thankthefae | "Thank the Fae" by gingerbred Chapter 07 (Reply)

Christmas Eve of Adduction... Part 1

Christmas Eve is fast approaching, and Severus can't seem to get out of his head, which wouldn't be so bad, if it weren't such a bloody gloomy place to be.

Hermione's got a problem that he means to try to sort, and the two of them celebrate Christmas Eve with recalcitrant bits of greenery.

Originally Published: 2017-01-19 on AO3
Chapter: 7 / 13 of ?

Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape

Disclaimer:
JKR owns the lot. I own bugger all, and shan't profit in the least. (Except for kudos and comments, both of which are lovely and appreciated (*nudge nudge, wink wink*), but pay neither the mortgage nor fill my tummy, so the attack!lawyers can happily chill. Presumably.)

Previously:
 Severus and Hermione ran into one another near the Fae's Yule celebrations and made their way back to the castle together. Conversation ensued, much of it awkward.

A... hug probably happened. It made sense at the time. A snuggle most definitely was not attempted, not even reflexively, under any circumstances whatsoever. To think so is madness. Clearly.

Unless you ask Hermione. She'll tell you otherwise, because she's fairly honest that way.

But they walked and talked and seemed to get along and found it not altogether loathsome to spend time in each other's company. Possibly comforting even. Merlin, they may have actually enjoyed it. But only a bit.

And then laughter took place. Rather a lot. Weird, but in a nice kind of way. They were feeling a tad punchy. Go figure.

Christmas Eve of Adduction... Part 1

-~SS/HG~-
Laughter, as they say, is the best medicine. ('"They" are idiots.' 'Without question.') Poppy Pomfrey would have no issue going on record begging to differ, and Severus would also volunteer that he'd prefer antivenin if he were faced with a choice and the thrice damned snake again. But there's no disputing: it feels good to have laughed.

So good, that he feels lighter, less encumbered somehow. Even a bit more relaxed.

He has almost one. good. day. ('Almost.')

That first evening after dinner, his mood markedly improved, he settles in with his tomes and scrolls and researches quite productively well into the night in front of a comforting fire in his chambers. Due diligence requires that he first reexamine his notes on the Fae, as both he and Hermione may be affected.

Perhaps because he was Headmaster at the time, or maybe because the castle itself has gained enough sentience to have been able to recognize the need, he was able to create a protected area in which to store his notes on the antivenin and his associated Fae investigations. Interestingly, that hidden niche seems to have moved as well when his rooms were relocated ('lending credence to the theory on the castle's involvement'). Effectively, he was able to cause an entire desk and its contents to vanish and reappear at will, as needed, much along the lines of the Room of Requirement and without vulnerability to a Finite Incantatum. This made things both simpler and safer.

Concealing Charms wouldn't hold up to a targeted Aparecium (Revealing Charm). His other options included encoding everything manually ('I hadn't the time for it!') or using a Encryption charm of his own devising ('less secure...'); neither of those options are very satisfactory in precision work such as Potions. Any mistakes in the translation processes could be literally fatal errors. ('And both of those solutions require two steps to be of use. That doubles the risk!') Even now, more than three years later, he finds the thoughts most upsetting and still remains incredibly moved by the castle's protection.

Perusing his notes with the liberal application of a Search spell he created for such purposes, he quickly determines that there is nothing to be found in them about what this new "favor" might entail. The literature suggests that the Fae are frequently active of their own volition, that their actions aren't always appreciated ('bloody marvelous'), and that they take offense, demonstratively ('naturally'), when their "gifts" aren't appreciated. ('So another potential... complication looming in the wings.' 'Splendid.') He will simply have to ask Hermione if she can provide more details because Mab had said very little to him directly, leaving him with even less to work with.

With no answers to be found there, he quickly advances to Hermione's other problem. Several avenues of inquiry as to how he might be able to reverse the effects of a severe and long term Obliviation crystallize as the night wears on, and he begins to work his way through them.

Until he is able to gather more information, he proceeds by addressing the intersection of the most promising leads and least likely to have been attempted, those with the greatest likelihood that they shan't have been investigated by others. First on his list are two potions making use of some very rare and potentially... questionable ingredients. He dispatches a number of owls to begin the acquisition process; he has sufficient funds, having lived quite ascetically, and insufficient qualms that combine optimally to enable him to do so without hesitation.

