SIXTEEN: The Masquerade

She had worn a dark red dress at the first Victory Day Ball.

She was dancing with Weasley, laughing, her hair barely contained by the many pins holding the curls in place. They glinted a burnished gold wherever they caught the light. She was a true lioness in scarlet and gold, her dark brown eyes sparkling like axinite, and she must have used glamours to cover her scars, for the dress was strapless and left her arms bare.

A younger Severus watched her from the corner, Firewhisky in hand, scowling to scare off any who dared approach.

She seemed well here, he thought. She had a little more weight to her—her dress was tight enough to leave little to the imagination in the way of her curves—and if there were shadows under her eyes, they had been concealed. He wondered how he had not seen her, how he had glared at her in loathing for the entire evening without the thought once crossing his mind that she was smart, deadly, and beautiful, a terribly alluring combination.

Had she too recently been his student, or had he truly been so furious with her for saving his life? That resentment had faded over time, but it had still burned strong here; he could see it in his own black eyes, cutting her down with his glare, though she was oblivious and took no notice.

She finally caught his eye, and her cheeks flushed when she realized how he was looking at her. The Hermione he was more familiar with suddenly shone through, just for a moment: humiliated, desperately unhappy, nervous. Then her features smoothed, and she didn't look toward the corner where he sat again.

He left the Pensieve and strode to his armchair, thoughts full of her.

She had improved, bit by bit, over the last several weeks. She was reporting more sleep; she was having less trouble eating; there were fewer moments when she looked through him and saw something else instead. She was nothing close to full health, but he couldn't help but dread the day that she did fully recover, when she was able to stand on her own. She wouldn't need him then, not a bit. Would she still drop by seeking company once she was sleeping properly? Would she still argue with him over dinner when her flashbacks of war faded to simple memories, quiet and harmless? Would she still look at him with that brightness in her eyes, or would she wonder what she had been thinking, to be spending all her time with a monster?

He had known her for only two months, or maybe for twelve years; what was the difference? No amount of time would have prepared him sufficiently for this, for the way his heart picked up speed when she laughed, for the way his stomach twisted when she cried, for the way he loved her.

He loved her. Salazar's soggy fen. He loved her.

It was a curious thing, love. Dumbledore had always gone on about it, but loving Lily had only ever brought him heartache, and so he'd learned to discard the old man's solemn proclamations on the subject. Now he wondered if anything useful had been hidden in that waffle, something that might help him navigate…this. Her.

How the bastard would smile if he knew. Severus shuddered at the thought.

Hermione came with her fair share of heartache, of course—for she wasn't his, and he was certain that she never would be, and he wasn't certain that he did want her to be, even given the opportunity. He wasn't driven by possession, not this time. He drew pleasure from her mere existence, from her tiny steps toward recovery, from the bits of her that shone through when she was happy. He was proud that she was healing, that he was helping her heal, even though he was sure, once she was well, that he would lose her.

He reached for the Firewhisky, for it was Sunday, and classes had been cancelled for the following day's Halloween festivities. Before he could pour it, however, someone knocked softly on his office door.

Hermione stood on his threshold, a chess set tucked under her arm and a bottle of wine in hand. She smiled—a little shyly—as she looked up at him. The wariness she had once regarded him with was gone. There was still a hint of anxiety, to be sure, a bit of nervousness, but it was nothing like the fear he had once seen in her face whenever she met his eyes. Instead, there was her smile, open and trusting.

He wasn't to be trusted. Didn't she know that?

Trust the scarecrow man.

That damn cat had no idea what it was on about, though he supposed he could, at least, pass for a scarecrow.

"Fancy a game?" She held up the bottle of wine and dangled it invitingly. "I'm sure you'll murder me, of course, I was never good at it, but I thought you might enjoy it. Ron always did crush me when we played."

He inclined his head and stepped back to allow her in. "You let him best you? Shameful."

