Chapter 3 - the Box

Not knowing turned out to be a torturous affair.

Hermione went about her days as a nervous wreck, desperately trying to push the thought of the inevitable meeting to the back of her mind. In spending an unreasonable amount of hours at school in the daytime and most of her nights buried in house listings, she hoped that her mind and body would be too exhausted to even think about what was waiting for her around the corner.

She was wrong. Hardly a minute went by without her thoughts returning to the ever-present image of Snape and her contractual obligations. But if she was on edge, it was nothing compared to what Ron was going through. He was miserable, and miserable to be around.

One evening, however, when Ron was lying in bed, distractedly looking through an old copy of the Quibbler, muttering to himself, Hermione suddenly made a squeaking noise from her spot on the floor.

"Ron!" she practically screamed, pointing to a page in the magazine in front of her. "I've found our house!"

"Are you sure you can afford this?" the real estate agent asked skeptically. "It's a bit on the ... pricey side."

The small, detached three-bedroom brick-house was situated on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, in a very popular area where houses rarely came up for sale. It had been inhibited by a single, elderly Squib who had been living there for almost all of her life, until she recently passed away, just a couple of weeks ago. It was in dire need of some sprucing up, but it had a wonderfully well-kept garden and every potential in the world to become exactly what they wanted.

"We're sure," Hermione said firmly.

"Right." The agent rifled through some papers and then excused himself for a moment.

Hermione immediately turned to Ron. "What do think?" she asked giddily.

He shrugged. "It's alright, I guess."

She felt a pang of disappointment at his lack of enthusiasm, but decided not to make a big deal about it. It was a big decision, after all.

"Sir, madam," the agent said when he returned, a grim look on his face. "My check-up with Gringotts tells me otherwise, I'm afraid."

"Well, we're expecting some money," Hermione replied.

The agent looked at her suspiciously. "When?"

"In the next two weeks," Hermione lied, feeling Ron stiffen beside her.

"Would you be able to hold it for us?" she asked, cursing the waver in her voice. She really couldn't help it, she couldn't remember wanting anything as much as she wanted this house.

"Not really," the agent said reluctantly. "But I suppose I could make an exception ..."

Hermione broke out in a wide grin. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she said and shook his hand.

"Two weeks!" the agent said. "Not a day more."

"Don't worry," Hermione said breathlessly. "You'll get the money."

"So, it's decided then," Ron said hotly, as they were leaving. "You could have bloody well told me before we came here!"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione said, taken aback by his sudden outburst. "Ron, I just made that up so he would hold the house for us!"

The almost childish happiness she felt a second ago was brutally replaced by confusion.

"Rolled right off your tongue, didn't it, that little lie?" Ron replied testily.

"Do you really think I would sneak around with something like that?" she said shrilly. "You don't think you would notice me gone one night?" Sudden anger surged through her body. "I'm doing this for us, you know, it's not like I'm getting anything out of it personally!"

Ron slumped his shoulders and looked at her sheepishly. "You're right, you're right." He reached out for her hand, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

It was Saturday, that same week, and all of the Weasleys, including baby James and his parents, were at the Burrow. Molly was frantically bustling around the kitchen, preparing roast for what looked like a party of fifty, while the rest of them hung back in the living room, mostly keeping out of her way but also admiring the newest member of the family.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Molly popped her head into the living room, a perplexed look on her face as she counted her children, their spouses and spawn. "But everyone's here ..." she said. "Ron, could you be a sweetheart and get it?"

Ron shrugged and shuffled over to the door, opening it lazily.

"Hello," he said to the stranger in front of him, suddenly straightening up, his ears growing red. "Can I help you?"

Hermione peeked over Ron's shoulder, her curiosity getting the better of her, and was met by a pair of steely blue eyes belonging to a tall, slim, long-legged woman, with wavy black hair and quite a large set of teeth, holding out a beige box with a navy-blue ribbon tied around it.

"I'm Priscilla Scott, Sev-Mr. Severus Snape's ... assistant," the woman said, looking like she had bitten into something awfully sour. "I'm here to deliver a package for a Hermione Weasley."

There was something instantly dislikable about her that Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on. Maybe it was the way she held the box like it was filled to the brim with rotting cheese, the provocative, slightly haughty tilt of her chin or the almost invisible, disapproving grimace that flitted across her features when she scrutinized Hermione appearance.