There's a third potion which requires some very grey Charms work to brew, in addition to being quite complex, and he is confident no one will have been able to procure it for experimentation. And then there are some approaches in dark tomes he recalls from the Malfoys' library that could yet be consulted, once he secures access. That could prove problematic in light of some of the suspicion still lingering over him in the wake of the war, but he's willing to damn the consequences and work around any chafing restrictions. ('Some things never change.')

He deems the research fruitful and is cautiously optimistic. He is fairly Machiavellian in nature, less concerned with the path taken than the results achieved, a cynical pragmatist. He knows this will not be true of the others who have tried to help, with the notable and very intriguing exception, it would seem, of Hermione herself, the witch who had the courage to do this in the first place to save her parents' lives.

He wants to see that courage rewarded.

Truthfully, that's only part of the reason he is trying to help her, his motivations altogether too convoluted for him to fully understand. No question, he enjoys a challenge, and he's been a bit bored of late. It's equally obvious that he still feels a need to prove himself ('useful' he grits defensively, 'worthwhile' the sap sadly corrects) to those around him. His standing is no longer ('completely') in question, he's the "Light's Greatest Spy," but on bad days he often asks himself what he ever achieved other than killing Dumbledore ('with his cooperation, no less, so scarcely an impressive accomplishment').

Maybe he's helping because he wished people had helped him, overlooking all of the help he has in fact received. He'd scoff at that ('What help?!'), but if he had noticed, he would have refused it, actively sabotaging the necessary efforts. Almost any help given must be subtle. ('Subtlety! From Gryffindors?!' for they tend to be the decision makers and action takers around him...) It's too easy for him to believe he is on his own, as he has been most of his life.

Insidiously, some lingering doubts will always remain as to his motives, as to his methods. The most tenacious doubts are fueled, in part, by the guilt those judging him might otherwise experience if they ever admitted that they could have or should have done more themselves. Filius is a prime example. It's easier to question if Severus absolutely had to do something than it is to ask if one shouldn't have done more oneself. But if Severus' methods are able to help Hermione, it's further validation of his choices. Then and now, to his way of thinking.

There are at least two further reasons for his dedication that Severus won't even consider admitting to himself. The first because it paints him in too positive a light: he is incredibly loyal. Once he has decided to do something, to commit to someone or some cause, he will go to incredible lengths. To ridiculous extremes. He has determined Hermione is worth helping, and without any great fanfare he will do so or be damned. He certainly doesn't expect to die for this, but also doesn't balk at disproportionate amounts of effort. The second reason, so simple and complex all at once, explains to some extent why he feels she is deserving of his assistance: he likes her; of course under no circumstances will such a thought be allowed to form in his mind.

So the next morning immediately after breakfast, he promptly seeks out Minerva, and asks her if she would kindly provide him with information about what has been undertaken to help Professor Granger's parents. She's surprised he knows of the situation, given Hermione's problems with the Ministry, but not in the least that he should want to help now that he does. Minerva's known Severus almost three quarters of his life, and has a much higher, and more accurate, opinion of him than he is sadly ever likely to have of himself. She feels that doesn't begin to make up for the year she doubted him, and remains constant in her support.

She provides him with an extremely detailed and well organized list of everything tried, and by whom. He suspects she does that to allow him to better assess the probable quality of the various efforts without having to disparage colleagues herself. ('A move almost worthy of a Slytherin.' 'Best to go over all ground "covered" by Horace again...' 'Amongst others.') He's impressed by the quality of information she is able to provide with no forewarning, but not surprised. Minerva has always been one of his most respected associates.

When she is done, recognizing some of Severus' fondness for Hermione and with an innate propensity to meddle, she can't help asking him why he still persists in calling her "Professor Granger," but takes pity and adds Neville to the question so as not to embarrass her retiring friend too terribly. He's wondered about that since yesterday, to be honest, but had comforted himself with the knowledge that he doesn't call Longbottom "Neville" either, so Minerva's rephrasing is indeed a helpful diversion.

He realized he's never been the one to suggest a less formal basis; it's something others do, and he submits. Or not. But his co-workers until now have all been older than he is, as he began teaching at the youngest possible age, or ('very rarely' 'damn werewolf') the same age, and he's simply never extended anyone the courtesy of a more familiar form of address.

