Chapter Text
The basket weighed nothing. Hermione found that oddly disturbing.
One hundred and forty-seven folded parchment flowers in each basket, every flower representing a life lost. The basket should have been heavy. She wanted to feel the weight of the grief in her hands. Instead, it was charmed to float, lighter even than the paper within.
"Bloody morbid counting them," Ron muttered beside her.
“At least we’re still here to count." Hermione moved toward the first tomb, her heavy black robes dragging in the dew-damp grass. Ten years. A decade since she'd stood in this courtyard watching stone explode and green light arc through smoke-filled air.
The morning sun caught the grey marble stone markers arranged in concentric circles around the courtyard. Hermione knelt, placed a paper orchid on Lavender Brown's marker. The origami hovered just above the surface, ghostly and ephemeral.
Harry worked three stones over, his jaw tight. Ron finished his row and hovered awkwardly near the refreshment table someone had deemed appropriate to set up. Because nothing said "solemn memorial" quite like tea and biscuits.
"Miss Granger."
Hermione's hand froze over Colin Creevey's name. She'd know that voice anywhere, like silk over gravel.
"Professor Snape." She didn't look up. Another flower, another name. The rhythm helped.
"I haven't taught in a decade." He moved past her toward the far row. ”Just Snape will suffice."
She risked a glance. He looked different in civilian robes, still black and well-tailored but less rigid. No grease in his hair, just a sprinkling of grey at the temples. The war had aged him, then peace had restored him. The sharp features remained, but the bitterness had burned away. Hermione had never seen him look so calm, so human.
“Snape,” she said with a nod and a little more warmth, before returning to her task. Thirty-four flowers left.
Ten minutes later, the last folded flower had been placed on the final marker. Many other flowers scattered at the base of the central war monument, for all those who had died elsewhere prior to the Battle of Hogwarts. Those who died in homes, in the streets, in Azkaban, those who vanished without a trace.
The ‘heroes’ (Hermione still felt uncomfortable with that designation) stepped back in a loose cluster at the base of the monument. Hermione found herself somehow in the front row. Of course. Just what the photographers would want.
She felt warmth at her back. Turning her head slightly towards Harry, she caught the gleam of a long row of buttons in her peripherals. A shiver of awareness ran through her, with the realization that Snape had positioned himself close behind her.
McGonagall raised her wand. The crowd went silent as the parchment flowers trembled. Hundreds of pieces of enchanted paper swirled into the air. They ignited into feathers of hopeful golden flame then merged into wings, a flowing tail and gleaming beak. A radiant phoenix screamed and wheeled over the Great Lake, trailing sparks across the sky.
Hermione's throat constricted. Memories poignant and sharp filling the silence.
"Right then." McGonagall's voice carried across the courtyard, amplified by magic. She stepped up to the podium, ”We gather today not merely to mourn, but to remember. To honour all who fell. To ensure their sacrifice…"
Hermione stopped listening. She'd heard versions of this speech every year. Same theme, slightly different words. Her mind drifted to tonight's ball. The dancing. The small talk. The awkwardness of—
"Four," Ron whispered from her left. "I count four of them here."
"Shut up," Hermione hissed back.
"No, seriously. Marcus from Magical Law Enforcement. That curse-breaker whose name I can't remember. The tall witch from the Department of Mysteries. And isn't that—"
"Yes. All here. Thank you, Ron."
Harry leaned in. "You could just avoid them."
"In a ballroom? For hours?"
"Fair point."
Ron grinned. "Makes five of us, doesn't it? Your exes, all in one place."
Hermione elbowed him. "We dated for six days, ten years ago. And we fought more times than we kissed. You don't count."
"Harsh."
“You’re tough. You can handle it,” she said with an affectionate nudge.
McGonagall waxed poetic about courage and unity. Hermione calculated escape routes. The ball was mandatory for war heroes. She'd tried to skip the five-year anniversary and received three Howlers and a personal visit from Kingsley.
She could fake illness. Dragon pox? No, too dramatic. Dricken Flu? That had done the rounds last month...
Breath against her ear. Whisper-soft.
"I couldn't help but overhear." Snape's voice barely disturbed the air. "You find yourself in a predicament."
Hermione stiffened. "Eavesdropping, Snape?"
“Hazards of being a former spy."
"What do you want?"
"To propose a solution." He paused. McGonagall was building toward her crescendo about eternal vigilance. "I could accompany you tonight. As your date."
Hermione turned her head slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to catch his profile. His expression was neutral. Almost bored. Gaze aimlessly drifting over the crowd of mourners.
"Why would you possibly—"
"I have my reasons."
"That's not an answer."
"No, but it's the one you're getting at present."
McGonagall finished with a flourish. Applause rippled through the crowd. The ceremony was breaking up. People would mingle now, share platitudes and appropriately mournful comments, pretend they weren't thinking about the open bar at tonight's ball.
Hermione needed to respond before someone approached. Before Harry or Ron noticed. This was insane. Severus Snape didn't do favours.
"What's in it for you?"
"Perhaps I simply wish to help a fellow Order member avoid an uncomfortable evening."
"Rubbish."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "There may be certain individuals I'd prefer to avoid as well. A reciprocal arrangement, if you will."
"You're asking me to be your shield while I use you as mine?"
"A mutually beneficial fake relationship.”
“How very Slytherin."
Hermione should say no. This was Severus Snape. The man who'd spent years as her miserable and mean professor who made her academic life more difficult, while secretly protecting them all. It was unorthodox. Weird. Potentially a disaster.
"Hermione!" Padma Patil was approaching, waving. Two people behind her, one of them Marcus.
Damn. Decision time.
Hermione turned fully, met Snape's dark eyes. Calculating.
"One condition," she said quietly. "We need a plan. People will ask questions."
"Naturally. We can discuss details this afternoon." He reached into his robes, pulled out a black card. His apothecary's address in Diagon Alley, embossed in silver. “Two o'clock?"
She took the card, "Two o'clock."
"Excellent." He stepped back, melting into the crowd with the ease of someone who'd spent decades being overlooked. "Until then, Miss Granger."
He was gone before Padma reached her.
Hermione slipped the card into her pocket and painted on a smile. This was either brilliant or the worst idea she'd had since the polyjuice incident in second year.