Gone With The... O.W.L.?

By Pigwidgeon37

A/N: This story, which, by the way, is quite silly, is the answer to a WIKTT challenge. The rules require that Hermione's picture somehow end up in a gentlemen’s magazine, that Snape find out and set out to ‘rescue’ her, that in the rescuing process he cover her with his robes or cloak (as dramatically as possible), and that at least 4 persons wiggle their eyebrows at Snape.

Both protagonists are mildly OOC, but then the challenge in itself isn’t exactly canon.

"But I don't want to!"

"Severus, are you wailing?"

"Don't be preposterous!" Snape glared. "Of course I'm not wailing. Although I concede that I might be… complaining."

Dumbledore grinned. "Oh, fine. I'm glad we got over the terminological problem. Lemon drop?" Snape took one and crunched it viciously-it sounded as if the ribcage of a mouse were breaking. Probably, that was exactly what the Potions Master was imagining, Dumbledore thought, while still trying to cope with the shock. After all, this was the first lemon drop any of his visitors had ever accepted in… well, many, many years. Taking advantage of Snape's teeth being momentarily glued together by the sticky filling, he continued, "Look, Severus, this is important and you know it. I mean, I'm perfectly aware that you couldn't care less about being a war hero. However, that's what you are, and you'll have to make certain concessions to the public. Declining interviews is one thing. Refusing to participate in charity work is quite another."

Snape, who had been furiously sucking at the obnoxious sweet so as to separate his jaws, almost sawing off part of his tongue in the process, had finally succeeded. "I bloody well know that! But that doesn't mean I have to like it, for Merlin's sake! Just look at their names!" He pointed accusingly at the stack of letters that lay on the Headmaster's desk between him and Dumbledore, menacing and exuding tediousness in spite of its relatively small height. "They're ridiculous!"

The Headmaster sighed. "Some of them, yes. I certainly don't know why they come up with such acronyms. Nevertheless, it's all for the sake of the Greater Good-"

"Albus…"

"-and, after winning the war, it's practically our duty-"

"Albus!"

"-to succour those less fortunate than-"

"ALBUS!!!!"

Dumbledore paused abruptly and gave Snape a half-guilty grin. "Sorry. I don't know how many of those speeches I've done these last weeks… It simply sneaks up on me and pounces… quite unpleasant, really…"

Snape sighed. The months of desperate tension before Voldemort's final defeat, and the weeks of hectic celebrating that followed in its aftermath had clearly taken their toll on the ancient Headmaster. Not that he hadn't been slightly barmy in the past, but that was mostly a well-chosen camouflage for sharp wit and carefully wielded power. Nowadays, Snape suspected, there was more to Dumbledore's… well, eccentricity. Now, after the final battle, it owed more to weariness, and to the awareness of having accomplished a mission. Was the old man to be blamed? Certainly not. Besides, he was right about the charity. Snape heaved another, long-suffering sigh. "All right, Albus. One. We'll choose one of them, and I'll try to grit my teeth and get through with it."

"Gritted teeth do have a nasty habit of making you look less than photogenic, though…"

"Albus!"

"All right, all right. So, what have we got here?"

They sorted through the letters, discarding those with less-than-perfect orthography. It was Snape's idea, of course, and this time Dumbledore was the one who interrupted his lengthy tirade of justification. "Severus… please! I've known you for almost thirty years. Your views on wizarding education in general and correct spelling in particular have been made publicly known on more than one occasion. I admit defeat. Let's eliminate those with faulty spelling."

Snape grinned diabolically, while the Headmaster separated wheat from chaff, throwing him the occasional reproachful glance. "How many have we left?"

"Five…" Dumbledore conjured another mug of hot chocolate. "Make your choice then!" And he shoved the sad remainders towards his Potions Master, who was looking extremely smug.

"Let's see…" It was already late, and thus Snape felt perfectly justified in pouring himself another whiskey. He took a sip and unfolded the first letter. This proved to be a very unwise move, for-in a highly unusual display of complete lack of manners-he snorted, so that most of the contents of his mouth took the only possible exit. His nose. Five minutes and a coughing fit later, he flung the letter back on the desk. "P.I.M.P.? You expect me to have anything to do with an association called pimp?"

Dumbledore giggled. "Well… no, not really. What does the acronym stand for?"

"Propaedeutic Institute for Magicians and Prestidigitators. No, no and no!" With an angry flick of his wand, the parchment went up in flames. He took another sip, swallowed, and picked the next letter. "Impossible!" He glared at Dumbledore, who, completely unfazed, answered with a beatific smile. "T.A.R.T.! Look at this! Tart! Have they all gone mad?" The Headmaster said nothing, and merely beckoned for Snape to read out the full name. "Theosophical Association of Retired Thespians. Merlin's bloody codpiece! No!" T.A.R.T. shared the same destiny as S.T.R.U.M.P.E.T. (Society for the Transformation, Re-organization and Unification of Modern Philosophical and Economic Theorems-"Do you think they actually do something?" Snape asked, fascinated in spite of himself) and C.O.O.L.C.A.T. (Conclave Of Orthodox Limnomancers, Chiromancers, Arithmo-Onirologists and Thaumaturgists).

When the Potions Master had finished his annihilation spree, a single letter was left on the desk. It seemed to tremble. "We-ell…" Snape said silkily, already savouring the taste of triumph. Then his face fell. The association's name was O.W.L. Just that, simple and plain. No spelling errors, either-he checked twice, just to be sure. "I… ahem…" He took a fortifying sip. "It seems that this… er… might do…"

Dumbledore snatched the letter. "Orphans' Welfare League? Splendid, Severus, just splendid!" He wiggled his eyebrows in a way he probably thought ominous-Snape thought they looked like Copulating Cotton Candy. To hide his glee at the disrespectful simile, he took another Lemon Drop.

