Arithmantic Dating Agency

Chapter 17

By Shiv

Severus didn’t know how long he slept, but soon after he awoke he became aware that there were other appetites that needed to be satisfied. He was absolutely starving. He was slightly worried about how to tell Hermione this – she was still sleeping and making faint snuffling sounds that could be called snoring if they were made by someone less beautiful – it was hardly the stuff of romance.

And yet, there was the dinner he had prepared for in such loving detail.

He carefully freed himself from Hermione’s possessive arm, and slipped into his dressing gown, and headed back into the sitting room. A quick glance at the mantel clock showed that it was 8pm, only half an hour later than he had originally planned for dinner.

He felt mildly self-conscious about summoning Dobby when he was still in his dressing-gown; it would be all over the castle within half an hour. And yet, he felt slightly smug, and slightly guilty about feeling smug, at the thought that everyone would soon know that he and Hermione had been – he searched for a suitable phrase and finally settled on – been intimate. And so early in the evening as well.

It hadn’t been quite what he had envisaged. He had expected a romantic dinner, sparkling conversation, good food, a decent wine, a move to the sofa and then shagging like nifflers; instead of which, they had gone straight to the last item on the agenda. Not that he was complaining, not at all.

Ten minutes, three over-excitable house-elves, and a flurry of activity later and dinner was ready. Nothing too elaborate and certainly nothing too heavy; the idea wasn’t to make your partner fall asleep after the meal. He looked up from lighting the candles – none of this silly business with matches that muggles had to put up with, just a quick spell – and there she was, leaning against the doorjamb, wrapped in a sheet.

And he had thought he was hungry, he thought wryly to himself.

He reminded himself – firmly – that he was a gentleman, and drew out a chair for her to sit on.

“That’s a very fetching outfit,” he said. He thought she looked wonderful, all pink and flushed and faintly rumpled. She looked like she had just climbed out of bed, and she looked like she was ready to head back there at a moments notice.

“Why thank you,” she mock-simpered in her best Lavender Brown manner. “All the girls are wearing it this season.”

He took the seat opposite her and started the prosaic business of serving the food and pouring the wine.

There was no awkwardness between them; they were as comfortable together as an old married couple, but without the lingering resentments built up over twenty years. She asked about how his classes had been, and he found himself recounting the story of young Mr Beattie and his amazing exploding cauldron.

Not only did she find it amusing but sharing it with her allowed him to find a measure of enjoyment in what had, at the time, been nothing short of a nightmare. If this continued on a regular basis, he could see himself developing a sense of humour, perhaps mellowing and becoming less irritable; the prospect didn’t annoy him as much as it might once have done. He would be a fool to scoff at any chance to be happy; he’d been the child standing outside the toy shop with their nose pressed against the window for far too long.

Then he asked about her meeting with Minerva earlier. He half-expected Hermione to confirm that he had made some mistake in filling in the form, and that Filch wasn’t really Minerva’s soulmate, although he had tried to be as accurate as possible.

“So, why do you think they are suited to each other,” he asked, puzzled.

An evil expression crossed her face. “Well, if you think about it, Filch has a great deal of experience with cats.”

He was shocked by the implication; he was even more shocked that Hermione was the one making it, and about her favourite professor too. Amused, but shocked. When he pointed this out to her, she just smiled broadly and said that McGonagall was hardly her favourite professor any more.

The implication passed him by at first, and then he ducked his head shyly. He wasn’t used to compliments, had no armour against them, and didn’t know what to say. He was relieved when she turned the conversation back to Minerva and Filch. “Actually, if he was honest in his answers, they have a surprising amount in common: similar tastes in books, music, and art, and both are very strong believers in the value of discipline.” – another evil smile – “Just because he’s a squib, doesn’t mean he’s stupid; what he wants is someone who will appreciate that. All he needs is a chance.”

“And what does Minerva get out of it?” he enquired, interested in spite of himself.

“I think she’s beginning to feel old, that life has passed her by; what she wants is someone who will tell her that she’s still attractive, still vibrant, despite her age.”

 Now he thought about it, Minerva had been complaining about aches and pains a lot more recently; she did seem to be feeling old. He could sympathise with that. “And you think that going out with a younger partner will help her feel younger?”

“You tell me,” she said, almost purring.

He shot her an amused look. “I think it may make her feel very tired, if she’s not careful.”

“And what’s the best thing when you’re feeling tired?” she asked, twirling her fork.

“Lots of rest?” he offered hopefully; he liked the way her mind was working.

“I think it’s way past your bedtime then.”

He rather thought she was right about that; particularly when she stood up, made some airy comment about needing the sheet back in that case, and let it fall to the ground. Hermione was enchantingly direct about these sorts of things, he reflected, as he padded into the bedroom behind her.

 And she was right; the third time was the best of all.