Minerva prods that their younger colleagues might appreciate it if he did address them by their first names, but relents when Severus appears unsuitably tortured by the suggestion. That amuses her, in a way that speaks directly to her blackest of humors. 'Cruciatus? No problem. Keep them coming. Social niceties? Oh, please, make it stop.' She can read it in his face like a scroll. She doesn't understand him, she never will, but she cares for him a great deal.

He leaves her office (he likes it so much better now that it isn't his own, 'or Dumbledore's.' 'Quite.') with plenty of notes ('Self-Writing Quills are a mercy,' and Fred again gambols through his thoughts, 'because of course he does,' pirouetting before he leaves) and a few new ideas he'd like to explore. Arriving back at his quarters, he begins to double check the work done to date, dispatching a few owls to ask more in depth questions of the individuals who put the various measures into action. For the most part, with very few exceptions, he remains confident that either nothing was overlooked, but the attempts were merely doomed to failure by design, or that the remainder had so little promise of being successful, that the quality of the approaches was inconsequential. He resolves to continue pursuing his leads from the previous night.

The timing for his talk with Minerva was extremely fortuitous. By lunchtime, rumors about Professor Snape have reached every house, in turn giving rise to a great deal of laughter at their absurdity. Or perhaps his. His mood darkens over the next several days accordingly.

-~SS/HG~-
On some level he is aware that things have improved since the war, but this is still a very poor approximation of a pleasant work environment. But then, there's been a dearth thereof. (When has his environment ever been nice - work, school, home or otherwise?) He knows of such things only anecdotally. Or through observation of others, living, it sometimes seems, in a world parallel to his own; shared locations with vastly differing personal realities. If he were to reflect on it, which he attempts to avoid at all costs, preferring to suppress the memories for all he's worth, he would recognize a significant improvement over his year as headmaster where the staff and student body flitted about the school like the personification of a Dementor with their hate and loathing sucking his soul dry day for day. This is better. But as absolute statements go, it wouldn't say all that much.

Unfortunately, it seems that the concept of laughter's salubrious effects needs further qualifying.

Laughing with someone is lovely, even the acerbic Potions Master would agree. Laughter itself is beneficial for blood pressure, immune response, and even causes endorphins to be released (although he has potions for all of that). On the other hand, laughter is a good deal less healthy when it is directed at someone. Sometimes, it seems, prepositions make all the difference. Laughing about someone, as Severus comes to decide ('as the "someone" in this particular question,' 'typically') is the most accurate description for what occurs over the next few days, whilst assuredly less... disagreeable than being laughed "at," is not particularly therapeutic for that someone in the least.

-~SS/HG~-
Eyewitness accounts, were one inclined to believe such rubbish, would have Professor Snape seen, in public, laughing on the lawn before the main doors early one evening this week, possibly as recently as yesterday. The rumors of this are universally regarded as so absurd, so incredible, that in short time they are so utterly discredited as to have even the witnesses themselves questioning what they saw. Clearly, it was not that.

Possibly Polyjuice. Or a Compulsion charm. Theories of an Imperious are bandied about, considered (far) more likely than the actual truth, and lead to very fruitful discussions about the limitations on the applications of Unforgivables in the extracurricular DADA practice sessions over the next several days. Speculation runs wild as to the theoretical qualifications of the caster of such a curse for it even to be a remote possibility wielded against someone with the established skills set of the reticent Potions Master. That in turn promotes yet more lively debate, both in the Great Hall at meals and the inter-house DADA NEWT study group.

The latest Wizards of the World quartet set from Flourish and Blotts suggests that, beyond Voldemort himself, perhaps only Bellatrix would have been successful at such an undertaking, although that discovery was followed by heated argument as to how much of their perceived superiority was due to feigned subservience on Snape's part. Given that both Voldemort and Bellatrix are reasonably certainly deceased ('as dead as doornails'), having conveniently gone so far as to die on the school grounds, as all agree, and as the Ravenclaws point out F&B's research has been found wanting on more than one occasion, the discussion usually stalls there. Typically, the Chocolate Frog trading cards were largely useless on such topics, failing completely to meet any academic standards, regardless how lax.