@::@::@

Like many charitable societies, O.W.L. resided in sumptuous headquarters. Probably, Snape reckoned, in order to give the wretched orphans the correct aspirations for their otherwise useless lives. A young witch-orphaned, as she informed the surly newcomer, who just barely managed to model his face into a mask of polite disinterest-demurely clad in nondescript grey robes, led Snape to the conference room, where his fellow governors were already waiting for him. There were seven of them, one worse than the other, in Snape's opinion. Narcissa Malfoy, recently-converted ex-Death-Eater-consort ('ex' referring to both the Death Eater and Narcissa's married state, seeing as how death had put an end to both) Timothy Fudge, the late Minister's younger brother, more pompous and even less intelligent than his defunct sibling. Aspidistra Spindlepaw, a spinster of legendary age and mythic wealth, who had no relatives at all, and whose sole purpose in life seemed to be slithering her way into as many charitable institutions as possible (rumour had it that she'd invented a few, exclusively for her own entertainment) Riccardo Zabini, immaculate Slytherin extraordinaire and high society's Aestheto-Medimage, Smoother of Wrinkles, Lifter of Breasts, astronomically-paid cross between stern confessor and benign worker of miracles. Aberforth Dumbledore, the man who had given an entirely new meaning to the term 'improper charms'. Conrad 'Coco' Ploppentyler, who looked like Clark Gable after a particularly unsuccessful diet of Ogden's Not So Very Fine and haggis; on second thought, Snape mentally added garlic to the list. The cloud of putrefaction, hanging almost visibly above him, was enhanced rather than neutralized by his appalling cologne. And Mary-Lou Bulstrode, who had recently added a fourth roll of fat to her chin.

"Ah, Severus! Welcome, welcome!"

For a moment, Snape was under the impression that Narcissa had mastered the art of ventriloquism; then, however, he remembered that Zabini had an impossibly high-pitched, almost feminine voice. This, and his height that barely exceeded 5''5', had made him the laughing stock of Slytherin House, which Snape had joined during Zabini's last year. "Riccardo," he acknowledged with a minuscule nod of his head. Then he proceeded to the greeting ceremony, which seemed to be-and, alas, Snape was absolutely right in thinking so-the sole purpose of this and many similar meetings (at least of those where no refreshments were served)

When he could finally sit down, he performed an unobtrusive cleaning spell on his right hand. Not only would he have done so at any rate, but the display of refreshments on the large oval table was irresistible-impossible to put any food in his mouth with his hand sullied by those abominable handshakes.

"Well then," Aberforth crowed, "let's get on with the meeting!" And he pulled a platter of sandwiches towards him.

Snape wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Goat cheese, Aberforth?"

"Yes!" Snape, fighting the nausea, brushed the sticky white crumbs from his robes, as nonchalantly as possible and trying to ignore Narcissa's snort. "You kind of become addicted to the flavour once you-"

"Yes, Aberforth, I think I get the picture," Snape interrupted hastily. The only way to efficiently drown out the goatish smell wafting into his nose from his right was to pour himself a rather generous amount of Firewhiskey. This infraction earned him a vicious stare from Coco, but he shrugged it off. Not only mentally.

"The reason for today's meeting," Aspidistra Spindlepaw started in a voice both shrill and sibilant-it reminded Snape a little of his Death Eater days, "is morality."

"Hear, hear!" went the others. Snape had to get rid of another creamy-white downpour. It reminded him of nuclear fall-out.

"We have to be concerned," the spinster continued, "not only about the welfare, but also about the impeccable moral standards of British orphans."

"Well," said Coco, "it seems that we all are concerned. So we might proceed to the next point, don't you think so?"

"Highly concerned," Mary-Lou Bulstrode added between two bites of caviar.

This lack of understanding seemed to infuriate Spindlepaw, with the interesting side effect that what Snape had believed to be a somewhat exotic turban uncoiled itself and jumped loftily on the table. It was an ocelot, and it evidently liked Parma ham. The assembly recoiled. "We must ensure," the old witch hissed, "that the rules of morality be observed and-"

"Bravo for the subjunctive!" Aberforth screeched. With a sigh, Snape transformed his black robes into white ones. Sometimes, it was simply better to take the easy path, especially when the right one would imply serious mauling of a Governor.

"-and we must set an example!"

Bulstrode clapped, and Snape saw with satisfaction that Narcissa's hair was now sprinkled with blackish-grey dots. He only hoped that Malfoy Manor was full of cats, and at the same time regretted he wouldn't be there to relish the scene of feline persecution. "Excellent," he said. "What exactly did you have in mind, Aspidistra?"

A toothless grin rewarded his words. "This, for example," she said, and picked a glossy magazine from the depths of a carpet bag.

Everybody stared. For none other was the corpus delicti than the latest issue of Hotwitch.

"And what, pray," Zabini asked, "does this have to do with orphans? I know that magazine-" Spindlepaw glared "-by hearsay," he quickly added. "And I can't quite see the connection…"

With a triumphant smirk, Spindlepaw opened the infamous object to show the centrefold. The men gasped and grinned, the women raised their eyebrows. On a bed of red roses, clad in nothing but two rose petals and a fig leaf, lay the prone figure of Hermione Granger, former star student, faithful sidekick of Harry Potter, and recent Hogwarts graduate. Not unlike the Sorting Hat, the fig leaf suddenly sprouted a mouth and two innuendo-heavy, wiggling eyebrows, and squeaked, "Send a payment order for 100 galleons to the Paracelsus Research Fund, and you'll receive an encoded parchment within three days' time. Crack the code, tap me thrice and say the incantation. Then I'll cede my place to this young lady's right hand-"

"I'm left-handed," Hermione Granger interrupted the monologue, sounding quite angry, "How often do I have to tell you?"

"Enough!" Spindlepaw snapped and closed the magazine with a sharp 'smack'. It didn't quite cover the men's "Aaaaaw!" "This virgin," she continued, but was cut off by a series of snorts and ill-disguised chuckles. "What?"