Not to mention the way she so reluctantly admitted to being Snape's "assistant". Hermione wrinkled her nose. Exactly what kind of assistant are we talking about here? she thought distractedly.

"Thank you," Hermione said as she grabbed the box.

"You're quite ... welcome," Priscilla replied, flashing Hermione a toothy, insincere smile. She then whipped around and Apparated from the spot.

"Who was it?" Molly called out.

"This absolutely stunning lady," Ron said, a wide goofy grin plastered to his face, as they walked back into the kitchen. "She gave Hermione a gift, or something."

Hermione looked at her husband like he had completely lost his mind. Was he trying to make her jealous?

"Really, Ron?" She put the box on the table and folded her arms across her chest. "That's how you would describe that ... that creature?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, she was." He shrugged. "Objectively," he added.

"You shouldn't use such big words, little brother," George teased as he passed them with his arms full of plates and cutlery. "It might do some permanent damage to your head." He nodded towards Hermione. "And your marriage."

"Shut up, George," Ron spluttered, glaring at his brother. He spread his arms and turned to Hermione. "How would you describe her then, since my observation was so bloody inaccurate?"

"Well, if you're looking for a noun," Hermione quipped. "The word horse immediately springs to mind."

"Hermione!" Molly cried out disapprovingly. "I'm sure she was perfectly—"

"Sorry, I'm being rude," Hermione interrupted. "She carried that package with immaculate precision, so she was obviously not a horse. Hooves would have made that part particularly difficult."

George broke out in laughter. Molly, however, was not amused. "That's quite enough, dear," she said and raised a chastening finger.

Hermione rolled her eyes, not caring if Molly saw or not. "I'm going upstairs," she muttered, picking up the box.

"I'm coming with you," Ron said quickly. "I want to see what the old git has gotten you."

"I rather do this alone," she said, shooting him an angry look as she began mounting the stairs.

"Hey!" he yelled after her. "What did I do?"

Sighing quietly, Hermione closed the door to their room and put the box on the bed. It really is a beautiful box, she thought, as she untied the ribbon and flicked the lid open. A small gasp escaped her lips as she pulled out a silky, black dress. As she held it up to examine it closer, a cream-colored card fell to the floor.

She picked it up, turned it over and instantly recognized the spiky handwriting belonging to Severus Snape.

Put this on and be ready at 8 o'clock.

Hermione felt her pulse quicken. So tonight's the night. She cast a glance at the box, frowning as she noticed a jewelry box of some sort, that had been hidden underneath the dress. She reached in, opened it and gasped again, a little louder this time, when her eyes landed on a pair of diamond earrings and a matching necklace, sitting neatly on a little velvet cushion.

She shook her head, complete and total confusion taking over. She had already signed the contract ... Why does he even bother? Unless ... She shuddered. Unless it's some sort of twisted dress-up game and he's just doing this to mess with my head. She exhaled slowly. He wouldn't. Not even Snape would be that cruel.

The doorbell rang at exactly 8 p.m. From her spot in front of the mirror in their room on the third floor, Hermione could hear the front door open and then every word of the halting conversation that followed. How Molly awkwardly tried to greet a man she hadn't given so much as a fleeting thought these last couple of years and how Arthur stuttered in his attempt to find something appropriate to say, but failing miserably.

"Good evening, Molly, Arthur," Snape said in his silky baritone. "I'm here to pick up Hermione."

"You're what?" Hermione heard George say, disbelief evident in his voice.

She started walking quietly down the stairs and was only a couple of steps away from reaching the bottom when Snape looked up, as if he had sensed her presence, locking eyes with her. He was wearing dress robes that looked very similar to a Muggle tuxedo, but with an elegant black robe draped across his shoulders.

He cleans up quite nicely, Hermione surprised herself thinking, then quickly added: Objectively speaking, of course.

"Hermione," Snape said, an appreciative look on his face. "That dress looks very ... becoming on you."

Leaning against the doorpost to the living room, Ron scoffed loudly and rolled his eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at everything and everyone, except his wife.

"Ron," Hermione said pleadingly, trying to catch his eye. He bluntly refused. "I guess I'll see you later, then," she sighed.

He merely waved a hand dismissively in her direction. "Yeah."

"We should get going," Snape insisted, a hint of irritation in his voice. Hermione cast one last glance at Ron before Snape took her hand carefully.

Suddenly she could feel herself turning on the spot; sight and sound extinguishing as darkness pressed in upon her.