The general consensus is that even Dumbledore shouldn't have been successful at such an attempt, although the mere suggestion, either that he would consider trying or that he could fail if so, causes the small number of Gryffindor sixth and seventh years remaining for the holidays to assault their Ravenclaw counterparts who dared suggest such a thing in the interest of academic exchange. ('Possibly. There's a brunette amongst their number that enjoys a spot of conflict and should probably have been sorted into Slytherin.' 'In an earlier time, she undoubtably would have been...' the sap agrees with no small amount of regret.)

The pugnacious Gryffindors, he is satisfied to note, will be serving detention with Filch when the term resumes in January, although the modified sticking charm used to apply one of the Christmas trees inverted to the charmed ceiling over the Ravenclaw table is proving tricky to undo. The points awarded for ingenuity almost made up for the points the attack cost them. ('Were Dumbledore still among us, it would most likely have exceeded them.' His lips press together to a thin line in frustration just at the thought.)

The Slytherins remain firm: it cannot be done; Snape is effectively curse- and hex-proof. Even McGonagall never landed a single blow when she went up against him with everything she had in what she considered to be no-holds-barred combat, and she is widely regarded as quite competent. That skirts the topics embargoed by the Headmistress herself so closely that a few Hufflepuffs deliberate coming forward and turning in the entire group, themselves included, for disciplinary action. Only the gentling tongues of some quick-witted Ravenclaws, fast at hand with their ever present ('if sometimes questionable') logic ('I'll not hear a word said against it'), are able to dissuade them from their intentions and keep the lot of them from Filch's fingers.

It was a close call.

No one, absolutely no one, attaches any significance whatsoever to the fact that the generally well-liked and respected Professor Granger was supposed to have been seen laughing with the sullen man, as it is abundantly clear that there is nothing at all to be thought of it. She most likely wouldn't have laughed with him, and if she had, it would have had no deeper meaning. The opinion of the otherwise so dissentious student body is unanimous for once. No deliberation is required for the inherently obvious.

Initially, Severus is annoyed to have been discussed at all. Subsequently, he finds himself even more affronted to be so easily discounted. He steadfastly doesn't consider that that actually matters if, and only if, he prefers to think their interlude held any particular appeal for her. ('And why shouldn't someone wish to laugh with me?' 'I'm sure if you asked, the majority of people present here could provide you with lists of reasons. Lengthy lists.' The sap is an ass.)

In light of the collective disbelief that he could be capable of anything remotely resembling amiable intercourse, and the deleterious effect that is admittedly having on his disposition, he is relieved the... arms thing went unwitnessed. He's fairly certain his nerves wouldn't have been up for the dissection and intense analysis that would have likely drawn. But on some level he can't help wondering if that knowledge might have helped make the concept of him in conversation, and laughing by association, more relatable or believable in context.

He fails completely to take any comfort from the still fairly new absence of argument about his now generally recognized and acknowledged skills, a change most of his standing would have savored. Truthfully, if he were known as greatest British wizard of his time, which he may well be at this moment ('as everyone else seems to have conveniently died,' he snarks, in the process discounting the vast majority who survived), to his mind it still wouldn't eliminate the dark cloud oppressively hanging over his reputation. Belated but rightfully deserved acknowledgment is proving no consolation for him. Or so he thinks. In the long run, it may well have beneficial effects on his psyche, as the abatement of resentment is like to do, but when it does, he'll no longer be able to intuit the cause.

-~SS/HG~-
He finds himself even more surly than usual, having fatally underestimated how long it would take Hermione to get on to her latest house elf thing and the effects thereof, and he has only himself to blame. ('Incautious fool!') By the second evening, changes had begun to take place. His only consolation has been her sad, sad face in the mornings confronted with lackluster coffee (misery, it seems, loves company), not to overlook her obviously growing agitation, presumably as she is also suffering from caffeine withdrawal. It's a cold comfort.

With Minerva's traitorous blessing, the morning beverage selection now no longer includes his tea of choice, an FTGFOP1 Grade ('far too good for ordinary persons,' he scoffs out of habit and condescension) decoction with sufficient caffeine to fuel the night shift of any muggle police, press or medical institution. The elves crush it for him in the kitchens before brewing to increase the caffeine released, but they never serve him Broken Grade teas to avoid lower quality fannings or dust. ('Or they used to. Now they seem to be serving swill.' 'Or possibly dishwater,' they commiserate together.)

He used to really love the elves for their effort, or maybe he just loved the cuppa, but he can't appreciate one without the other. He may not be vocal in his recognition, but that doesn't diminish his gratitude in the least. The withdrawal isn't proving pretty, but then that's not a term by which he's normally measured.

