About a month had passed since the questionnaires had been sent off, and neither Ferdinand Featherbottom nor Victor Thorne had heard a word from Miss Granger. Severus was determined not to care. He told himself repeatedly that the entire endeavor was ridiculous and doomed to failure. Yet, as the days wore on, he couldn't quite shake the niggling curiosity about whether Victor Thorne had passed Hermione's absurdly complex equation—or, more to the point, if anyone could.

By the end of the month, curiosity won out over his better judgment. He found himself striding toward the top floor, his scowl deepening with each step. As he neared Hermione's office, muffled exclamations of frustration reached his ears. He paused briefly outside the door, debating whether he should turn around, but the sound of parchment rustling and a muffled curse made his decision for him.

Pushing the door open, Severus stopped short at the scene before him. Piles upon piles of responses were stacked precariously across her desk, spilling onto the floor. A glowing, magical projection of the infamous equation was spread across the wall, its intricate symbols and calculations shifting and spinning like a living entity. Hermione stood in the midst of the chaos, her hair in wild disarray and ink smudged on her cheek, furiously plugging answers into the equation while muttering curses under her breath.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" Severus demanded, his voice cutting through her flurry of activity.

Hermione jumped, nearly dropping the parchment in her hands. She whirled around, looking both flustered and annoyed. "What does it look like I'm doing?" she snapped, waving the parchment at him. "I'm trying to sort through this disaster!"

"This… disaster?" he echoed, gesturing to the room. "You brought this upon yourself, Granger. Did you truly expect such a harebrained scheme to yield anything other than chaos?"

She glared at him, but the exasperation in her eyes was unmistakable. "I didn't expect this!" she exclaimed, throwing the parchment onto one of the many piles. "Do you have any idea how many responses I received? Hundreds! And most of them are complete rubbish!"

Severus raised a brow, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. "I would have thought your 'foolproof' equation would weed out the less desirable candidates."

Hermione groaned, running a hand through her hair. "It's not that simple! Half of them didn't even answer the questions properly, and the other half…" She trailed off, her gaze flicking to the glowing equation on the wall. "The equation isn't… quite working as intended."

"Not working?" Severus drawled, smirking slightly. "Surely you, the great Hermione Granger, didn't miscalculate?"

Her cheeks flushed, and she shot him a slicing look. "It's not a miscalculation! It's just… more complicated than I anticipated. The equation works, theoretically, but inputting the data manually is taking forever, and some of these answers don't even fit the parameters I set!"

Severus couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Let me see if I understand this correctly: you created an overly convoluted compatibility algorithm, advertised yourself in The Prophet, and now you're overwhelmed because the entire wizarding world has decided to court you?"

"I didn't think this many people would respond!" she retorted, throwing her hands up. "And besides, most of them aren't even serious. Do you know how many of these letters are from people trying to pitch me their business ideas or sell me things?"

"Shocking," Severus said dryly. "It's almost as though inviting strangers to describe their compatibility through a mathematical formula wasn't the most prudent idea."

Hermione just huffed, her hands on her hips. "If you're just here to gloat, you can leave."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of leaving," Severus replied, his tone laced with mockery. "This is far too entertaining."

She huffed, turning back to her equation. "If you're so entertained, why don't you make yourself useful and help me sort through this mess?"

He raised a brow. "And what makes you think I would willingly subject myself to such tedium?"

"Because you clearly have nothing better to do," she shot back, not bothering to look at him.

For a moment, Severus considered leaving her to her madness. But as he watched her mutter to herself, furiously scribbling notes and glaring at the equation as though it had personally offended her, he found himself walking further into the room.

"Very well," he said, picking up one of the discarded responses. "Let's see what kind of lunatics you've attracted, shall we?"

Severus sifted through the stack of responses, his dark eyes narrowing at each ridiculous letter. Hermione hadn't been exaggerating about the sheer absurdity of the applicants.

The first response he opened was a thinly veiled sales pitch for a self-stirring cauldron. "Innovative," Severus muttered curtly, tossing it onto a pile labeled Rubbish. The next was an inquiry about Harry Potter's availability for a book signing. Severus sneered, crumpling the letter into a tight ball and tossing it at the waste bin.

