Authors Notes: I'm going to start adding notes at the top of chapters now. I hadn't meant for this to be a transitional chapter, but it's taken me too long to write, and the next chapter is going to have a lot going on. I figured I could publish this bit as a standalone. I'm sorry for the delay. I promise, the next chapter will be quite action packed.

The next chapter is also going to be… intense. It's going to have trigger warnings, and the rating will go up because of them. I'm mentioning it here so that you can know ahead of time. If you have any questions or concerns about it, please feel free to message me on Tumblr and we can discuss it.

000

You weren't sure where you had gotten the idea that attending this event was going to be a breeze (mother), but you regretted everything as you slumped against the counter in your hotel bathroom, perched on the lid of the toilet as you attempted to do your makeup in a blusher compact mirror. After a day of endless lectures and luncheons, all you wanted to do was take a bloody nap. But the schedule of proceedings had been so rigorous that there just wasn't any time; you had to be downstairs for Slughorn's party in less than an hour, and you needed to make yourself look like you weren't totally sleep deprived. You wish you knew some beautifying charms, but Rimmel concealer and kohl would have to do.

The major contributor to your exhaustion was the amount of sleep you'd gotten last night, which was to say, absolutely fuckin' none. Your night had gone almost exactly as planned. After Snape had left for his apparent Slug Club reunion, you'd ordered room service as instructed (apparently just by speaking into the book?), before passing the time waiting for it by doodling your new acquaintances in your sketchbook. Slughorn took to being caricatured quite well, but Lockhart had been a little more difficult to render as anything but beautiful.

Before long, your dinner magically appeared on the writing desk; an absurdly large platter of fish and chips, along with a butterbeer and a complimentary scoop of chocolate ice cream that had been charmed not to melt. Which was convenient because you'd decided to eat it while lounging in the luxurious claw footed tub you had been overjoyed to find in the bathroom. It came equipped with taps that dispensed frothy rose scented bubbles, as well as water charmed to stay at the temperature you wanted it, which for you, was absolutely scalding. Perfection. After your soak, you'd given yourself a proper wash in the separate shower, before bundling yourself up in your embarrassing bumblebee pajamas and settling into bed.

Despite how exhausted you had been after a full day of travel and trivialities, when you finally got to crawl into that inviting blue ocean of pillows and duvets… sleep had eluded you. It was at this point you'd realized there was something missing from this flawless hotel experience; a television. Not that there was anything in particular you'd wanted to watch, but a TV would make for a convenient night-light, as well as provide quiet, droning background noise. The guttering fireplace was a poor consolation for both. In the dim light of the dying embers, you had stared at the empty bed across the room, and with nothing to distract your mind, it wandered into the realm of disquiet.

You had replayed the events of the evening over and over in your head, but they inevitably came back around to your encounter with Gilderoy Lockhart. And how murderous Snape had looked throughout the entire exchange. Snape had claimed that he was critical of Lockhart's success, but that had not been the face of a teacher who was skeptical of a cheating student. That had been the face of a man who had walked in on his cheating wife… and was ready to kill her lover.

But that was all speculation, of course. There was absolutely no evidence to support it, and you were probably just seeing what you wanted to see. And apparently what you wanted to see was Snape being jealous over you. You tried to tell yourself that it made sense; certainly that it made more sense than being jealous of another man's achievements. But even if it did make sense… Even if it were true that you were the source of his envy, what would that mean for you? If your affections were somehow being returned, you didn't think you could cope with it. Because nothing could come of this. Nothing. You'd convinced yourself of that months ago, because it was safer than the alternative.

You'd buried your face into the cool pillows, fighting back foolish tears and trying to count your breaths, to will yourself to sleep. And you did that for what felt like hours, tossing and turning in your borrowed bed with a mind full of circular thoughts, until the click of the hotel door opening and closing finally forced you to still. You listened carefully as Snape moved about, and you realized from the muffled sound of his footsteps that he had removed his shoes before he'd even entered the room. He didn't want to wake you. And you wanted to cry again. He never made anything easy for you.