As a Potions master of some repute, he should be able to compensate for this with any of a number of things from his stores (in fact, the number of those with which he could do so is worthy of note, and he gives thought to adding that question to the next fourth year semester examination). Unfortunately, he is nearly as stubborn as he is gifted ('it is the principle of the matter'), and he finds himself wholly unwilling to bend to accommodate this for the sake of mere dietary inconveniences.

And so he stalks the halls darkly, a mass of under-caffeinated swirling dark robes ('Although no longer always solely black,' he'd like it noted. 'Which is a sartorial progression,' the sap concurs), giving rise in a vicious circle to even more dispute as to how the image of a laughing Snape could have been conjured, or what fools would have believed it, much to the chagrin of the poor Hufflepuffs who initially reported it. Oddly, no one thinks to just ask Hermione about the matter, and excluded from such discourse, she never has an opportunity to defend his, admittedly very occasional, good humor.

-~SS/HG~-
In the interim, Severus thinks a good deal about that evening with Hermione, and not just because the entire school body seems unwilling to let him forget it for an instant. Although the related ridicule makes him angrier and angrier, and he can feel himself withdrawing, somehow he still can't forget the magnificent orange peel citrusy scent of her hair as she held him, or the way it lingered on him after she was gone. (That he asked the elves to bring him some orange peel potpourri for his chambers to relax him as he worked is pure coincidence, or possibly related to the season... But he also can't deny that it proved... motivating ('inspiring?') as he worked on her parents' problem.) He can't stop thinking about her embrace. ('HUG!' 'Aha! Then we are in agreement: it was a "hug"?' He hates the sap.) The warmth of her, the weight of her hands on his arms, on his chest...

He still finds much of that evening inexplicable. He can't help wondering ('fearing?' he tries to ignore the sap without much success) if the Fae in some way... Maybe the incense? Perhaps when Mab touched them both, some substance that causes... something on contact? It's very unclear, even in his own mind. He'd like to believe it was an honest interaction, but he mistrusts the ease of their conversation and particularly its depth. He questions, gravely, that she should be so willing to touch him. Repeatedly.

To make matters worse, he finds himself considering her availability. Frequently. At all hours. Many inconvenient. ('If not all.') Or trying not to. It's confounding, particularly as he can't seem to decide which of the two he should be doing. Or would prefer to do. ('One would think that last at least would be easy to determine.' 'One would once again be mistaken.' 'As "one" so often is...') He fails to see why it should be worth thinking on overmuch. She remains the same witch she was the week before, with the same degree of availability she has apparently had for quite some time now. (Vaguely he is aware that should mean he should expect ('or fear') no changes in her behavior in the near future.) Unless he has suddenly developed an interest in the human condition ('Ha!'), this should be no more than a minor news item, or perhaps a further example of the vagaries of life, for if desirable witches can't find happiness, what chance has he?

He manages despite his prodigious intelligence not to reason any of this sufficiently through to the point of realizing that her single status is only truly of significance if he has some manner of feelings for her, his mind a nearly impenetrable bastion of denial. Much the same as it never occurs to him that his discomfort at holding a witch he had mistaken for unavailable increases in inverse correlation to the chasteness of his feelings, or in direct correlation to the lack thereof. In the absence of amorous inclinations, the distinction "taken" or "not" should be immaterial. Or is he now concerned with propriety? Had he thought it, both he and the sap would have scoffed again in unison.

Not surprisingly, the net effect of such ruminations on his mood isn't positive. And so he stalks about more, getting nowhere awfully fast.

-~SS/HG~-
Before he knows it, Christmas Eve sneaks up on the castle. As he storms into the Great Hall for dinner, he practically reels back upon discovering Minerva has well and truly out-Dumbledored herself with the decorations. (He is certain that's a perfectly legitimate descriptive term for... this, and his inner voice seems now to have also sprouted inner hands suitable for quite unsubtle mental gesticulation. 'Well, that's "mental" for you alright.' 'The clear advantage being that it cannot be seen.' Some undignified mental gestures follow in emphasis of that claim.) The end of term holiday trappings seem to have multiplied in a most unrestrained fashion, no doubt to make the large but comparatively empty hall feel somehow more... cozy (he can't help thinking the term with a sneer, and his inner voice is laced with a very decided note of disdain).