Seconds later she found herself on a small stone bridge, looking down on a winding canal.

"Where are we?" she asked as she took in her surroundings, still fighting off some of the dizziness brought on by the Apparition.

They had definitely left England, she concluded thoughtfully, as she regarded the beautifully ornate houses sitting next to the canal. In the distance, she could hear a church bell chime, and if she craned her neck slightly she could just make out a medieval but familiar-looking bell-tower.

She whipped her head around, gaping at Snape. "Is that the Belfry of Bruges?" she asked incredulously.

"Indeed it is." He gave her a small smile.

"And what exactly are we doing in Bruges, if I may ask?"

Snape cast a glance at her, raising a questioning eyebrow. "What day is today?" he asked.

She stared at him blankly. "Saturday, May 20th," she answered automatically.

"Why, Hermione, do you mean to tell me that you don't know what takes place here every year around this date?" he drawled.

Hermione racked her brains, coming up with absolutely nothing. She shook her head. "Not really, no."

"It's the annual World Potions conference. You might have heard of it," he said sarcastically, but not unkindly. "And we're here for the gala that starts it all off."

"Oh, right!" She slapped herself mentally. Of course.

She had tried to convince Ron to go for years but had been forced to give up when he tried to strike an absurd bargain that included Quidditch season tickets and her accompanying him to at least half of the games. The conference had definitely not been worth that much to her.

"If you get bored with my company, there will be at least a handful of other people worth conversing with," Snape said casually.

Only some of the brightest witches and wizards in the world, she thought and immediately felt a nervous flutter somewhere in the area of her stomach. "I'm sure," she said and smiled.

As they started walking down a cobbled street, a mild, flowery scent filled the air. Hermione closed her eyes for a second and allowed herself to feel a spark of excitement. She loved her husband, but once in a while she had to admit, even if it only was to herself, that trying to compromise with Ron almost always meant that her wants and needs were pushed aside in favor for his plans and dreams. You can't always have everything, Hermione, was one of his favorite lines no matter what argument they seemed to have.

I'm being unfair, she thought, instantly feeling guilty. I know he has my best at heart but sometimes I just—

Her thought was cut short as Snape suddenly turned left, leading them into a narrow alleyway.

"Here we are." He stopped in front of a small door and raised his hand to knock. "Do try to behave yourself tonight," Snape smirked, glancing at her. Hermione huffed indignantly, causing his smirk to grow into a smile as he rapped on the wooden surface.

It immediately swung open, revealing a short, chubby man in an ill-fitting golden dress robe, clearly a couple of numbers too small. The man broke out in a wide grin upon seeing Snape, spreading his arms welcomingly.

"Finally!" He shook Snape's hand animatedly, and eagerly stepped aside to let them in. "And this must be Hermione," he said, peering over his glasses.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. ... ?" she said, uncertainly, surprised that Snape could have that effect on, well, anyone.

"Just say Norman," he said, shooting Snape a look. "You're just in time for the dance," he added. "It starts in five minutes."

Much like the battered old tent that Hermione, Ron and Harry had used in their hunt for Horcruxes in the forest of Dean, this house was also charmed to be larger on the inside than what it appeared from the outside.

Hermione gazed around the spacious hall. It could easily have belonged to a luxurious mansion. Men and women in expensive-looking dresses and robes were milling about, champagne in one hand and a small plate with what looked like canapés straight from a divine kitchen in the other, chatting merrily to each other.

An impressive wooden staircase that forked left and right mid-way up caught Hermione's attention for a second before her eyes wandered to an enormous crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling. She usually didn't care for extravagance, but she had to admit that she was quite impressed. She turned to ask Snape what year he thought the house might have been built, only to find him watching her with an amused look on his face.

"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, challenging him to question her curiosity.

"Nothing," he said.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Snape half smiled at her as a waiter approached them, offering champagne. He took two glasses and handed one to Hermione as they moved into the ballroom.

"About this dance ..." Snape cleared his throat and cast a sideways glance at her. "There is a requirement for us to participate."

"What?" Hermione hissed, spilling some of her champagne on the floor. "That's ridiculous! I won't move a muscle with you unless I absolutely have to!"

Snape smirked, took her glass and placed it on a table next to them, slipped a hand down the small of her back and firmly pushed her onto the dance floor. Leaning in towards her ear, he whispered. "Oh, but you will."

The majority of the conference goers were slowly making their way into the room, lining up against the walls, expectantly waiting for something.