She laughed and slipped past him toward the sitting room. "It was the only thing he was ever better at than me," she called over her shoulder as he shut the door. "And he was brilliant at it. It always puzzled me." She levitated one of his coffee tables to the space between the two armchairs. Why had he ever had two? He had never truly had company before her. "I was the logical one," she continued, handing the bottle of wine to him when he silently held out a hand for it. "I solved your Potions challenge, I discovered what Slytherin's monster was, I figured out Rita Skeeter's annoying little secret, not to mention all the nonsense I put together that year hunting for Horcruxes. I ought to be good at chess. But I'm astonishingly terrible. Harry and Ron always said it was good for me."

He poured her a goblet of wine and handed it over. "It likely is."

Her eyes narrow. "I'll tell them you said that."

He grimaced. "Restrain yourself. They would never believe you."

She laughed and made her first move: a pawn, to make room for her bishop to move out on the next turn.

"You slept well last night?"

She paused in the act of picking up her goblet again. "How did you know?"

"You're always more cheerful when you've slept properly." He asked his knight to move forward, watching it rather than the surprised look on her face.

"You ought to try it some time," she shot back.

"My disposition is set in stone. I'm an old man." He leaned back with his goblet, sipping while she contemplated her next move.

"It's alright. It's one of the reasons I like you so much, I reckon."

He raised an eyebrow as her bishop darted out of hiding.

She blushed, but didn't back down. "It's refreshing," she said. "People measure their words, tiptoe around what they mean to say…and you just…say it."

"You are describing a trait that has so far endeared me to no one," he said dryly. "Forgive me if I don't believe you. Pawn to H4."

She frowned slightly as she looked at him; he could see the determination all over her face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the raised chin.

"Knight to F6," she said. "I don't need your permission to like you, you know."

He scowled.

"You can frown at me all you like, but it's true," she argued, leaning forward, wine in hand. It was a dark red, and it had stained her pink lips, smudging them with colour. "You're free to dislike yourself all you want, but you've got no control over how everyone else feels about you."

"Touching," he said, lip beginning to curl in a smirk instead. "Castle to H3."

She smiled now. "You think I'm joking."

"Hermione..."

"I'll prove you wrong," she said cheerily, brown eyes observing him over her goblet. She drank deeply and set it back on the table, turning it so it was aligned in the corner just so. "I've got time, and no doubts about which one of us is more stubborn."

They played in silence for a few more minutes. "Checkmate," he said finally, and her king threw down his crown.

She sighed heavily as the pieces began to repair themselves and scramble back to their starting positions. "I told you I'm terrible at this game." Her eyes watched her bishop and knight get in a tussle on their way back to their spaces, and smiled. "The Masquerade Ball is tomorrow," she commented.

"Yes," he said repressively.

She looked up. "I quite agree; it's a terrible idea."

"You realize we're to patrol afterward, too," he pointed out darkly. "Can you imagine the number of snogging couples we'll have to reprimand?"

She winced. "Can I? Yes. Do I want to? No. Pawn to H5. We might be doing the girls a favour, though. Adolescent male fumblings are rarely the most enjoyable sort."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do tell. What adolescent male suffered the spurn of your distaste?"

She instantly reddened. "Certainly not. I'd have to be a good deal drunker than this to divulge that information. Wine won't do it."

"I have Firewhisky," he supplied helpfully, gesturing toward his liquor cabinet.

She made a face. "Not my favourite."

"Scotch?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Only on special occasions."

"Gin?"

She looked at him dubiously. "Severus, are you an alcoholic?"

He barked a laugh, getting to his feet. "Would you be surprised?"

"Yes," she said, and he saw the spark of truth in her eyes. "You have a plethora of self-control." She glanced at the liquor cabinet. "I couldn't get a gin and tonic, by any chance?"

"Lime?"

"Yes, please."

The ice chattered in the glass as he poured the alcohol over it and filled a snifter with Firewhisky for himself.

"You know, I actually don't think it'll be so bad," she commented as he returned to the table.

"What?"

"The ball."

He paused in the act of handing her the drink and raised an eyebrow. "You clearly don't need this."

She smiled, reached out to wrap her fingers around the glass, her skin softly brushing his.

"It might surprise you," she said.

"I can at least count on your company, I presume?"