Swallowing your emotions, you'd pretended to sleep, and you must have done a rather decent job of it because he didn't try to call you out. There were a few muttered spells, the crackle of the fire refreshing itself, the open and close of the bathroom door, before he finally settled into his own bed, and the room was enrobed in a comfortable stillness. Having him here… having him close… It eased your mind. It always did. And you finally felt like you had permission to stop resisting. You were lulled to sleep by the distant sound of pages turning…

You felt like you had only just closed your eyes when you found yourself opening them again. After being viciously assaulted by the light and sound of curtains being thrown open, Snape (already in full robes) informed you that it was 7:30 in the morning and you were expected to be downstairs in half an hour for breakfast and opening ceremonies. You'd assented blearily, and he told you he would meet you in the lobby, before exiting the room and leaving you to your own devices. And only when you were in the bathroom brushing your teeth a few minutes later did you realize that that had been his way of giving you privacy.

And you just… How. How? How was that man so damn considerate? Every time he did something like that (he gave you tea, he let you sleep, he wrapped you up in his own bloody cloak), it made you want to burst into tears. He was downright chivalrous. And though he would certainly deny it until the day he died, he was also unbelievably sweet. How were you just supposed to ignore all of this? Everything he did made you fall a little further, and it made reminding yourself that you only had three months left with him cut even deeper.

So, stacking emotional turmoil on top of your sleep deprivation made the morning of meetings particularly agonizing. You'd been sluggish to exit the hotel room but you finally made your way down to the lobby, where Snape had been waiting near the elevators, just as he'd promised. After giving you your access badge, which you pinned to the front of your jumper, you followed him to the assembly room. It was much larger than you had anticipated, and you'd been a little stunned by the grandeur of it. The main ballroom of The Atticus was immaculate; about half the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, it was all marble floors and towering columns, walls draped with intricate tapestries, and a ceiling made entirely of glass, which allowed grey snowy sunlight to filter in to the massive space. At one end of the hall was a crimson curtained stage, and set up before it were rows of velvet lined chairs. It was just as lush and sumptuous as the rest of the hotel, and it was also full of people.

The Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers was much larger than you had originally been lead to believe. You'd thought that perhaps it was strictly a British thing, but the diverse array of robe styles, skin tones and languages was indicative of an international organization, as was the sheer amount of people in attendance. Your best approximation was that there were at least two Hogwarts Houses worth of people here, so… about a hundred and thirty people? Holy shit you weren't ready for this. You had stuck close to Snape, following him like a duckling and allowing him to take the lead entirely.

Which he did not tolerate for long. He certainly wasn't here to meet people. That was your job. And while Snape seemed to know a great many people there (or rather, a great many people seemed to know Snape), he did very little talking with any of them when they approached. He would occasionally pipe in to laude your talents when the conversation dictated, but you were expected to steer the discussions yourself. And bit by bit, your anxiety was finally replaced by your natural confidence. It wasn't so bad, really; most people seemed easily impressed by the fact that you were Snape's apprentice. By the time you'd made it to the breakfast buffet and procured a cup of coffee and a croissant, you'd met five new people, and given out two of your résumés.

Despite the number of attendees that fancied themselves to be Snape's acquaintances, the only people to whom he showed any familiarity were the Malfoy's. Which was regrettable because you felt poor and flustered just looking at them. If you hadn't already known they were married, you might have had the same reaction you'd had to Lockhart the night before. Both of them were really ridiculously good-looking; Mister Malfoy was chiseled alabaster while Missus Malfoy was burnished silk, and together with their platinum tresses and exquisite wardrobe, they looked like the power couple of the century.

