A relentless pounding in her head dragged her from sleep. Hermione cracked her eyes open—only for a blinding shaft of light to force them shut again. Snow, she thought groggily. It must have snowed overnight.
Her skull throbbed with every heartbeat. Slowly, painfully, the memories of last night began slotting into place like pieces of a jigsaw: Ron—Snape—punch—too much punch—Snape—RON.
Her eyes flew open. Not even the glare of sunlight could stop her now.
Merlin's beard. She had kissed Ron. Not just kissed—she'd practically dragged him onto the dance floor and claimed him like a prize. Her heart pounded louder. The anger at Snape had completely scrambled her sense of reason. That insufferable git—why did he have to tear Ron down like that? And honestly, what business was it of his at all? Especially coming from Snape, the man who understood romance about as well as Professor McGonagall understood lingerie.
Groaning, Hermione pushed herself upright, every movement sending fresh spikes of pain through her skull. A headache potion—immediately.
She shuffled to the bathroom, found a small bottle of foul-smelling liquid, and downed it in one gulp, grimacing as it slid down her throat.
Her reflection barely acknowledged her. Her hair was a tangled disaster. Had she looked like this last night, in front of Ron?
Tilting her head, she studied herself as if she were a stranger. Ron. What on earth had possessed her to push things so far with him? She liked him—no doubt about that. He'd been her closest friend alongside Harry for seven years. Over the past year, she'd even welcomed the comfort and steadiness he gave her. She knew Ron had started to feel more than friendship for her. And it wasn't that she couldn't imagine being with him. But there were no butterflies—no spark—and she had to admit that to herself. Still, she was willing to try. What she felt wasn't infatuation; it was affection, a kind of love… and surely that wasn't the worst foundation for a relationship.
But—Snape. How had he managed to insert himself into the whole mess? In truth, he'd been the catalyst. Without him, last night probably wouldn't have happened.
And then there was the other problem: she'd drunkenly agreed to meet Snape on Friday. She must have been completely out of her mind. And that dance…
She closed her eyes, and for a moment she could almost feel his lean, controlled body moving with hers again. A sigh escaped before she could stop it. Why in Merlin's name did that walking block of ice have to be such a phenomenal dancer? Even Viktor Krum hadn't come close to moving like that.
They play in a different league than Ron.
Snape's parting words still echoed in her head, stoking her anger all over again. What did he know about what she'd been through with Ron? Why did he even care who she spent time with, when he could barely manage basic human interaction himself?
One glance at the clock told her she was already late for breakfast. But she couldn't face the Great Hall right now. The thought of food made her queasy, and the thought of seeing Ron… impossible. She needed time to process what had happened. Were she and Ron actually together now? Was there some official rule? Did a kiss count? The library probably wouldn't have the answer to that, either.
Weighed down by those nagging questions, Hermione flopped back onto her bed and, before she knew it, drifted off again.
---
The potion had done its best, but by lunchtime Hermione still felt like a ninety-year-old with a cane. She dragged herself toward the Great Hall.
A sudden grab from behind nearly knocked her off her feet. Ron's arms wrapped around her in an enthusiastic hug, and before she could even react, he kissed her squarely on the mouth.
"Morning, sleepyhead!" he bellowed—or at least it sounded like bellowing to Hermione's tender ears.
"Morning, Ron," she mumbled.
Still grinning, he tucked her arm into his and steered her toward the Gryffindor table like they'd been doing it for years.
Harry, Ginny, and Neville were already seated. Every eye in the Hall seemed fixed on them, and Hermione burned with embarrassment. Ron, of course, looked as proud as a Kneazle with a fat mouse.
"Morning, lovebirds," Neville teased. "Have you run into the Dungeon Bat yet today? Snape took ten points off me for having my tie knotted wrong—he's completely lost it!"
"He got me for twenty this morning," Ron added. "Apparently I was 'blocking his path.'"
A strange guilt twisted in Hermione's stomach. Something told her that Snape's foul mood had everything to do with her. She'd defied his oh-so-helpful advice, and now all of Gryffindor was paying the price. Unfair to the core. And to think, she'd actually started to see some good in him.
---
Snow had turned the grounds into a winter postcard, and most students spent the day outside, nursing hangovers in the fresh air. Hermione and Ron joined a group on a large blanket, though she had to gently fend off Ron's more enthusiastic kissing attempts. She wasn't in the mood for romance; instead, she simply leaned against him and soaked in the quiet.
The following days vanished in a blur. Classes resumed, and between make-up assignments and coursework, she and Ron—apparently now officially a couple—barely saw each other. Hermione had asked him to slow things down, in sharp contrast to her impulsive behaviour at the party.
Best of all, she'd managed to avoid Snape entirely. Unfortunately, the rest of Gryffindor still suffered under his unprovoked attacks. If she could have assigned him a hundred rounds of "social skills darts," she would have.
But Friday loomed—and with it, two hours of Potions. If his mood was anything like it had been all week, she'd be lucky to escape with only heavy point losses.
To her surprise, stepping into the dungeons brought an unexpected warmth. That day with the healing balm had left a strange, almost comforting imprint on the cold stone walls.
She had even missed Potions. Even—Merlin help her—Snape's nasty comments.
But today was worse than usual. Snape spoke even less than normal, giving only the barest instructions before stalking through the rows, waiting to pounce on mistakes.
"Miss Granger," he snapped, "have your thrilling adventures with your heroic friends made you forget how to light a cauldron?"
Hermione glanced down. Her ingredients were neatly arranged, but the flame was conspicuously absent.
"Neville," he barked moments later, "just because you know how to kill a snake does not mean you should butcher its skin before adding it to the cauldron!"
And so it went, for forty-five grinding minutes. By the end, Gryffindor had lost thirty points, and the entire class staggered out like prisoners released from Azkaban.
---
That evening, Hermione curled up in the common room with a book. Ron settled beside her on the sofa, close enough to share the firelight. The book, however, was a sham—her mind kept drifting to the fact that it was nearly eight o'clock, and she was supposed to be in the dungeons.
After the week they'd had, she was sure Snape would consider their "arrangement" null and void. He'd probably slam the door in her face before she could explain.
But the Gryffindor lion in her stirred, restless. He had agreed—on the condition that she be in a foul mood. And when it came to Snape, she had plenty of foul mood to spare. Since Monday, he'd cost Gryffindor a hundred points. That alone was worth firing a few mustard darts at him.
Snapping her book shut, she set it on the table.
"Where are you going, Hermione?" Ron asked, looking disappointed.
"I've got something to take care of. If I don't, Gryffindor will be in negative points by next week."
"Not that hopeless project again, please," Ron groaned.
She ignored him.
"See you tomorrow," she said, and headed out, down flight after flight of stairs until she reached the last stone step.
Taking a deep breath, she rapped three sharp knocks on the heavy dungeon door.
.
END 0F CHAPTER
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