"Comparative" is of course relative ('by definition,' he snorts at his inner wit), as the numbers of those remaining over the break have greatly increased from a few years prior. Pre-war. His expression clouds reflexively.

The majority of children stuck here (definitely his words for it, as he often feels he himself is, too) for the holidays are his Slytherin charges, either orphaned by the war, or de facto parentless due to sentences in Azkaban having been liberally doled out after the fall of the Dark Lor... ('Voldemort') Voldemort. There but for the grace of... Potter... he shudders at the thought. Visibly.

So much so, in fact, that a young Arithmancy professor, who has appeared unexpectedly behind him, inquires after his well being, further irritating his Potter antipathy by association. Or perhaps it's the other way around. Either way, his eyes widen slightly, but he recovers quickly and makes the appropriate, satisfactorily consoling noises, and then ('silently') admonishes himself to be more circumspect. Unfortunately, now that she seems to have sensed an "in," there is apparently no ('socially acceptable') stopping her ('shy of hexing...' 'no, sadly still not socially acceptable...'), and she carries on as if they were having an actual conversation... In public. ('Merlin forfend.')

After the widespread mockery of the past few days, contained as it may have been but still reducing him to a laughingstock, this is the last thing he needs. ('Actually,' the sap can't resist, 'there's quite a number...' 'Enough.')

But there's nothing for it. She natters on. Wittering. She's been working regularly with Filius, and she is considering the pursuit of a Charms mastery in addition to her Arithmancy ('as one does,' he was in fact vaguely aware of this and couldn't help reinforcing his mental image of her as the swot to end all swots, not like himself in the least of course) in the absence of preferable options, and she would like very much ('with her fifteen minutes of experience, ta muchly') to work with him on incorporating charms in the potion brewing process. As if he had never done such a thing. Daily. Bint. He's tired just from listening to her. ('Due, no doubt, in part to the run on sentence.' Or was there punctuation he had failed to note?) Merlin, does she ever make him feel old. Full stop.

And yet.

It is... he casts about for a term and settles perplexingly on... "nice" with no small degree of revulsion, but he can find no better word for it... yes: nice, for someone to take an interest in his work, his field of expertise, as more than just a black box or an implement to affect some result. ('"Make it so" without a care how, like some I could mention.' 'But would prefer not to,' the sap nods in knowing agreement.)

To have someone, and not a completely addlepated cretin at that, show interest in the processes to which he has dedicated his academic life... Well, yes, that's somewhat appealing, by Salazar, as indeed, is the young witch inquiring... and at that his thoughts grind to an immediate halt, momentum be damned. (In his mind castle, the laws of physics do not apply. 'That's what Arresto Momentum is for. Nit.') But still, before he can fathom it or any possible repercussions, he finds himself engaging with her ('of all things'), and ('surely not') making tentative plans to pursue her experiments in the new year. ('Merlin's hairy ball sack, what the blazes was that??')

He is, in fact, so completely flabbergasted at this realization, that he momentarily neglects to pay more than rudimentary attention to his surroundings, and so it happens that he stumbles into one of those thrice damned mistletoe traps. 'Damn those Weasleys,' he rails internally, but only the once, before immediately remembering that it's "Weasley" singular these days, and his anger dissipates completely at the thought.

When the briefest of moments later his appealing ('appealing???') conversation partner bumps into him and also finds herself in the trap, her thoughts seem much the same as she lets out a sad sigh of "Fred" before turning her attention again to Severus.

His distraction in considering the same Weasley of pranks past had slowed his reaction just enough to fail to stop her from joining him in this bit of encapsulated mortification, it can't have been deliberate, although his inner Slytherin recognizes quite readily that this is probably the best way to have vouchsafed his freedom. Who else would have voluntarily come to his rescue? Best to have someone forced to do so. ('And of course it doesn't hurt that she's appealing...' and once again there is a near audible screech in his mind as though someone had scraped a needle across an entire LP. 'With the amplifier set to eleven.' *scoff* 'Hopefully it wasn't an album anyone would wish to hear again, as it will certainly skip...') Much, in fact, as his heart does when mere beats later...

