the Emerald City Auditorium for more than two hours. As he stacked the pile of notes before him he considered what he had accomplished with his time thus far.
He'd interviewed three witches and three wizards. There had been a woman who was quite wealthy and very charming, but who was old enough to be his mother; another woman whose parents were quite wealthy, but who was young enough (and flighty enough) to have been one of his students; a young man, a singer, well known throughout the wizarding world; the witch who taught at a muggle university called 'Yale'; an actor who bore a striking and most unfortunate resemblance to Gilderoy Lockhart; and that last one, a man who fancied himself an artiste, but who was clearly out of his element.
The only one who made the evening worthwhile so far was the witch. . .
Yes. That one witch. . .
He took another sip of champagne as he shifted his parchments back to the notes he had taken about her.
All he had written was her name and a muggle telephone number.
"That's my campus residence," she'd whispered, "it wouldn't do to have that building attached to the Floo Network."
He allowed himself a half-grin as he thought of her, the Professor of Physics at the Muggle University. Something about her gave him a hopeful thrill of expectation, a feeling that he hadn't known for over thirty years.
She had blown into the room like a summer storm, her gauzy kalisiris a wave of white and gold in her wake, her long, dark hair drifting about her bare shoulders like a cloud.
That one had done her research. Of course she did. She was a teacher. She knew all about him; that he'd been a Death Eater and a spy; that he owned an apothecary; that he had attended the ceremony for the Chemistry Prize in Oslo a year ago; that he had an adopted son. The conversation was open, intelligent, witty even.
And she was attractive. Very.
She'd flirted shamlessly with him for nearly an hour, cajoling and speaking in a honeyed contralto that made him lean toward her across the small table.
Then she had been called away to meet other people.
It had been rather pleasant. Especially the kiss.
Rather than taking her leave of him with a handshake, she'd glided over to him, framed his face with her slender brown hands and kissed him.
His grin turned into a full smile. Just thinking about her energized him.
She would, indeed, make a most intriguing companion.
Perhaps his 200 galleons hadn't been altogether wasted. Of course, the situation was far from ideal, but perhaps he had finally found someone who would agree to marry him, someone who could finally help him to forget. . .
"Pardon?" Laurent again discreetly appeared in the doorway of Snape's salle.
"Perhaps sir would like something to eat before the next set? Or perhaps you would prefer to mingle a bit? Quite a few of our guests have been asking about you." Laurent gestured over the gallery railing toward the dance floor below.
"I don't mingle and I don't dance. And I'm not hungry, but I would appreciate another. . ." Snape gestured idly toward the empty champagne bottle that was now upended in the ice bucket.
"Very well. And now, I have the young sir I told you about. . ."
Snape gave a windy sigh. "Right then. But get me the champagne first. And never mind the 'next set.' I'll meet him and then could you please ask Miss Howard to come see me again? I'm ready to negotiate."
Laurent shrugged as he departed.
Snape took off his reading glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
With a slight pop, a fresh bottle of champagne appeared on the table.
"At least," Snape murmured out loud, "I have this to fortify me for the next fruitless effort," he mumbled, replacing his specs.
ssssssssssssssss
Laurent waved him toward the doorway and faded into the following darkness of the hallway as silently as a house elf. Harry turned toward the light.
For a moment, he simply stared in shock.
It was Snape, of all people.
He hadn't changed.
Through the open door of the parlor that Laurent had led him to, he saw Severus Snape sitting at a table shifting through a stack of parchments. Periodically he would read the contents of a parchment, give a displeased scowl, and cross out something. He looked, for all the world, as if he was going over a pile of poorly completed school assignments. From the stern and sour look on the man's face Harry half expected that some unfortunate souls were indeed being given marks: "Poor," "Dreadful," and "Troll."
Yet, he had changed.