"Well," Snape began, all the while keeping a cautious eye on the ocelot, "This young… er, lady is Miss Hermione Granger, who happened to be my student until some months ago. She's almost nineteen, and I doubt-"

"Indeed. Unless memory fails me, she was sent by Dumbledore to use her considerable charms on Lucius, in order to get whichever information she could out of him," Narcissa interjected.

"Don't tell me you didn't watch," Snape quipped.

"If I did, I certainly did so under the influence of the Imperius Curse," she trilled.

His interest suddenly caught, Aberforth inquired, "So? Was it interesting? What did they do? Did he turn her into a goa-"

"Merlin's atrophic biceps!" Zabini's patience was evidently exhausted. "Could we maybe arrive at some tangible result within the next five minutes? I've got a patient waiting at St. Mungo's, and she's been under heavy anaesthesia for more than two hours!"

"Yes," Mary-Lou Bulstrode agreed, "Let's just organize another charity ball!"

But Aspidistra Spindlepaw had her mind set on rescuing Hermione Granger's body, soul and social status. "No ball," she said. "This girl has to be guided back onto the right path. Or else I might go see my solicitors now. O.W.L. is not the only organization in need of my money. There are others, no less fund-worthy-"

"Alright, alright!" Timothy Fudge interrupted her. "Message understood. Let's elect a representative who'll have the dubious honour of paying a visit to this Miss Granger, to give her a lecture on values."

Spindlepaw displayed her gums in a wide smile; the demure secretary was ordered to bring eight pieces of parchment and the same number of quills; plates and glasses were pushed towards the centre of the table, and everybody wrote down their votes, which were hence conveyed to Spindlepaw by Ocelot Movers Inc. The old witch opened them one by one. The result was somewhat appalling. Four votes said 'ME', three said 'SNAPE', and one said 'NARCISSA'. Spindlepaw snorted. "Four invalid, three for our dear Severus here, one for Narcissa. Severus, you go."

Snape gasped. "But-"

"No buts! You'll report to the board of governors at the next meeting, which is going to take place on 15 November."

"And if I were you," Narcissa chimed in, "I'd revert to the old colour scheme. No need to frighten the… er, virgin more than necessary."

@::@::@

After the disastrous outcome of his first O.W.L. meeting, the Potions Master was aghast for a whole week. Certainly not to the students' disadvantage, as his state of perpetual bewilderment rendered him considerably more mellow. So very lenient, in fact, that the Gryffindor seventh-years, under the leadership of Ginny Weasley and Colin Creevy, dared to think and do the hitherto unimaginable: they switched the Slytherins' Mildew Extract with Camphor Solution, a skilful and well-prepared manoeuvre that turned the Mind-Sharpening Draught they were meant to prepare into a Dementia Praecox Potion. Snape eyed his tottering, babbling, amnesia-stricken Slytherins for a long while and then merely said, "Oh, come on, children! This isn't funny!" before he absentmindedly left the classroom.

Seeing as how the Slytherins had nobody they could turn to, with their Head of House temporarily out of his mind (besides, that day's victims didn't remember they had a Head of House, let alone which House they belonged to) the Gryffindors were the ones who brought the story to McGonagall's attention. By lunchtime, it had reached the Headmaster's ears. Concerned about his youngest staff member's mental health, Dumbledore invited Snape for another afternoon tea.

"Severus, um…" he ventured, when Snape had eaten up all his Lemon Drops and was looking for more in obvious desperation.

"Yes, Lemon-er, Headmaster? I mean, yes, Albus?"

"Severus, what's the matter with you? Minerva told me about today's Potions accident with the seventh-years. You haven't taken any house points, I checked immediately after lunch. Tell me what's wrong with you!"

The Potions Master snapped out of his stupor and said, "Well, I… oh, bugger! A hundred points from Hufflepuff!"

Fawkes gave a piercing shriek and fell off his perch.

The Badgers got back their house points, and after fifteen minutes' not-so-gentle prodding, Snape finally poured out his grief and woe. So as not to offend the Slytherin's fragile ego, Dumbledore deliberately inhaled some cookie crumbs, choked, coughed and then excused himself for a moment. When he returned to his office, his eyes were still watering. Had Snape been his usual alert self, he would have noticed that the Headmaster's beard was twitching.

"Well," Dumbledore remarked, "I'm afraid this is a bit of a delicate mission. On the other hand, think of the consequences, should Aspidistra withdraw her funding. You'll have to sacrifice yourself to the orphans' welfare, or so it seems. It is a sacrifice, isn't it?" he added, quite nonchalantly.

"It, er… well, yes, of course," Snape replied, a little too hastily to seem entirely natural.

"Mmmh…" Dumbledore stroked his beard. "Because, you know, if you really feel it's too much, I could go to Miss Granger… and you could claim it was you…"

"No, no, no. I mean, no, thank you. That's very kind of you. But I think the… er, generation gap-no offence, eh?-the generation gap between the two of you is simply too wide. Practically unbridgeable."

The Headmaster and his phoenix exchanged a stealthy glance, pregnant with mirth. Fawkes wiggled non-existent eyebrows. "Generation gap… yes, yes. I hadn't thought of that. True, very true. Whereas between yourself and her there's-"

"Twenty-two years," the Potions Master said, blushed, cleared his throat and added, "At least I think so…"

"Indeed." Fawkes uttered a trill that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "Twenty-two years… you could be her father…" Snape harrumphed. "Or older brother…"

Snape bared his teeth. "As a matter of fact, I'm her ex-teacher." He took a sip of tea and relapsed into his pensive mood. "That fig leaf, though…"

"Devilish," Dumbledore agreed. "And the code is practically unbreakable."

"Exactly my thoughts. I'm sure Miss Granger devised it herse-ALBUS!"

But the Headmaster was staring out of the window, humming a merry little tune.