Suddenly Norman, the chubby man that had greeted them earlier, now stood behind a podium on a small scene. He pointed his wand towards his throat, and suddenly his voice boomed across the room.

"And now the chairman of the board will start off the dance." He made a wide gesture towards Hermione and Snape, beaming as he said, "Commence!"

"Why are we the only ones—" Hermione began, bewildered, but was cut off by the tunes of a slow waltz.

Snape put his hand on her waist and grabbed her right hand. A feeling of utter terror washed over Hermione as she realized that everyone's eyes were fixated on them and them alone.

She was a lousy dancer.

Snape must have seen her display of anxiety, because he squeezed her hand reassuringly and then looked her squarely in the eyes.

"Just follow my lead. One, two, three."

And they were off.

Snape moved with ease, which Hermione found quite astonishing, and while the same thing really couldn't be said about her, they found a comfortable enough rhythm after a while. They swirled around the room, or attempted to, and after a little while other couples joined them on the floor, one by one.

"Wait, you're the chairman?" she said breathlessly, mid-way through the song.

"Amongst other things," Snape smirked.

A couple of turns later the song ended and they let go of each other.

"Do you want something to drink?" Snape asked.

She nodded gratefully as she looked for an empty spot by one of the large windows. Another slow tune filled the room and she suddenly stiffened. Oh.

"What?" Snape said, searching her face.

"Nothing," she replied quietly. I haven't heard this song ... in a long time, she thought.

He looked down his nose at her, an unconvinced expression on his face, and in a fleeting second, she wondered if he was using Legilimency on her.

"Tell me," he insisted.

"It's silly," she sighed, looking down on her hands. "Ron hates Muggle music and I ..." she trailed off. "It's not that I can't live without it ... But I just love this song. It's—"

"Harvest Moon," he cut off, scowling. "I know what song it is."

She looked at him in surprise. "You do?"

Somewhere in the back of her mind she could recall hearing about Snape's family. She couldn't remember which one, but she was sure one of his parents had been a Muggle. It made sense, then, for him to have some knowledge of Muggle pop culture.

"But it's the only song by Neil Young that I actually like," she laughed.

"If ... you'd like, we could ..." He gestured to the floor, hesitantly.

"I ..."

She closed her eyes for a brief moment. This isn't right.

But at the same time her heart kept making weird little leaps as she imagined being back on the dance floor in the arms of ... No. I can't. Think about Ron. Remember why you're here.

"I'd like that actually," she heard herself say, and without a second of hesitation, Snape closed the gap between them, holding out his hand for her to take.

"Severus!" a shrill lady-voice suddenly cried out. "There you are!"

Hermione instantly let go of Snape's hand, retreating a couple of steps as the owner of the voice elbowed her way across the room towards them. Hermione was momentarily confused, she didn't know anyone there, but she knew that voice.

"Priscilla," Snape greeted her unenthusiastically, something Priscilla Scott either didn't notice or chose to ignore.

Hermione slapped herself mentally. Of course. Assistant Horse.

"What, pray tell, brings you here?" Snape asked.

"You, of course!" Priscilla swatted his arm and laughed. "You told me I could come, remember? I know how lost you feel without me on these sorts of events!" She looked around the room and wrinkled her nose.

"But I really don't know why you bother; these people are hardly worth your time." She put a well-manicured hand on his elbow. "If Augustus hadn't been here I honestly would've killed myself," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically.

"And what a tragic loss that would be," Snape said, curling his upper lip. Hermione almost choked at the comment but Priscilla only scoffed and smiled.

"Speaking of Mr. Tirden," Snape said, changing the subject. "Where is he?"

Hermione furrowed her brows. She had heard that name before but couldn't place it. She made a mental note to ask Snape later.

"Over there." Priscilla pointed one sinewy finger in the direction of a small bar, surrounded by a group of wizards, at the other end of the room. "I told him I would get you, so you better get your butt over there."

And without even casting a glance at Hermione she turned on her heel, obviously expecting Snape to follow.

Hermione watched Snape carefully. His black eyes were, if possible, even darker, simmering with ... contempt? She couldn't tell. But she could tell that he was far from happy.

"Looks like she doesn't take no for an answer," she said. "You really should try to catch up with her before she gallops away."

Snape snorted. "I won't be long," he replied and then slowly walked across the room to where Priscilla impatiently stood, tapping her foot.