You meanwhile, felt like a pile of wet straw in comparison. Why did Snape have to have such attractive friends? Knowing they were purebloods, you had expected them to be haughty and snobbish, but instead they'd been exceedingly polite; they had saved two seats next to them for you and Snape, right up close to the stage, and had greeted you warmly when you were introduced, insisting on your use of their first names, which for once you obliged, because Snape used them too. Apparently they had heard so much about you last night, and you gave Snape a sidelong glance as you'd taken your seat between him and Narcissa. Snape studiously ignored you.

Opening ceremonies were abysmally boring; all warm welcome's and thank you's and announcements of lecturers. It was only made bearable by the mug of coffee warming your fingers, and the catty comments being whispered between the three Slytherin's that surrounded you, critiquing everything from the presenter's wardrobes to their past social faux pas. Lucius was particularly savage, and you could tell why he and Snape got along so well. Though you were left to ponder the origin of their lasting friendship; there seemed to be a considerable age gap (like you were one to talk).

After the opening formalities came the lectures, and you were rather disappointed to find those just as dreadfully dull. You'd rather been hoping to learn something new, and were astonished to find nearly everyone sitting around you listening with rapt attention, instead of experiencing mind-numbing boredom like you were. And indeed, the only one who was looking just as jaded as you were, was Snape. His arched brow when he caught your eye suggested that yes, he already knew all of this, and yes, he'd already taught it all to you as well. You wondered why he wasn't on that stage, why he wasn't more forthright with his own goddamn brilliance. Other people had to know, right? You couldn't be the only one privy to it. But indeed, even the Malfoy's were marginally interested in the proceedings, so it seemed that Snape kept his own talent close to the chest, even among friends. So where did that place you in his circle of trust? Oh, you couldn't afford to ponder this in the middle of a hall full of people…

The only lecture you'd been even remotely interested in had been delivered by Damocles Belby, who had been remarkably charismatic, in comparison to everyone else who had spoken so far. Not to mention… Well, you weren't sure what you'd been expecting, but this grey bearded silverfox had not been it. Even if he hadn't been speaking about the most interesting thing you'd heard all day, you… probably would have perked up just to watch his address anyway.

While other presentations had been about improved techniques and advances in production, Belby was the only one who had been working on something entirely new: a cure for Lycanthropy. His promising research from two years ago had developed by leaps and bounds, to the point where he was ready to begin testing on actual werewolves. He was certain that even if the potion did not completely cure one of the affliction, it would at least make the subject in question less dangerous during the full moon. He was getting ready to begin trials in Albania in the fall, a country with one of the highest werewolf populations in Europe, and would deeply appreciate any charitable donations in order to continue funding his research.

You hadn't gotten to meet Belby, as desperately as you had wanted to. Apparently he'd only agreed to attend for the length of his lecture, and had left before you managed to find Slughorn at the end of the day in order to ask him about it. Slughorn seemed to pick up on your bitter disappointment, and offered to pass along your résumé to Belby, which… rather shocked you. Your desire to meet Belby mostly hinged on your admiration for his work, as well as the influence his first article had on your decision to pursue potions and research as a career path. You'd never even intended to give him your credentials… But now that Slughorn had mentioned it… You took the old Hogwarts professor up on his offer, and penned a quick letter to add to the résumé, expressing your aforementioned esteem and regard.

And that had been that. At the end of your first day you were an exhausted, starving, emotional wreck, and all you wanted to do was order room service and pass the hell out. But here you were, smudging brown kohl around your eyes and trying to remember how to use an eyelash curler, because now you had a party to go to! Radical! If you were going to do this, you were going to do it to the best of your ability. You were also going to eat your weight in canapes and nick a few glasses of champagne if you could get away with it.

A sharp rap on the bathroom door caused you to jump, your blusher compact clattering to the counter as you smeared mascara across your nose. Oh, for fucks sake. You glared at the door, resisting the urge to shout out a caustic 'What?', before taking a deep breath and sighing slowly through your nose. "Yes?" you called back as neutrally as possible, tearing off a piece of toilet paper and dabbing it against your tongue before scrubbing at the mascara mark.