@::@::@

Hermione Granger, aged 18 ¾, lived in a small flat in Camden Town. Albeit dentists, her late parents, who had fallen victims to a Death Eater attack about seven months ago, hadn't left their only daughter any worldly possessions even remotely deserving of the epithet 'considerable'. Whatever income they had, had been immediately invested into their own pleasures. Thus, Hermione theoretically owned a sailboat, two complete golfing equipments, the left rear quarter of a racing horse, four complete skiing equipments, tons of designer clothes, a Steinway grand piano and a few pieces of jewellery. The Grangers' flat had been rented and was far too large for her, so she had to give it up. After selling what her parents had bequeathed to her-the proceeds had been ridiculous-there was just enough left for her to purchase some basic furniture for her first own flat. 'Own' in the sense that she and Crookshanks were the sole inhabitants, as it was, of course, rented. The top-notch stereo she had taken with her did little to console her when she thought of the money she was going to need if she wanted to study at the Paracelsus Institute for Advanced Alchemy. It had been this dramatic cash-flow shortage which, one hot July night, made her sit bolt upright in her bed, because she had just thought of the possibility of selling her own body. Not as a prostitute, of course (although, to do her justice, it has to be mentioned that she discarded the idea merely because it would take too much of her precious study time) but by posing as a model. A piece of cake for the woman who had shagged precious information out of Lucius Malfoy.

Lothario Letcher, chief editor of Hotwitch, had been enchanted when Hermione Granger walked into his office. The code of conduct imposed on unmarried witches had been quite rigorous at the best of times, and after the war, when the horrifying dangers a lack of morals might lead young people to had been duly exposed, it had become Victorian, to use but a euphemism. Letcher was hard pressed to find any young witches willing to bare more than their fingers and toes in front of a camera. The fees they claimed were hair-raising. The pecuniary expectations of young Miss Granger, however, were pretty moderate-or rather, that was what Letcher thought until he heard of the pact she'd struck with the Paracelsus people: fifty percent of the fig-leaf-lifting contributions, made by drooling British wizards (and probably also the occasional witch), were to be directed straight to her Gringott's account. In the harsh reality of the world of Aspiring Young Academics, Hermione Granger had managed to find a solution that made all participants of the bargain equally happy. A memorable feat in and of itself.

The fall term at the PIAA had only just begun, and Hermione was thoroughly happy. She had a flat, she had her cat, she had some friends (Harry and Ron, albeit playing Quidditch for the English National Team and the Chudley Cannons, shared a flat nearby, and the trio spent at least one evening per week together) she had no need to worry about financing her studies, and she was a… well, yes, a celebrity. She loved the looks people shot her-their insecurity whether to label her 'heroine' or 'slut' greatly amused her, although she was pretty sure one could be both at the same time. After all, she was the living proof. And she enjoyed it. What she enjoyed less was being interrupted in the middle of her studies by insistent pounding on her door. A quick look at Crookshanks told her that the visitor, whoever he or she might be, was at least trustworthy, and so she got up from her couch and trudged towards the door. The sight of Severus Snape, wearing a black suit, charcoal grey shirt and a sardonic sneer was somewhat disconcerting. But she was a well-mannered young woman and greeted him with a polite "Good evening!" The 'Sir' nonchalantly following in its wake was ruthlessly swallowed. After all, she wasn't his student anymore.

"Good evening, Miss Granger. My… er, apologies for the late interruption. May I come in for a moment?"

She looked at him, eyebrows rising. His eyebrows, too, went up. In the end, she decided that he had far more practice and lowered hers again. "What ever for, Professor Snape?"

"I, well, I suppose you could say that there is a matter of some importance I need to discuss with you."

"Indeed." She let her gaze travel up and down his lanky form. Not bad, she thought, not bad at all. Bat-robes gone, hair tamed into a ponytail, a thin layer of something akin to politeness covering his customary ill temper… The voice and the intellect had always fascinated her. This might turn into a quite interesting experiment. Hermioine stepped aside. "Come in, then. Be my guest."

Due to the evenings spent with Malfoy Sr., her drinking habits had become less than ladylike. Snape's had never been anywhere near gentlemanlike, and thus they got on rather well on a purely alcoholic level. The actual discussion was less successful.

When she had recovered from a very nearly suffocating fit of laughter, Hermione panted, "I can't believe it! You? A member of O.W.L.'s board of governors? What exactly is your role there? Master of Iron Discipline?"

Snape gave her a thin smile. "Very funny, Miss Granger. As I already told you, it was an obligation I could hardly escape. As a member of the Hogwarts faculty and decorated war hero-"

"Snape!" she interrupted him, "Snape, for heaven's sake, you're what? Forty-five? Forty-six?"

"Forty-one, to be exact." He had meant to sound harsh and cutting, but she didn't seem to mind in the least.

"Forty-one, whatever. That means you're young, Snape, young! Do you understand? No need to sound like Cornelius Fudge, may he rest in peace. Enjoy that life-you have made more sacrifices than any of us! But now you're free, your reputation is as clean as can be…" She gulped down an inch of whiskey. Snape was impressed. "Really, Snape. Try and stop being a blasted bigot. There's such a lot of fun waiting for you."

Snape poured another round for both of them. "Fun? I'm not a fun person, Hermione. Come to think of it, I suppose I wouldn't even know how to have fun."

"Codswallop," she said, with feeling. "Until some point in our lives-although I admit that you probably reached that point when you were eight months old-as I was saying, until some point in our lives we all know how to have fun. Then it's gradually taken away from us. By people, by circumstances… The important thing is to rediscover it, you know?"

"I guess you're right," he said, looking down his nose and into his glass, while desperately attempting to banish that centrefold picture from his mind.

"Of course I'm right, I always am. Now let's see. Isn't there anything you'd like to do, I mean really, really like to do, right now?"

"Well, I…" he croaked, and cleared his throat.

"Ye-es?" Hermione scooted a little closer. "I'm listening…"

"I-I'd like to… No. It's inappropriate, not to mention completely preposterous."