"This is what passes for romance these days?" he questioned with disdain. Hermione didn't respond, too engrossed in her equation to look up.

The third response had him pausing, his lips curling into a deep frown. The answers were barely legible, the applicant apparently too dense to grasp the concept of full sentences, let alone the complex questions Hermione had crafted. The response to her question about moral philosophy was a single word: Huh?

Severus groaned. "This one seems to be under the impression that literacy is optional."

Hermione sighed without looking at him. "Just put it in the reject pile."

He did so with relish, but the next letter made him stiffen. The writer had forgone answering the questions entirely, instead penning a crude proposition that left nothing to the imagination.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Severus snapped, slamming the parchment onto the desk. "This one doesn't even pretend to take you seriously. His entire letter is a thinly veiled attempt to solicit—"

"—favors," Hermione finished for him, her tone clipped. "Yes, I've had a few of those."

"A few?" Severus echoed. "This is more than a 'few,' Granger. This is a veritable parade of idiocy, insincerity, and downright vulgarity!"

Hermione finally looked up, exhaling sharply as she rubbed her temples. "You're not wrong," she admitted. "I thought filtering through them would be easier, but some of these…" She trailed off, shaking her head.

Severus set the offending letter aside, his jaw tightening. "I hope you've sent responses to these cretins explaining precisely how unsuitable they are."

"Of course I haven't," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Why would I waste my time on them?"

"Because they deserve to be reminded of their rank inadequacy," he said curtly.

Hermione smiled slightly. "I didn't know you cared so much."

"I don't," he shot back, though the faint flush rising on his cheeks suggested otherwise. "I simply despise idiocy, and these letters are an affront to even the lowest standards of intelligence."

She chuckled softly, but her amusement faded as she gestured to the still-growing piles of responses. "It's not all bad, you know. Some of them are… thoughtful. But even then, the equation hasn't matched anyone yet. Either my parameters are too strict, or—"

"Or this entire endeavor was doomed from the start," Severus finished, cutting her off. "You've overcomplicated what is, at its core, a simple concept. Compatibility cannot be boiled down to equations and formulas."

"And what would you suggest instead?" she challenged, arching a brow. "Letting fate decide? Wandering around waiting for some spark of connection to strike like lightning?"

"Better that than reducing human interaction to arithmetic," he retorted, narrowing his eyes. "If you're truly seeking compatibility, perhaps you should stop looking for it on parchment."

"Are you offering to help me find it, then?" she quipped, her tone light but her eyes observent.

Severus froze for a fraction of a second before returning her gaze with a measured look. "I'm merely suggesting that your current methodology leaves much to be desired."

Hermione's lips quirked into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing, turning back to her work. Severus, scowling once more, returned to the pile of responses, determined not to let her get the last word.

It had taken the rest of the workday and well into the next morning to wade through the mess of applications. By the time they were finished, Severus had helped Hermione whittle down the hundreds of applicants to just under twenty. The thought of seeing Hermione's smile as they concluded was almost worth the grueling task, Severus told himself. Almost.

When Hermione realized she could have her answers finalized by the weekend, her entire face lit up with pure joy. She clasped her hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. "This is perfect! I'll finally know who might actually be worth my time."

He raised an eyebrow as she sorted through the narrowed-down pile. "Speaking of which, Granger, you've dedicated quite an unhealthy amount of time to this... project. Are you not concerned about falling behind in your actual work?"

Hermione looked up, startled, and then waved his concern away with a flick of her wrist. "Oh, I'm not worried. I'm already three months ahead of schedule. I always build in buffers for projects in case of emergencies or unexpected events."

Severus gave her a long, appraising look. "That level of foresight might be commendable if it didn't border so closely on madness."

She laughed at that, the sound light and unbothered. "Maybe, but it works. And soon enough, we'll see just how well this equation works, too."