"Twenty minutes," came the monotone reply, and you jumped again. Twenty minutes? Since when? You scrambled for your watch on the counter, and god damn it he was right. It was almost eight o'clock.

"I'm nearly ready!" you lied, checking your face in the actual mirror above the sink, and deciding that would have to be good enough. Your mother would call it a 'natural' look, which to be fair was all you knew how to do anyway. Just a wash of soft brown on your lids, a whisper of mascara on your lashes, and of course, the concealer to cover up those attractive dark circles. After scrubbing some blusher onto your cheeks with your fingers and putting everything back into your stained makeup bag, you slipped off the hotel robe you'd been wearing and contemplated the dress hanging on the back of the door. After a little deliberation, you unhooked your bra as well, stuffing it into your messenger bag on the counter.

The dress was… dated. A floor length evening gown of layered mint-colored chiffon, with long, sheer balloon sleeves, a belted sash waist, and a modest v-neck. It might have been revealing, if you'd had any cleavage to reveal, which admittedly, you did not. Your mother had worn it when she was 17, and that easily made it a 25 year old dress. It held up well, of course; it was an expensive garment, probably purchased for your mother by your grandparents (who had reportedly been loaded, not that you had ever known them). But your mother always took good care of her things from her 'past life' as she liked to call it. You hoped that the late fashion choice would fit in well among wizards; they always seemed about 20 years behind in the times anyway.

After stepping into a pair of pink ballet flats, you shimmied yourself into the dress, pulling it up the length of your legs, before slipping your arms into the sleeves and sliding them up over your shoulders. Tying the sash around your middle, the flowy skirt and cinched waistline gave you the illusion of an hourglass figure, but really, the neckline exposed nothing more than the light smattering of freckles across your collarbone. The only caveat with this dress were the buttons. Annoying, satiny little buttons up the back that just absolutely did not want to slip into the tight fabric loops, especially since you couldn't even see the damn things. When you'd tried on the dress a few weeks ago in your dorm room, one of your girlfriends had fastened the buttons for you. This… was a severe oversight. There was surely a spell for this sort of dilemma, but you sure didn't know it.

But if anyone was going to know a spell for such a thing…

You jabbed a pair of pearl studded earrings into your lobes, swiped a dollop of clear gloss onto your lips, and checked your watch one last time, which was kind enough to inform you that you didn't have time to be thinking too hard about this. Face burning, you sighed and bit the bullet, hiking the neckline of your dress a little higher up your chest as you cracked open the bathroom door. Snape was not in your line of sight as you peered through the opening, which was sort of relieving.

"Professor?" you called tentatively, wincing at the slight pitch your voice had taken on. You heard the scrape of the writing desk chair against the carpeted floor, and you could feel the throb of your pulse in your throat. "I… uh… require some assistance," you finished lamely, quickly turning around and pulling your cascade of hair over your shoulder, so that your back was facing the door before he even arrived.

"You require assistance with wha- oh." His footfalls came to a sudden halt behind you, and you hoped the ripple of gooseflesh caused by his proximity wasn't too obvious on your exposed back. Your hands twisted in your hair and your bodice through a beat of tense silence.

"I um. I thought you might be an authority on vast quantities of finicky little buttons," you teased, hoping to lighten the atmosphere with a really terrible joke. And it might have worked, as you received an amused snort in reply, but that had caused a puff of warm breath to skitter across your shoulder, and you suppressed a full on shudder. You felt him move closer, and you awaited the tingle of magic to fasten up your dress. So when you felt the brush of warm fingers against the skin of your lower back instead, you nearly screamed. You did not scream, but you did jump, body twitching forward, and you heard an exasperated sigh behind you. "S-Sorry! Just… ticklish," you mumbled, and you could practically hear his eyes rolling.

"Hold still," Snape insisted, and you did your best to abide, squeezing your eyes shut and probably ruining your mascara but who cared. You were just trying not to luridly sigh as the tips of his fingers skimmed their way up your spine with each tedious little button. He had to know a spell. He had to. The man didn't button himself up like a Gringotts vault on the daily without knowing a more convenient method, right?