Gotcha, Hermione thought. Oh, this was going to be so nice! She poured him another whiskey. "Tell me, Severus, please!"

"Merlin help me, I… Oh, screw morals!" he said, and kissed her.

@::@::@

Late October morning light slanted through the half-curtained window and hit the Potions Master's nose. Feeling pleasantly sore and utterly satisfied, Hermione watched the rays' slow progress and wondered where exactly she'd have to write the numbers, in order to transform her recently acquired lover's face into a working sundial. Then the dial sneezed and opened one lazy eye.

"Morning, lovely," he growled, grabbing for her.

Hermione wiggled her eyebrows. "I wish," she said ruefully, "you had been half as nice when I was still at school."

"Hmmm…" He eyed her pensively. "Meaning two orgasms per night instead of four?"

"Well," she said, "It would have been a beginning, at least."

Snape inhaled deeply and let out a happy sigh. This was unusual in itself, and he knew it. Anyway, he hadn't felt that good in many, many years. "You are… magnificent," he said, slowly caressing her. In the sharp, oblique morning light, the goose pimples rising in his hands' wake cast thousands of small shadows. "And, to be perfectly honest, I'd like to repeat the experience. On a regular basis, if possible."

"Oh, really?" There was humour skipping in her voice, but also gentleness. "Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one. What about your mission, though?"

"Fuck the mission!"

"Language, Professor. Anyway, I essentially agree. Although…" She propped herself up on her right elbow, cheek resting in her palm, and scrutinized him. "What about my modelling job? I need the money, you know? On the other hand, you don't strike me as the type who'd willingly share my charms with ninety percent of the male wizarding population."

Snape cringed. "I… Oh, I don't know what to say. Of course I don't want them to see you in the nude. Then again, I bet you'll accuse me of being a chauvinistic swine if I say so." He sighed and tried to make puppy eyes at her. The attempt was rather unsuccessful, and he mentally cursed Black for being so much better at it. Then he decided to simply shove the matter aside for the moment and make love to her.

Hermione, whose stint into Mata-Hari-ing had taught her a great deal about diversionary tactics, grinned silently to herself and pretended she didn't notice. For being a feint, it was exceptionally pleasurable, more so than she would ever have given her former Potions teacher credit for. As a matter of fact, it was so very enjoyable that she almost forgot about her goal, but when he was about to enter her, she remembered and caught his hips in the iron grip of a pair of well-trained thighs. "There might be a compromise," she breathed, voice raucous and husky.

Snape's state of desperate longing would have made him agree to almost anything. "Tell me," he groaned.

She told him. He smiled his consent and finally, finally took what he already considered his own.

@::@::@

Given the enormous success of Hotwitch's September issue, Lothario Letcher was more than a little pleased when Hermione made another offer. "It's going to be my last," she said. "If you emphasize that properly, I'm sure we'll all be able to gain twice as much as with the September picture."

While mentally calculating the sum he'd probably make, Letcher nodded enthusiastically. "Of course," he agreed. "And as it's for the November issue, I suggest that we do something autumnal. Or Christmas-y," he added pensively.

"The Wild Winter Witch?"

Letcher's eyes took on a gleam of greed mixed with artistic ecstasy. "Yes!" he exclaimed, "Yes! That's exactly what we need! The Wild Winter Witch."

"Same fee as last time, plus ten sickles per sold copy?"

The chief editor's face turned brick red. "I… I… That seems a bit much, doesn't it?"

"Not really," Hermione replied, giving him her most radiant smile.

Lothario Letcher had many weaknesses, but continuing to fight already-lost battles wasn't one of them. He knew a defeat when he saw one. "All right," he said, offering his hand.

Hermione shook it. Her smile was more beguiling than ever, mostly because she had just brought her negotiations with the Paracelsus Research Fund to a successful end: to remove whichever item was going to cover her groin would cost 150 galleons, 85 of which would be hers. In times like these, a girl had to provide for her own future. The plan she had concocted together with Snape was likely to fill her Gringott's vault with even more gold coins. Hotwitch would have to go into multiple reprints.

The shooting-its location kept more secret than the access code to Fort Knox- took place on 28 October. When Hermione arrived, a flock of stylists, make-up artists, hairdressers and various other people immediately gathered around her. Not without a certain satisfaction, she watched herself in the mirror, as she was gradually being turned into an ice goddess. Her hair-still frizzy when she was just plain Hermione Granger-morphed into a silvery, slightly wavy and altogether not un-Dumbledore-ish coiffure; her skin took on a bluish-white hue; the thick lashes framing her light brown eyes were studded with ice crystals. Lips the faintest shade of pink imaginable, breasts frosted over, finger- and toenails coated in gentle aubergine varnish. As she emerged from the curtained-off space, the whole crew uttered an audible gasp. 

Just like at the last shooting, Hermione felt half-angry, half-gratified by their reaction. She knew that her looks were more intriguing than picture-perfect, and she had certainly not forgotten that once, she used to have buck teeth, impossible hair and, until she turned sixteen, a fair amount of puppy fat. She still recalled how terribly hurt she had been when Ron and Harry had actually seen her for what she was, namely a girl, only when she'd dressed up for the Yule Ball in their fourth year. Paradoxically, it was Malfoy Sr. who had given her a great deal of self-assurance, although she didn't particularly like that memory. With Snape, no, Severus, she mentally corrected herself, things were different, but certainly not in a bad way. He appreciated her looks, he was definitely crazy about her body, but what was most important to him was… difficult to define that, as it was partly her intellect, but also her mulish Gryffindor stubbornness, and another hundred individual character traits, part of which drove him half-mad. In the two weeks they'd been together-although they hadn't yet had the possibility of sharing everyday life, of course-they'd already had an inordinate amount of quarrels and fights. But, as Snape had said, embracing her after a particularly vicious argument about the possible uses of Hippogriff feathers for strengthening potions, he was eternally grateful to finally have found somebody whom he could fight with over such matters. And that was exactly how she felt about their relationship…

A tap on her right shoulder brought her back from her reverie. "Get your head out of the clouds, luv, it's time to get started!"