He muttered something under his breath about Gryffindor optimism as he returned to his workstation, but the sight of her excitement lingered in his mind. She was, as ever, infuriatingly endearing.

That following Monday, Severus received a letter bearing Hermione Granger's tidy script. He stared at the envelope for a long moment before finally breaking the seal with a quick slicing charm. Inside was a neatly folded piece of parchment, her writing as precise and deliberate as ever.

Dear Mr. Thorne,

I want to thank you for your patience and the time you took to thoughtfully respond to the questionnaire. It's clear you gave each question genuine consideration, which is more than I can say for the vast majority of replies I received. Sifting through the responses was… enlightening, to say the least. Finding individuals like yourself who approached the process sincerely was a rarity, and I appreciated it more than you may realize.

Once I applied your answers to the matrix, however, I encountered an unexpected complication. For nearly everyone else, the formula worked as intended, efficiently delivering a compatibility result. Yet when I input your responses, something strange occurred: the matrix refused to align. No matter how many times I checked and rechecked my calculations, it simply wouldn't produce an answer.

After weeks of frustration, several attempts to reconfigure the formula, and no small amount of cursing at both myself and the entire field of Arithmancy, I finally identified the issue. It wasn't a flaw in the equation itself, nor was it an error in your answers. Rather, it was a missing variable—one that couldn't be calculated or predicted by any formula I'd devised.

Mr. Thorne, as it turns out, the only way for us to resolve this anomaly is to get to know each other through a more traditional means: correspondence. The matrix suggests—quite insistently, I might add—that only by engaging in a meaningful exchange of letters can we determine whether or not we are compatible.

I must admit, this revelation left me both flustered and amused. The notion of building a connection through letters alone feels oddly romantic, as if pulled straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. While the logical part of me balks at the inefficiency of such a method, I can't deny there's something delightfully quaint about it.

And so, Mr. Thorne, I find myself with a rather unorthodox proposal. Would you be amenable to corresponding with me in this manner until the matrix reaches a conclusion? If you require proof of my findings, I'd be more than happy to send you a copy of the equation along with the annotated results for your review.

I realize this is an unusual request, but I find myself genuinely intrigued by your responses and would greatly enjoy the opportunity to learn more about you.

Awaiting your reply,
Hermione Granger

Severus reread the letter, his furrowed brow deepening with each line. The nerve of her—requesting that they continue corresponding by letter as though this was some Austen-inspired romantic farce. He had crafted "Victor's" answers to be precise but forgettable, thorough yet devoid of any unique flair. And now, thanks to her accursed matrix and its inexplicable anomaly, she was suggesting a prolonged written exchange as if it were the only logical solution.

He set the letter down, staring at it as though his disdain could somehow make it disappear. George would delight in this development, no doubt. The prospect of enduring his colleague's gleeful commentary was almost enough to consider abandoning the entire charade.

And yet, the idea of writing to Hermione intrigued him more than he cared to admit. Despite his annoyance, he found himself begrudgingly respecting her thoroughness and ingenuity. Few people could challenge him intellectually, and even fewer would dare. But engaging with her through letters carried its risks—he would have to maintain the "Victor Thorne" persona flawlessly, revealing just enough to keep her interest while avoiding any hint of his true identity.

With a resigned sigh, Severus pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and uncapped his ink. The situation was spiraling far beyond the simple workplace prank George had envisioned, and now it was up to him to ensure it didn't unravel completely.

"Victor Thorne," he grumbled, dipping his quill into the inkwell. "You're proving to be an exceedingly inconvenient distraction."

When George found out about Severus's newfound pen-pal arrangement with Hermione, the redhead nearly keeled over with laughter, clutching his sides as he gasped for air. "I can't—I can't breathe!" he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "This is priceless, Snape. Absolutely priceless!"

Severus, his expression as thunderous as ever, glared at him from across the room. "If you're quite finished behaving like an infant, Weasley, you may kindly leave and allow me to work in peace."

George, predictably, did no such thing. Instead, he sauntered over, still chuckling. "You know," he began, grinning like a Cheshire cat, "I'd be happy to take your letter up to the owlery for you. Wouldn't want you getting all flustered around the birds. They're very judgmental creatures, after all."