Hermione felt awkward. Her glass was empty, her feet ached and judging by the not so subtle rumbling coming from her stomach, she was famished.

She was growing restless and annoyed and had spent at good twenty minutes examining a rather uninteresting painting of a birch tree that hung in the corner of the ballroom, desperately trying to look like that particular piece of art was one of the sole reasons she was there. Where is he? she thought irritably, blowing a strand of hair away from her face.

She sighed and gazed out the room. Hang on ... She squinted. Is that?

"Professor Slughorn!" she called out, a sense of relief filling her. Finally, a familiar face!

Horace Slughorn turned around, his face lighting up. "Miss Granger!" he exclaimed and instantly made his way over to where she was standing. "What a surprise to see you here! Who are you here with?"

"Professor Snape, actually," Hermione replied, choosing to ignore the use of her maiden name.

"Ah, I should've guessed," he said sotto voce. "Good for him."

"Sorry?" Hermione said, confused. "I didn't catch that?"

"Nothing, my dear." Slughorn replied quickly, glancing over her shoulder. "Look! There's Fanny!" he said and waved at somebody across the room.

"Let me introduce Mrs. Fanny Kaufmann," Slughorn said, a twinkle in his eyes, as the witch joined them. "Inventor of no less then twenty-two of this century's most vital potions, including the Blemish Blitzer, the Sore-no-More and lest we forget..." Slughorn wiggled his eyebrows. "Amortentia."

It was obvious that they were old acquaintances by the way Slughorn was teasing the elderly witch, who merely rolled her eyes at his efforts. Hermione, however, was too star struck to be amused. She had been fantasizing about meeting Fanny Kaufmann for years, ever since she read her autobiography A Lifetime in the Laboratory.

Fanny was known to use rather unorthodox methods in her research, an approach that very often was rewarded with remarkable results. She had, for instance, been the one to discover a new way of extracting the essence of Dittany, which had tripled the fluid's potency.

Slughorn pointed his drink towards Hermione.

"And this, Fanny, is the brilliant, young Hermione Granger, an ex-student of mine, but more importantly, one of the key-players in bringing down the most evil wizard of all time. It's quite a resumé she's got, this one."

"It's Hermione Weasley these days, actually." Hermione shook hands with the witch, hoping that she wouldn't notice her rather damp palms. "It's an absolute delight meeting you, Mrs. Kaufmann."

"Likewise, my dear," Fanny replied.

"Weasley, you say?" Slughorn cut in. "Married?"

"Yes." Hermione felt a blush coming on. "Four years this August."

"Well, haven't we all been in that predicament at one time or another", Fanny said, nudging Slughorn in the side. He chuckled and took a swig of his martini.

"I must say, Mrs. Kaufmann," Hermione said quickly. "That I think your work is amazing. I'm one of your biggest fans."

"Why, thank you, that's very sweet of you to say." Fanny looked at her, amused.

"How did you do it? Figure out the Dittany-extraction, I mean," Hermione asked a little bit too excitedly. She bit her lip. Please try to fight the urge to scare off the only celebrity you actually would give your time a day.

"You know," Fanny lowered her voice theatrically. "I've found that there are few things that can't be illuminated or clarified by a healthy shot of brandy."

"Hear, hear," Slughorn chimed in, nodding his approval.

"But to be honest, most of the time I really don't know what the hell I'm doing. That's why it's called research, my dear," she said and shot Hermione a mischievous smile.

I love this woman, Hermione thought, grinning.

Slughorn then started a heated discussion on the fifteen different ways to brew the perfect cold sore potion and Hermione joined in eagerly. After half an hour she zoned out, subconsciously searching the room for Snape, absently wondering who he would've sided with.

She quickly found him, in the midst of a group of important-looking wizards, and just as if he could tell that she had been looking for him, he turned around, disentangling himself from whatever conversation he was having. A quirk formed on his lips, and then he raised his glass towards her.

And if it hadn't been completely outrageous, she could have sworn that he gave her an almost invisible little wink.

Ron dug his fingers into the couch, pain etched across his face as guilt and fear and regret burned like acid in his stomach.

"You look pale, Ronniekins," George said teasingly. "More than usual, which is quite an achievement given your almost transparent complexion."

When Ron didn't answer but merely glared at the wall opposite him, George slumped down into the armchair next to him, a worried crease between his brows replacing his lop-sided grin.

"Seriously, what's the matter? Is it Hermione?"