His unnatural pallor had given way to a mere fairness of complexion. His coat was off, draped indecorously over a side chair, and his rumpled white cotton shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. Harry couldn't keep his eyes from following the column of that neck downward to the hollow of his throat and on to where the vee of the open shirt framed a wedge of scarred and cream-pale skin, lightly dusted with fine dark hair. At that, Harry swallowed hard, wondering what it might feel like to touch those silvery lines patterning Snape's chest.
Both of his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow so that Harry could see the bluish black stain of the Dark Mark, uncovered, on his left forearm. Though grey at the temples, the fall of his dark hair streamed over one shoulder, its heavy queue bound by a silver clasp. Square-rimmed silver spectacles rested low on his hawkish nose. There was nothing of handsomeness about him, yet there was a sort of allure, a glamour. He was, quite vividly, compelling and conspicuous and arcane.
And Harry felt a small, tight spiral of yearning unwind inside him. He finally found his voice as he leaned against the jamb.
Speaking of fruitless efforts," he said, and Snape's head jerked up.
sssssssssssssss
For an instant, Severus' world shifted and five years of space and time fell away.
Feelings that he'd worked so hard to inter crawled to the surface once again.
The years hadn't been unkind to Harry in any way.
His hair was close-cut and spiky on top, but styled long at the neckline and held back in a silver cord. The ubiquitous spectacles were gone, no doubt replaced by contact lenses.
His robes were clearly expensive; simply cut, elegant, and of an iridescent green so deep it was nearly black. Nevertheless, the volume of fabric did little to hide the broad shoulders, narrow hips and sleek compact strength of Harry's body. If anything, he appeared more robustthan the last time Severus had seen him.
The last time. . .yes, that last, when the cold jade of those eyes had burned with hatred as he'd been pointed out as Dumbledore's killer.
Now those same remarkable eyes that he remembered so well met his unflinchingly, and impudently swept the length of his body and back in a manner so direct and openly appraising that Severus shivered.
Somewhere, somehow, something had changed.
The room was suddenly too warm, and moisture pooled at the small of his back beneath the heavy dress robes. His heart sped up as blood and heat rushed to his face. And elsewhere.
sssssssssssssss
"Well, well," Harry intoned as he stalked into the room, "what a surprise."
Harry slid into the seat across the table from Snape, regarding his former teacher with a hard glare before speaking again, "Funny this; a man downstairs said there was some weirdo up here actually interviewing people for this as if it's some type of bloody job." Harry picked up one of the parchment stacks on the table as sorted through it, examining each for a moment before continuing, "Never in a million years reckoned it'd be you."
Snape simply stared back as if seeing a ghost.
"On the other hand, who else would do something like this." Harry held up a paper bearing a vivid red X.
"This," Snape replied softly as he snatched the paper back, "is none of your business."
Harry leaned over the table and picked up Snape's brightly glowing lapel badge.
"On the contrary, Severus," Harry drawled, dragging out the name, "I do believe this whole thing is my business," Harry sat back and tossed the badge up into the air and caught it again as if it were a coin he were flipping. "Treating love like some type of task on the 'to do' list is right up your alley, isn't it? So tell me Severus, did you get lucky?" Harry tossed the badge into the air again.
"I might just as easily ask the same question of you, Potter," Snape snatched the badge out of midair.
"You might, Snape," Harry replied, leaning back in his seat. "But then again, I never professed to be anything more than human. You, though, were always very proud of having no feelings or faults. You are after all, the great Severus Snape: better than the rest of us. Heaven forbid that you should ever need anyone. But I see that I could be wrong."
Snape's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "What. Are. You. Raving. About!"
Harry leaned forward, "Who is Miss Howard?"
Snape cocked an eyebrow and folded his arms. "And just why would that be of any concern to you, Mr. Potter? Laurent told me that he had to pluck you from the arms of some young Lothario in order to get you up here." Snape gazed directly at Harry, smirking. "One would think you were jealous."
For a moment, Harry was struck dumb. Was that what this feeling was-- jealousy?
"So you can stop wasting your time and my money and take yourself right back downstairs," Snape continued gravely as he restacked his parchments. "This interview is over. Good evening, Mr. Potter. "
"Severus?" a soft voice called as an attractive woman entered the room. "Oh, sorry! I didn't realize. . ." she stuttered as she noticed Harry.