Severus shot him a look that could have cut glass. "I can manage a simple trip to the owlery, thank you very much."

"Right, right," George said, still smirking. Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, he raised an eyebrow. "You did use the Anonymous Author Quill to disguise your handwriting, didn't you? Wouldn't want her recognizing that scrawly, dramatic penmanship of yours."

Severus's glare intensified. "Obviously."

"Good, good," George said, nodding with mock seriousness. "Just checking. Wouldn't want our dear Miss Granger realizing that the surly potions master she works with is secretly the swoon-worthy Mr. Victor Thorne."

Severus's jaw tightened as he picked up the sealed letter and handed it over. "Take this to the owlery and leave," he snapped.

George took the letter with a theatrical bow. "As you wish, Mr. Thorne."

George didn't even make it to the door of Severus's lab before it burst open with all the subtlety of a hex. Hermione stormed in, her wand tucked haphazardly into her messy bun and her eyes blazing with fury. She zeroed in on George, pointing an accusatory finger.

"I can't believe you!" she seethed. "You filled out my questionnaire under the name Ferdinand Featherbottom! Are you serious? That leaves only one other possible match!"

Blinking, George put on his best wide-eyed, innocent expression. A hand slung over his heart as if he was wounded. "Me? Ferdinand Featherbottom? Never heard of the bloke."

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. "Don't play dumb with me, Weasley. How did I know it was you? Oh, I don't know… maybe because you responded to my follow-up letter asking for a date on official Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes stationery and signed it with your personal stamp! The one only you use!"

Wincing, George scratched the back of his neck with an exaggerated grimace. "Ah, well. Guess you've got me there," he admitted with a sheepish grin. Then, with a sudden shift back to his usual cheeky self, he asked, "So, are we on for Friday? I'm thinking dinner and a romantic broom ride. Very classy, very Ferdinand Featherbottom."

She glared at him, crossing her arms. "It is not a date. It's an apology dinner for wasting my time, and then you're buying me a book at Flourish and Blotts."

He waggled his eyebrows. "Okay, but hear me out: what if it is a date, and I buy you three books? Now that's romance."

With that proposition, Hermione hesitated, her expression softening just a fraction. "Three books, you say?"

"Your pick," George promised as he extended his pinky out to her.

She sighed, clearly trying to keep up her indignation but failing. "Fine. But I have some expensive ones on my list, so don't think you're getting off easy."

"Wouldn't dream of it, love. Friday it is." George grinned triumphantly.

As Hermione turned to leave, she muttered something about having to revise her equations now that Ferdinand Featherbottom was no longer in the running. George winked at Severus, who had watched the entire exchange in stony silence.

"Well, Thorne," George said, chuckling as he finally exited, "guess it's just you and me left in the running."

Dear Miss Granger,

Allow me to begin by applauding your tenacity. Few possess the patience—or the audacity—to wrestle a formula into submission, particularly when faced with something as stubbornly unpredictable as human nature. It seems I underestimated just how committed you were to this endeavor.

Your letter, however, was entirely unexpected. I entered this exercise anticipating little more than amusement at best, and yet here we are, with you proposing something as quaint—and dare I say intriguing—as a correspondence by letter. To think, a meticulously designed Arithmancy matrix reduced to suggesting we write to one another like characters from a Regency novel. One might almost call it charming.

You claim the matrix cannot resolve your answers without the assistance of letters. Very well, Miss Granger, I am prepared to humor you—though I must admit, I find the prospect more appealing than I should. There is, after all, something oddly satisfying about the notion of engaging in a thoughtful exchange without the distractions of the outside world.

I see no need to review your findings, as I trust the integrity of your work. Instead, I'll accept your rather unorthodox proposal. Feel free to ask your follow-up questions, and I will endeavor to provide answers that satisfy your curiosity—or at the very least, keep you guessing.

Consider me intrigued, Miss Granger. Let us see where this experiment of yours leads.

Yours,
Victor Thorne