Hermione blinked, smiled, and made her way to the shooting area, where a magically enlarged fruit basket was waiting for her.

"You look great, baby," the photographer said, "Okay then, up you go!" And he levitated her, until she sat on top of the arrangement of fruits. "Aaand here goes the dressing gown!"

Fortunately, she had thought of casting a few warming charms on herself, for the air was chilly. The artificial snowflakes covering her nipples, and the tendril of vine creeping from her left hip down between her legs didn't exactly warm her. At the photographer's yelled command-and why did they always have to yell, she mused, as she would have heard him perfectly well, had he talked to her in a normal tone of voice-she started positioning herself. To her great relief, the staff had remembered to put a cushioning charm on the fruit. No danger then of the skin of one of the giant grapes bursting under her weight. When the hair stylist was levitated towards her to give some final touches to those silvery waves, she surreptitiously glanced at his watch. Five to ten. Five minutes till showtime. Hermione smiled to herself.

@::@::@

"Yeah, baby, that's it! Lift that arm… higher… higher… eeeeexactly! Now turn… slowly… slowly… a little mo-What the hell?"

A tall, black-robed figure was shouldering his way through the assembled crew, rudely pushing aside whomever dared to try and block his path; women squealed, men shouted, and the first hexes began to fly. Hermione, aware that she had to feign surprise, sat up and stared at the commotion. She found it very hard to refrain from grinning wildly, as Severus Snape, in a dramatic flurry of black, turned towards the cautiously recoiling group. A sideways glance at the photographer told her that the man had enough presence of spirit to continue taking pictures.

Snape, who, when he saw Hermione, practically naked and stared at by at least two dozen people, found it surprisingly easy to play the role of the jealous lover, raised his wand. The spectators took a few more steps backwards. He saw it with grim satisfaction-many of the younger ones obviously still remembered his Potions lessons. At least nobody could ever claim his classes to be anything but memorable. "Hermione!" he barked.

Careful not to slide downwards in an ungraceful heap, she grabbed the stalk of a giant apple, leaned forward and peered over the rim of the fruit bowl. "Pro-Professor Snape? What on earth are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"Never mind how I found you, young lady" he growled. Maybe it was the carefully rehearsed lines, maybe it was the constantly blazing flashlights-Snape felt as if he were starring in a second-class, no, he thought, make that third-class, movie. He took a deep breath and continued. "Come down immediately!"

"I… I can't!" she squeaked, batting her eyelids. The crazy rhythm of the flash even made her eyes water. "It's too high!"

"Hermione!" Voice low but icy. Now he'd have to increase the volume a bit. "Come down immediately before I lose my patience and go up there to fetch you! NOW!" Even Lothario Letcher cringed under the last, sharp command.

"But… b-but we aren't finished yet, and-"

"Miss Granger! I am here as the representative of O.W.L.. This organization has honoured me by sending me here to save what is left of your virtue. For the last time: Come down!"

As per their plan, Hermione remained, terrified and shivering, on top of her bunch of grapes. With an ominous growl, the Potions Master pointed his wand at himself. "Wingardium Leviosa!" And up he went, to land between an oversized plum and a nut roughly as big as his foot. The cameras were clicking like mad. With a well-studied flourish, he extended his right arm-cum-cloak and enfolded the trembling orphan in the rich folds of black velvet. The audience, who had in the meantime moved a little closer towards the fruit bowl, gave a collective gasp. Fortunately it covered Hermione's giggle at Snape's muttered "Hiya, sexy!"

He waited another three seconds, so he could be sure that the dramatic moment had been photographically captured from every side, and then Disapparated together with his prey.

On the cover of next day's Daily Prophet was a picture featuring the fearless saviour of female virtue in mid-flourish, Hermione's body already half-hidden by his cloak. The headline read "GIANT FRUIT-BAT OR BLACK KNIGHT? HOTWITCH SHOOTING BUSTED BY HOGWARTS POTIONS MASTER!"

@::@::@

"I… I'd better remove all those spells," Hermione said, taking a clumsy step backwards and out of his embrace. "And maybe I should also get dressed…" Suddenly, she was feeling… naked. Self-conscious and insecure. Her right forearm moved up to cover her breasts, while her left hand tried its best to get free of the vine and cover her crotch at the same time.

Snape nodded and, to his utter displeasure, blushed. "Yes." He cleared his throat. "Yes, that's probably a good idea." He nodded again, as if to confirm his words. "And I, well, I suppose I should return to Hogwarts. Slytherin is playing Ravenclaw this afternoon. Head-of-House duties, you know," he finished, a little lamely.

"Mmmh…" She was chewing her lower lip. "And I should get back to my studies."

"Of course, of course. Your studies should be your top priority now, since you're free of your… obligations."

"Y-yes. Yes, absolutely." She gave him a feeble smile. "Well, good-bye, then…" She retreated, walking backwards. "See you, eh?"

"What? Oh, yes, of course. See you." And he Disapparated.

When he was gone, Hermione sat down on the floor and started crying. Crookshanks slunk in from the kitchen, tilted his head and stared at her, visibly preoccupied.

@::@::@

Much to the confusion of his students, whether Slytherins or from other houses, Snape's mood plummeted to hitherto unknown depths from Saturday 28 October onwards. Those who dared to give him lopsided grins or wiggle their eyebrows at him on Sunday, because they had read the Daily Prophet, bitterly regretted their actions once they entered his classroom in the course of the next week, as they were blown off their feet by a hailstorm of deductions of points, scathing remarks, detentions and merciless criticism of their work in class. Belinda Hooch, who-upon instigation by Madams Pomfrey and Pince-had made a less than appropriate comment about bats in shining armour at dinner on Sunday, was whacked and chased through half the castle by her own broomstick on Monday. She found it less exhilarating than the students who happened to witness the hunt. Reginald Vector, who had tried a bit of rib-nudging and Come-On-Old-Fella-You-Can-Tell-Me tactics, found himself writing bad jokes instead of arithmantic equations on the blackboard during his classes on Tuesday morning.