So distracted is he by his inner conversations, that the moment where her expression changes from attentive to good natured resolve (so unfamiliar to him that he loses yet another moment struggling to recognize it) escapes him entirely, and so he is completely thrown when her hands reach up to steady herself on his shoulders and she extends on tiptoe, no less, ('how patently absurd') to place a gentle kiss on his lips. He finds himself blinking rapidly, and somehow still not missing it ('but it's: "blink and you miss it," is it not?'), which has him wondering, rather a lot, about the length of this... oh, words just fail. And as he returns to the present, he is greatly puzzled to determine that this, whatever it is, is still ongoing. ('Merlin.')

'Why on earth hasn't she cut and run?'

The mistletoe trap springs audibly open as a delicate and naked hand smoothly snakes up and over the back of his neck, skin on rapidly warming skin, entwining itself in his hair and pulling him closer as their lips join. In the distance, far, far off from the sound of it (or are his ears ringing?), some of his ill-mannered colleagues are catcalling (the students, thankfully, remain too cowed to consider such a thing), and still soft lips connect with his own. It's chaste, not in the least inappropriate per se, just inexplicable in its still occurring. ('Merlin.')

But decidedly not altogether unpleasant.

'Fine. It's pleasant.'

'Fine. It's more than pleasant.'

But it's also bloody inexplicable, and he is definitely not a fan of the unexplained.

And as the sound of the calls of his colleagues become clearer (or perhaps his ears stop their insistent ringing), she too comes to her senses and releases him. He takes a giant step back from the offending greenery and the most bewildering witch still standing under it, clearing the path for her imminent flight. He waits (and waits) for her to run away, and when she fails to do so, he briefly considers doing it himself, but quickly agrees with her ('for surely that must have been her thought process') that it would be undignified and only make matters worse. ('Never allow the Grindylows to scent blood.') And so with head held high, and the blood still thundering through his ears, he follows her to the table set for the Christmas Eve feast, mimicking her dignity and grace as best he can. (Undoubtedly a poor showing on his part, but what can he do?)

In the face of her utter absence of embarrassment ('surely a BAFTA-worthy performance' if ever he's seen one) and her ('frankly disturbing') abundance of bonhomie, the catcalls come to a surprisingly quick conclusion and the evening proceeds much as though "it" had never happened. Even Filius fails to tease him. Mostly. Minerva says nary a word in chastisement. Briefly considering this, he is forced to admire the young witch's approach to handling the affair. Any action he would have taken would almost certainly have led to far more ... unpleasantness.

Yet, that hardly feels the right word to describe the events of the evening. ('Surely "more" denotes that it was at least in part unpleasant...')

And if he's honest, it most certainly wasn't, for it was a pleasant evening indeed.

'Circe, how did that happen?'

Notes:
Next Chapter:
We catch up with Hermione, and see how she's spent the last couple of days. She gets some unexpected owls, which she kindly feeds, and celebrates Christmas Eve and Christmas.

A/N:
Thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, kudoing and bookmarking. You guys are über-lovely. Especially for not thwacking me on my spelling of "Gryffindor." Extremely kind, thanks, folks!

I wasn't kidding about not using English much, and basically I do whatever the spellchecker says. It knew to autocomplete "Hogwarts" and "Dumbledore," which I admit surprised me, so I assumed it had the houses set, too. More fool I.

And, honestly, what do I know? I got sorted into Slytherin (as is fitting and proper ;-)), and which I know how to spell. :-p

But seriously, feel free to nudge me when things need sorting.

Quotes and such:
"As dead as a doornail," Shakespeare is credited with cementing this phrase in modern language when he wrote these lines in King Henry VI, Part II, Act IV, Scene 10 for Jack Cade: "Look on me well: I have eat no meat these five days; yet, come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a doornail, I pray God I may never eat grass more."

The phrase can be traced back at least to the 14th century, but probably not in anything any of us are likely to read.

Similarly, he gets props for "laughing-stock" in the "Merry Wives of Windsor," Act III Scene I, Sir Hugh Evans says "Pray you let us not be laughing-stocks to other men's humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. "

Once again, "laughingstock" (hyphenated and as two words) was around before Shakespeare used it, but he's probably the oldest source most people today are likely to still read.

Soapbox:
I refer to Severus as Machiavellian. If you are interested in my thoughts on that, I'll put them in a comment.

Cheers,
Ginger :-)

"Thank the Fae" by gingerbred Chapter 07

Christmas Eve of Adduction... Part 1

Christmas Eve of Adduction... Part 1

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