Snape stood. "Ah, Charlotte. Do come in. He's leaving."
She came to Snape's side, and he took her hand in his.
Somethng akin to astonishment knifed through Harry. He froze in his seat. "You don't even LIKE women. Why are you with HER?" Harry hissed.
Snape reddened. "That's none of your business, Potter. Besides, I hardly think that you qualify to judge my preferences. I didn't ask you about the man you were kissing in the billiards room, and so it is none of your affair who I see here." Snape gave a dismissive wave. "Now, if you will kindly do me the favor of getting out. . ."
Harry's stomach lurched as he looked at their joined hands. He felt completely overwhelmed, smashed to pieces beneath a tidal wave of feelings he did not anticipate or predict. How dare the Snape be here—how dare he give away things!
Harry swept his arm over the tabletop sending badge and parchments to the floor. The bottle of red ink was overturned, its contents splattering across the table like blood. "You left. No forwarding address. You couldn't get away fast enough."
The woman spoke again then as she squinted, her eyes on Harry. "Are you?"
Harry's only response was an angry roll of his eyes.
Snape turned toward her, patting her hand between his. "Charlotte, I am ever so sorry about this wretched display. It seems that I have some unfinished business with Potter. Could you please wait for me downstairs?"
Her eyes widened a little. "Sure," was all she said as she slipped her hand from Snape's and departed.
Snape folded his arms across his chest and sighed through his nostrils. He tipped his head and glared at Harry over the rims of his glasses.
"And just why would I inform you of my whereabouts, Potter? You aren't my keeper and I owe you nothing. At any rate, the last time I saw you, you wanted to see me forced past the Veil. Or has amnesia set in?"
"But I heard that you forgave me—and I forgave you--"
"I did forgive you, Potter, but not in the maudlin, sentimental way that you may know as such. I know exactly what I said. And I know precisely what I meant."
"You forgave me," Harry murmured, a plea.
"The war was over and in the name of Albus' memory I decided that I was unwilling to waste any further energy on prior slights. The simple fact is that when I realized that I did have people who believed in me, people who were willing to risk both their honor and their reputation to stand by me, I decided that holding onto the things of the past would only mean continuing to fight. Taking care of Quentin confirmed the rightness of my decision. "
" So we're even then, we can begin again; start over?" Harry said softly.
"I said that I forgave you—but I haven't forgotten, Potter. We've far too much history for that."
"That doesn't mean that things can't be different in the future, does it?"
Snape's eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you asking, Potter?"
Harry knelt and fished among the scattered parchments on the floor until he'd found the charmed badge. He held it out on his open palm, an offering. "I'm only saying that you should consider the possibility before you make any final decision."
Snape's glance fled from the badge to Harry's face, his clear and earnest eyes. All at once, Snape's mind was flooded by a million images from the past, a million doubts. All of the years of mutual mistrust and hatred swam to the surface, crowned by one big overriding question. Assuming he's truly changed, yet considering what we've been through, will I ever really be able to trust him? Will I ever be able to absolutely let go of the past and move forward with him?
Perhaps.
Harry let his arm drop to his side, seeing the Maybe in Snape's eyes.
"We've a contract, then?" Harry asked, rising.
"Certainly not," Snape replied, the corners of his mouth curling. "Under the circumstances, I believe that some sort of trial period is necessary.
Harry took a few steps forward, moving close enough to feel Snape's body heat. He tilted his head slightly to look up into the eyes of the still-taller-than-he-was former teacher.
Dark eyes glimmered down at him from behind square lenses in an oddly familiar sparkle, and the presence and the charisma of the man enveloped him in a warm fresh scent of moss and cedar, citrus and pepper. Harry let himself be drawn closer, close enough to lace his arms around Snape's neck, to hover in the warmth of his breath.
"I guess that's the best I could hope for," Harry whispered, sealing his mouth over Snape's.