After a week, no-one felt like crossing the Potions Master anymore. Fearing his wrath, students and faculty alike decided to simply cease any attempts at communication, as he tended towards misunderstanding even the most innocent phrases or gestures.

Albus Dumbledore was worried.

So was Crookshanks.

His beloved witch seemed depressed and listless. If she took notice of his presence at all, it was to clutch him in a suffocating embrace and wet his fur with a veritable flood of tears. He disliked this immensely. Unfortunately, he was merely a cat-if a very intelligent and sensitive one-and couldn't do anything to change the situation.

Neither could Albus Dumbledore, in spite of being a powerful wizard. He had tried kindness, he had tried stern admonitions, he had tried Lemon Drops (although he had to admit to himself that he was almost pleased when Snape rejected them rather violently. To see his Potions Master stuff himself with Lemon Drops had been like seeing one white, one red, one black and one pale horse galloping across the sky-you knew that the apocalypse wasn't far away) and he had tried no-nonsense talk. All in vain. Snape remained as stubborn as a mule and refused to explain what exactly was ailing him.

The Deus ex Machina was neither a cat nor a wizard.

For his epiphany, he chose the slightly incongruous form of Aspidistra Spindlepaw.

@::@::@

Snape, back at celibacy and wallowing in self-pity, was sulking in his dungeons when a ferocious-looking tawny owl brought a letter reminding him that he had to attend the O.W.L. meeting on the next day.

He hadn't seen Hermione for exactly two weeks and four days. When he had had enough Firewhisky, he even admitted to himself the reasons why things had gone so bloody awry. There were lots of reasons; then again, upon careful reflection, they boiled down to a single one. He was afraid. Afraid that, as their relationship had started in a rather flamboyant way and progressed so quickly, it might all be an illusion. Afraid that, if it proved to be no illusion but real, it might end as suddenly as it had begun. Afraid that, if it lasted, it might deteriorate. Afraid that, if it improved instead of deteriorating, it might become really, really serious. Living together… marriage… children, for Merlin's sake, she might want children! And, if she desired neither cohabitation nor nuptials nor procreation, there still was the age difference either she or he might suddenly see in a negative light.

Until that fateful 28 October, it had all been-well, not exactly a game, but playful and spontaneous and full of bubbles. Like champagne (and a very good one at that). But you couldn't drink champagne forever, it wasn't good for the stomach. Sooner or later, you had to switch to something more solid. More serious.

On the day of the staged rescue operation, Hermione had truly become a free woman-financially independent, free to make her own choices and decisions. If she chose him, there could only be one motive.

He didn't even dare to pronounce the word.

However, he was forcibly reminded of the whole mess when he got that letter. Of course, he could excuse himself from the meeting and was sorely tempted to do so. But then, he imagined the expressions of glee on the other governors' faces, the nasty comments, the rumours they'd probably start… No. He had to go, and that was that.

@::@::@

At first, the meeting didn't seem too different from the last one, except that Snape was in the clutches of a terrible hangover which resisted even to his most powerful potions. Apart from that, everything appeared more or less identical, from the subdued young witch guiding him to the conference room to the ocelot. Snape even derived something akin to pleasure from the effect of the perfectly timed second-skin charm he had cast on his right hand. It wore off mere seconds after he had taken his seat at the table.

When everybody had their sandwiches and drinks placed in comfortable vicinity, the orphan-secretary dragged in a large folder and deposited it on the table in front of Aspidistra Spindlepaw. The ocelot growled. The spinster took a large sip of what Snape suspected was a very stiff martini, cleared her throat and began. "We have here-" a bony forefinger pointed at the folder "-a complete documentation of the Granger case." She glared at Snape, who shifted uneasily in his chair. He supposed she meant for him to say something momentous, but, due to the roaring headache, he honestly couldn't think of anything appropriate. So he smirked and bowed his head.

"As I am sure you all know," she continued, " Severus Snape has successfully persuaded Miss Granger not to pose for the immoral rag called Hotwitch anymore."

"Back to bloody Veela," Coco Ploppentyler muttered under his breath. Next to him, Aberforth shrugged and sniffed his goat-cheese sandwich.

Spindlepaw gave a sharp rap on the tabletop, and everybody fell silent again. "However, there seems to be a problem."

Snape's head snapped up at these words, and he looked around the room. Both Narcissa and Mary-Lou Bulstrode were grinning at him slyly. The men looked nonplussed. Had those devilish females had some Double-Double-Toil-And-Trouble meeting? Were they out for his blood? Surely they didn't lack motives… "Problem?" he said, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible.

"Yes, problem!" Aspidistra snapped back. "Narcissa, would you be so kind?"

Snape felt his vision go slightly blurry. 'Narcissa' and 'revenge' were two words he didn't care to see in the same sentence.

"Of course." Narcissa sat up and leaned forward in one fluid, cobra-like motion. "Although there are many versions of this story," she said, "they all seem to converge at one point." She stabbed one of the olives on the small plate in front of her, brought it to her mouth, brushed it briefly with her tongue and then slipped it between her lips. Snape could have sworn he'd heard a double gasp from Zabini and Fudge, but decided not to investigate. He needed to concentrate on Narcissa. "This point being," she purred, "that you Disapparated to unknown whereabouts with a naked teenager in tow." Her eyelashes fluttered. "How utterly compromising!"

"Really, Severus," Mary-Lou Bulstrode said, and clucked her tongue disapprovingly, "Without a chaperone! How could you?"

Spindlepaw patted the ocelot. "I suppose you can explain this appalling behaviour, Severus. Please do tell us. We are all listening."

"Probably wanted to screw her in peace," Zabini observed, quite nonchalantly, and poured himself another glass of brandy.