Okay. You realized you were blowing this out of proportion, and needed to get a grip on yourself. He was just doing your buttons for god's sake. He was barely even touching you, certainly no more than he had to, and there was nothing intimate about it at all. He was being as polite and reserved as you'd ever known him to be. But even with a head full of logic, your body was still rather interested in each accidental little touch, the sensation lighting your nerves on fire.

When he fastened the final button under the nape of your neck, you sighed a relieved "thank you" before releasing your hair and straightening out the gown. Glancing at yourself in the mirror, you caught sight of him over your shoulder, and your breath hitched as your cheeks blossomed with fresh heat. It was the first time you'd gotten a look at his party attire. He looked about the same as he always did, but for three distinct differences; he'd lost the Dracula cape in favor of his usual well fitted frock coat and trousers, replaced his black cravat with an emerald green one, and he'd tied his hair back into a low, loose ponytail. Your first absurd thought was that he looked like a founding father of the Americas. Your second absurd thought was that he looked absolutely dashing. With his hair swept back from his face, he looked younger, less tired. Almost… handsome.

You were staring.

He was staring back.

Difference being that you looked dumbstruck, while he looked amused. "Why don't you wear your hair back more often?" you blurted out dumbly, moving quickly to collect your bag and makeup from the counter. The reply was merely an arched brow reflected back to you in the mirror, before he left the doorframe to walk back into the main room. You collapsed against the counter, burying your face against your canvas bag and groaning in frustration. Stupid, stupid to let him catch you staring like that! You thought you'd managed to play it cool the last few months. You thought you were able to bypass this 'doing-totally-dumb-and-embarassing-things-in-front-of-your-crush' stage of attraction. But being this close to him for this length of time was turning your brain to incoherent mush. You couldn't keep track of everything, of every nuanced little event that sent you spiraling into confusion. You gasped and jerked your face up from the bag, looking into the mirror to check that you hadn't just ruined all of the makeup you'd completely forgotten you were wearing. Sighing, you used your fingers to smear away some misplaced mascara, but otherwise, everything was fine.

Exiting the bathroom and striding across the bedroom, you tossed your bag onto your bed, smoothed out your gown and fluffed up your hair one last time before turning to face your professor, who was regarding you from his seat at the writing desk. You offered a meek smile, twining your fingers together. "I'm nervous," you admitted finally, deciding that just airing out your worries was preferable to squirming under his inscrutable stare. It wasn't far from the truth; you'd been acting like a nit since you got back to the hotel room. Blaming it on nerves was as close to the truth as you would allow yourself to get. Because you were nervous. Just not about the party.

"I can see that," Snape replied coolly, and you whined petulantly in reply because that wasn't helping. He merely grinned, shaking his head in mock exasperation as he eased himself up from his chair. "You've got nothing to be worried about. Despite your nerves, you're actually quite a natural at this. You did well today during the meetings," he assured you, and you felt the tension tick out of you slowly, like a cooling engine. Okay… that did help, quite a bit actually. You closed your eyes and nodded, breathing deeply to try and balance yourself. His confidence in you was… soothing. Just his voice was soothing at this point, and you clung to it like lifeline, though you feared it might just as well leave you to drown. When you opened your eyes and peered up again, he was standing before you, extending an elbow in an imitation of gentlemanly fashion. "Now then. Shall we?"

You stared for a moment, mouth dropping open slightly. Your mind and emotions were at war with each other, and you felt the increasingly familiar sensation of wanting to simultaneously laugh and cry. But, ultimately all you could do was laugh, just as you always did. You outright giggled at the absurdity of it all as you snaked your hand around his arm, allowing yourself to savor the warmth of him. "We shall," you confirmed with a hint of teasing in your voice, as you finally decided it was time to throw away your pretense and just… enjoy this, while it lasted.