Ron flinched. "I'm going to lose her. I can feel it."

"I'm sorry." Snape shot Hermione an apologetic look. "I couldn't get away nearly as quickly as I wanted to. Do you have any idea, any idea, how completely dull middle-age wizards, especially rather wealthy ones, can be? I almost longed for a classroom filled with moronic, ill-tempered children. It would have been twice as stimulating intellectually. At the very least. Are you hungry?"

Is he rambling? Hermione thought amusedly. I think he might be. How very odd.

"I could definitely eat." She smiled at him. "But do you know who I happened to stumble across?" she asked, excitedly recapitulating her conversation with Fanny Kaufmann, as Snape led her through a backdoor that took them out into the gardens.

"Yes, she is quite remarkable," he said in the middle of Hermione telling him about the Dittany-discovery. They came to a halt under an impressive oak tree, obviously magically concealed, where a gangly young man was serving deliciously-looking honey-glazed ribs to a queue of hungry people.

Hermione and Snape somehow managed to grab two plates and a couple of butterbeers and were just about to sit down at a nearby table, when an unmistakably earsplitting voice rang out, cutting like a knife through the crowd.

"Severus!" Priscilla Scott shrieked. "Severus, are you out here?"

Snape snapped his head around and ducked, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Quickly ushering Hermione into a secluded part of the garden, he whispered, "Let's just stay here for a while."

He quickly conjured up a small wooden bench and sat down, motioning for Hermione to join him. She obeyed, put her plate in the space between them and took a sip of butterbeer.

"You seem to have a very ... persistent assistant," she said casually.

"If by 'persistent', you mean ambitious, then yes, I do," he replied, as he grabbed a piece of meat and bit into it.

For some reason that answer annoyed her. "No," she pursed her lips. "By persistent, I mean arrogant, demeaning and overall intolerable."

Snape raised an eyebrow at her, quirking his lips. "Do you always get this snippy when you drink a little?"

"Actually ..." Hermione looked down on her bottle, frowning. "I do. But I have so many other nice qualities that they more than make up for it."

"I'm sure they do," he said softly.

They ate in silence for a while. Hermione chanced a glance at him every now and then, noticing how the faint light from a couple of floating candles made his features looked softer, younger.

When the last scrap of meat was gone, Snape broke the silence. "What are you going do with the money?" he asked, again showing off his conjuring skills by changing a couple of leaves into napkins and handing her one of them.

"We've looked at a house, actually," Hermione said uncomfortably. This was not a conversation she wanted to have.

"Really?" Snape said, wiping his fingers. "Where?"

"I don't see how that concerns you but ..." She sighed. "It's this absolutely gorgeous little house about a mile from Hogsmeade. It has a small garden, where you could, I don't know, grow herbs. Or roses. Or both, I suppose. And there's this room next to the living room that could be turned into a perfect little library."

"You don't sound too thrilled?"

She tried to smile. "I'm not the only one who has a say in where we move."

"Hermione." Snape cleared away the empty plates and bottles from the bench and moved closer to her. He reached out and took her hand in his. "If you were mine, I would stop at nothing to make you happy. If you wanted to live the rest of your life in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, or on a thin branch on the Whomping Willow, I would find a way to make that happen." He looked at her intently. "And I wouldn't share you with anyone."

She stared at him, fighting the sudden lump in her throat, snatching her hand away from his. "You have no right to judge Ron," she said a little bit too defensively. "You're the one that has to buy women!"

Snape winced, as if she had slapped him. "You think I have to buy women?"

"Well, this little arrangement we've got going on between us certainly involves a money transfer so I'm fairly sure I'm being bought, yes," she sneered.

"I didn't buy you, Hermione," he said quietly. "I bought time."

"That's the same thing."

He regarded her for a while, before hesitantly saying, "We're not going to do anything you don't want. Here ..."

He pulled out a coin from his pocket.

"Since gambling brought us into this situation ... Let's do a coin-flip. Heads, you walk away, no hard feelings. Tails, you come home with me."

Hermione nodded stiffly. "Fine."

Snape flipped the coin high up in the air, caught it lazily and slapped it on the back of his left hand. He then carefully lifted his hand off, giving her a thin-lipped smile.

"That's the beauty of a lucky coin," he said. "They rarely let you down." He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

I think this is one of my favorite lines. We get a taste of the Snape we saw in Hogwarts, slewing insults at people he couldn't care less to give the time of day. Excellent:)