It was hard to bristle at this less than delicate insinuation, as Snape had been doing just that for the better part of October. However, he did his best. "Certainly not. And I'm sure I do not need to justify my actions. I delivered Miss Granger to her flat, bade her good-bye and Disapparated. Nothing happened, I assure you."

"Rita Skeeter seems to have a different, if not diametrically opposed, opinion," Narcissa cooed.

"I don't give a rotten shrivelfig for Skeeter's opinion-"

"Be that as it may," Spindlepaw interrupted him, "But O.W.L. has a reputation to keep up. You-" she pointed accusingly at Snape, who shrunk back into his chair "-are seriously endangering this reputation. And I demand that you rectify the situation."

"Rectify? But how-"

"Oh, that's easy." Bulstrode smiled at him, and Snape felt the intense wish to pinch each of her chins. Hard. "You'll have to make an honest woman of her."

"Make an-Are you implying I should marry her?"

"Of course," said Spindlepaw. "Theoretically, any of the gentlemen present in this room could do it. Unfortunately though, they are all already married. So it's up to you to save O.W.L.'s honour."

"But…" Snape wasn't sure anymore whether he was awake or dreaming. "But I already saved Granger's honour! Besides-" he straightened his shoulders and raised his chin "-you can't make me!" It sounded petty and like the protest of a hapless first-year. He hated it.

Spindlepaw shot him a shrewd look. "Make you… well, no, we cannot force you. But I would be loath to have anything to do with an ill-reputed association, charitable though it may be. You certainly understand that, don't you, Severus?" Gritting his teeth, he nodded. "Just as I thought. And… I am sure you have thought of the consequences, haven't you?"

"Such as?" he choked out.

"Such as," Narcissa picked up the thread, "the dreadful stories the newspapers would bring about you. Sullying the reputation of a well-known and irreproachable institution. Refusing to set things right. Forcing Aspidistra to withdraw. Robbing hundreds of orphans of a bright future, instead exposing them to misery and poverty…"

Not unlike Lothario Letcher, Snape knew a defeat when it stared into his face.

Besides, he thought, the idea wasn't that unpleasant…

@::@::@

Throughout the wedding ceremony, the bride's lips had been pinched into a thin, pale line. The groom's expression was somewhere between sheepish and mortified. When they cut the cake, the guests held their collective breath for fear they might put the knife to a different use. When the dancing started, the newlyweds measured each other like two elephant bulls in plain mating season, barely touched each other with their fingertips, and shot menacing glares at the bystanders. This at least had the desired effect-Dumbledore cut in as soon as polite etiquette allowed. At the appropriate hour, the couple took their leave. The cheers accompanying their departure seemed somewhat subdued.

A portkey-they both stared at it hatefully, because it was a hideous porcelain figurine of two enamoured doves-took them to their house at the outskirts of Hogsmeade (both bride and groom had flat-out refused to go on a honeymoon. They had also tried to refuse having to share a house, but The Avenging Triad-Spindlepaw, Narcissa, Bulstrode-had been adamant) Following a sudden, but quite unfortunate, inspiration, Snape took his new wife by surprise, lifted her up and carried her over the threshold. All things considered, it was a romantic gesture, flawed only by the fact that he banged her head against the doorpost. The bride yelled, which caused her cat Crookshanks to think she was being attacked. The chivalrous instinct to protect his witch overriding whichever feline survival instincts he possessed, Crookshanks launched the counter-attack, hurling himself against the Potions Master's right leg with claws and teeth bared. The Potions Master stumbled, lost his balance and fell.

Wizard, witch and cat lay tangled in a heap of dress robes, veils and orange fur on the floor of the hallway. Snape was feverishly thinking of something, anything, he might say in order to release the tension. Then, he heard the giggle. Capable of precise logic even in the most distressing situations, he immediately excluded Crookshanks as possible source of the sound. The giggle didn't stop; on the contrary, it became louder and more similar to laughter. Snape carefully removed a bundle of white tulle from Hermione's face. It had already turned a deep pink, and her eyes were watering. Faint hope began to bud in the Potions Master's heart.

"You wouldn't be laughing, by any chance?" he inquired cautiously.

Tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks, Hermione looked at him. "What a way to start a marriage," she panted.

"Indeed. I contritely apologize. But try to look at it this way: the worst already seems to have happened."

"Meaning it can only get better?"

"I certainly hope so. Where's that hellish cat, by the way?"

Crookshanks had freed himself from the tangle of clothes and limbs, and was curiously eyeing the portkey. They shouted "Crookshanks, no!" in unison, but it was too late.

"Oh, no!" Hermione was torn between tears and laughter. "I enchanted it to take me back to my old flat, just in case…"

"You actually considered bolting? A fine Gryffindor you are!"

"Oh, never mind that now! You know who's in that flat?"

"I had no idea there was somebody in the first place, so how should I know their identity? We haven't spoken to each other since 28 October, remember?"

"Says the man who saw it fit to propose by letter. On official Hogwarts paper!"

"Says the woman who didn't come to flay me immediately, as I had expected."

"Sneaky Slytherin!"

"Gallivanting Gryffindor!"

"What?"

"That was merely for the sake of the alliteration. Now tell me who's in that flat!"

"Minerva!"

"Minerva? Why?"

"I told her she could use it, because she's doing some research at the British Library during the Christmas break. And I couldn't get out of the contract earlier than 31 January."

"And what's the problem?"

"You know she likes to sleep in her cat form. And Crookshanks isn't neutered…"

For a few moments, Snape merely stared. Then, he fell back onto the floor, laughing like mad. "Imagine," he gasped, "Imagine that from now on, I can say to the Gryffindors, 'If I tell your Head of House, she's going to have kittens!'"

"That," Hermione said sternly, "was certainly the worst pun you've ever made, Severus Snape."

He shot her a guilty grin. "Just as I said, it can only get better…"

T H E   E N D