Her smirk was truly admirable. "If you can find me."

Hermione smoothed the contours of her gown one last time. It looked very pretty—a bit understated, but she hadn't been looking to relieve the first Victory Ball. She still had that absurd scarlet dress; it was stained with too many memories to ever be worn again.

But this…the gauzy layers of the skirt fell down around her hips, her legs, long enough to conceal the practical boots she wore beneath. The neckline was not scandalous, but not precisely modest, either—just right. She fitted the mask over her face, taking care not to muss the curls gathered away from the nape of her neck. She scarcely recognized herself, done up so well and with such an unusual dress. Not for the first time, she wondered whether or not Severus would recognize her. There weren't even any scars to distinguish her; her bared arms were covered with faultless glamours.

She checked to make sure her wand was in her boot—not the most sensible place for it, but she didn't want to stuff it down her bodice and, at any rate, there was no room in there. Chuckling, she put out the lights in her sitting room and moved through to her office, closing the door behind her. Her wards snapped into place.

"Hermione?"

She turned to see Neville wandering past in classic dress robes; his only attempt at disguise was a simple black mask.

"Neville," she greeted. "Why aren't you upstairs?"

"I'm patrolling, first half of the ball, make sure none of the little ones sneak out and get into trouble. Look at you!" He grinned. "Trying to impress anyone?"

"I'm on duty," she said sternly, trying to fight the blush creeping up her neck. "There's no one to impress."

He shrugged, half a smile still on his face. "You never know. I'll catch you for a dance later?"

"If you promise not to step on my feet," Hermione retorted.

He shook his head ruefully. "Snape's really rubbing off on you. See you up there. And watch out for drunken firsties, I just overheard some fifth-years talking about spiking the punch." He turned the corner, wand loosely in his grip, and disappeared to a lower level of the dungeons.

She climbed the steps toward the Great Hall quietly, carefully holding her gown up to avoid catching it on her boots. Students were streaming into the cleared space, where music was already playing; the scent of pumpkin pie, bread and roasting meat drifted from the hall.

It didn't take much to spot Severus; who else would be lurking in a corner, brooding? She quickly turned away and set her sights on Minerva, who was hovering near the drinks table.

"The punch is spiked," Hermione announced in an undertone.

"Yes, I thought as much," Minerva said, and then glanced back to check the identity of her colleague. "Hermione?"

"At your service," she said lightly, eyes scanning the crowd. "I want you to know that I think this is a terrible idea."

"You sound like Severus. Teenagers ought to get the chance to be teenagers now and again. It isn't the end of the world. Besides, you look lovely." She eyed Hermione's dress with approval. "Perhaps you can entice Severus out of his corner?"

Hermione laughed. "Oh, no, I'll stay clear. He's in a foul mood. Doubt he would dance with a veela, honestly."

"We'll see," Minerva said, performing a series of wand movements to remove the alcohol from the punch.

Hermione stayed in motion, keeping an eye on the dancing couples and the teenagers occasionally sneaking out of the Great Hall. She avoided his corner, and attempted to play down the mental chatter going on in her skull. She wished she could tell herself there was no reason to be nervous—that she wasn't, for some reason, anxious about approaching him, or about him identifying her, but she was. At the same time, though, she felt impatient, jittery, as if she was waiting. Waiting for him to see her, to remark on her somehow. The anxiety was still going strong after an hour, and still, he didn't budge from his corner, and still, she did not attempt to approach him.

"Nice dress, Professor Granger."

It was Darrow; she gave a thumbs-up as she twirled by with Lennox, her grin genuine. Hermione smiled back. They looked wonderfully happy together, and Kilduff was too busy stuffing his face with pie to notice.

"And you said you weren't trying to impress anyone."

She started and turned; Neville was at her elbow. He'd already taken off his mask. "What?" she said blankly.

"Come on, Hermione. You've been circling the Great Hall for five minutes—probably longer—but not going within fifteen feet of him. I know that you're on fine terms. There's only one conclusion."

"Stop. We had a row," she lied. "I'm avoiding him."

Neville chuckled. "I don't think you've ever sounded less convincing in your life. You're the least likely person in this room to have a row with Snape. Come on." He tugged at her elbow. "You can tell me all about it."

Reluctantly, she allowed him to lead her out to the floor. "How were your rounds?"

"Don't change the subject." His eyes narrowed. "Seriously, Hermione. Tell me what's going on."

"It's not that simple."

"It looks simple from where I'm standing. You like him."

"Yes," she said, too flatly. "We're friends."

"Friends," he said dubiously. "And that's all? Then why don't you go lurk in the corner with him, have a slice of pie, and argue about cauldron bottoms the rest of the evening?"

She bit her lip.

"Can you just…admit it?" he asked. His voice was a little strained.

"Admit what, exactly?"

"That you're in love with him."

Her pulse soared; she could feel it thudding, like a Blast-Ended Skrewt demanding freedom, against her ribs.

"Come on," he said, more gently now, and squeezed her hand as they turned. "There's nothing wrong with it. I don't think anyone would be surprised, the amount of time you two spend together. And it's not as if he's the most expressive bloke, but he's been more animated with you than…well, anyone. You know he must feel the same."

She blinked, looking away from Neville's determined gaze. "It's not that simple," she repeated.

Neville let out a frustrated sigh. "With people as stubborn and complicated as you, it wouldn't be," he grouched. The song trailed off with a few lingering notes. "But it should be, you know."

"Excuse me, Mr. Longbottom," a voice interrupted from just over Hermione's shoulder. Neville instantly dropped Hermione's hand and put a foot between them for good measure. "Professor Granger? A dance?"

Neville smiled at her. "I've got to get back to my post, anyway. Professor. Hermione." He nodded to them both, and vanished into the crowd.

She turned to see him, towering over her. She hadn't looked at him quite closely enough in her haste to avoid him, but now, it was all she could do. There was silver thread embroidering his dress robes, dark green buttons standing out against the white of his shirt; the mask was simply black, similar to hers. His dark eyes took her in, and she thought she might be in danger of passing out.

"It's not much," she said, because she had to say something, and the impulse to get ahead of his disdain with self-deprecation was automatic. "I just liked the colour. I'm so tired of red."

He reached out to take her hand, the other settling into the curve of her waist. "You look beautiful," he said, his voice sincere.

She opened her mouth to thank him, registered the compliment, and promptly shut it again. She was saved from answering by the band, which chose that moment to start up, a slow tune she didn't recognize.

After a moment during which she followed wherever he guided her, she said, "You're an excellent dancer."

"Too many dinner parties with the Malfoys," he said offhandedly as he lifted her arm above her head and allowed her to twirl. "Narcissa once staged the most elaborate get-togethers."

"It must have been quite nice."

"No. It led to me being in high demand all evening, with increasingly terrible partners." If he were a different sort of man, Severus might have cringed; instead, his black eyes were full of exasperation. "Thankfully, those days are long over."

For a moment, they were silent. He led her with ease; he was easily the best dance partner she'd ever had. It was disconcerting to look too long up into those black eyes, so she focused instead on his shoulder.

"Glamours?" he asked, his voice almost too low to hear.

"Glamours," she agreed. "I can't exactly flaunt certain scars, and I'd rather not be buttoned to the wrists."

They turned, and she caught sight of Minerva, her mouth slightly open, a goblet slipping through her fingers.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Hermione muttered.

Severus coughed. "Language, Professor Granger."

She would have laughed at the admonition in any other situation, but not in this one. She caught Minerva's eye and shook her head, just a fraction, but a smile bloomed on Minerva's mouth as she turned away.

"Ignore her." Severus's mouth was closer to her ear than she'd expected; goosebumps erupted down the side of her neck, down her arm, a stupid shiver of pleasure tripping down her spine.

"No," she said, craning her neck to speak in his ear, too. "Let's have some fun. Prank her a bit. She's already jumped to conclusions—let's give her something to really misinterpret."

For a moment, she thought she'd offended him, that he would depart the dance floor and leave her behind, but then he chuckled in her ear, low and dark. "What did you have in mind?" he asked.