Please make sure and read the footnote at the end, it's very important.

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Hermione stared glumly at her reflection in the mirror, adjusting her cleavage as she did so, and reflecting that the dress robes really did fit her rather well. Pity it had taken Ginny a full hour to tame her hair into some semblance of order. She sighed, the heavy feeling of foreboding in the pit of her stomach was still refusing to go away; she really didn’t want to go to this damned ball tonight. Unfortunately, her boss at the Department of Mysteries had made it quite plain to her that Hermione Granger, Unspeakable, Order of Merlin first class, war heroine, was obliged to attend the first annual memorial ball to celebrate the defeat of the Dark Lord at the London Guildhall tonight. So, here she was, wearing a whole month’s worth of her pitiful excuse for a wage in purple silk dress robes and a bloody uncomfortable pair of high heels. She made yet another half-hearted attempt to pull herself together.

Hermione deeply resented the fact that she was expected to spend this evening celebrating the death of Voldemort when she would far rather be quietly remembering those that he had murdered. The list seemed endless: her parents, Ron, Neville, Luna, Percy, and most of the DA. Every day she recited the list to herself; lest we forget. Every day she was amazed that she or any of her friends had survived that awful final battle. She pinned her medal to her robes, carefully trying not to rip the delicate silk. Ginny reappeared from the bathroom, looking fantastically glamorous in blue silk, and suddenly Hermione felt utterly inadequate.

“You look fab, Hermione,” Ginny reassured her, “but Mum says that everyone is ready, so you’d better hurry up or we’ll be late.”

Hermione resignedly grabbed her ridiculously small clutch bag and her wrap before following Ginny down the dingy staircase of Grimmauld Place. The rest of her adopted family and Harry, the other stray that Mrs Weasley had taken in, waited quietly in the hallway, desperately trying not to wake up Mrs Black. Hermione cast a wan smile at George, her fiancé and date for the evening. At least she hoped it was George, even now she had trouble telling them apart. Not that it made much difference; you dated one twin, you dated both of them. She had soon found out that the twins shared everything: clothes, toothbrushes, girlfriends. She had almost called the whole thing off on her first night with George when Fred had cheerfully joined them in bed, however, she had rapidly changed her mind when she had rediscovered the joys of sharing. She just hoped that Mrs Weasley never found out about how generous her sons were.

When the Ministry cars that Mr Weasley had borrowed dropped them off outside the Guildhall, Hermione was surprised to see it illuminated by candlelight as if it was a wizard building. Even from where they gathered in the twilit courtyard she could see the flickering flames within, making it look almost as welcoming as Hogwarts, despite the sticky July heat.

She was curious, so she asked, “Mr Weasley, how did they get permission to use candles? I thought that the fire regulations for this kind of historic building didn’t allow the use of naked flames.”

Mr Weasley answered with typical enthusiasm, since he had helped to organise the event. “We have our own charter to use the building, Hermione my dear. You see, before there was a Ministry of Magic, there was a guild of sorcerers, and they were one of the original guilds who built this place, so as such it belongs to us as much as it does to the Muggles. There simply wasn’t the room to host this event at the Ministry itself, and transporting all of the guests to Hogwarts was a logistical nightmare, so this seemed like the obvious choice. After all, there are concealment charms and magical security measures already in place, so all we had to do was re-activate them.”

Hermione had heard of the Guild of Sorcerers, on account of the fact that she was the only person in the last one hundred years who had paid any attention in Professor Binn’s class. She was about to quiz her prospective father-in-law further, but he was distracted by the arrival of two of the Hogwarts Thestral carriages. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Flitwick dismounted from the first, accompanied by Madam Pomfrey, but as the Weasleys gathered round to greet the new arrivals, the second carriage remained ominously shut.

“Don’t tell me that Professor Snape is refusing to come out of his carriage,” said Mr Weasley with considerable amusement.

“If only!” Hermione heard Harry mutter under his breath.

“Actually, Severus had considerable difficulty persuading Mahaut to attend,” Dumbledore explained with his customary twinkle, “I’m afraid she’s still not terribly keen on crowds.”

As he spoke, the door of the second carriage swung open and Severus Snape stepped down. He was dressed in his customary black, but in silk dress robes this evening, and his hair looked remarkably clean. He turned immediately around to offer his hand to someone inside the carriage, and a hand clad in a white kid glove was followed by a woman. Hermione didn’t recognise the carriage’s second occupant at first, for this was not the woman she had seen on the photographs in The Daily prophet, or in the album she had found at Grimmauld Place. She was almost as tall as Snape himself, and despite being very obviously pregnant, she was still quite slender. Her white silk dress made her look like a Jane Austen heroine. The pictures that Hermione had seen had shown a raven-haired young woman, but the hair that was piled high upon this woman’s head was eerily white, making the pearls that were twined through it seem dull by comparison. Ginny had told Hermione that Madame Snape had looked like a ghost when she had returned to Hogwarts, but she still appeared ethereal in the dying light, too pale to be real and as cold as moonlight. Snape never took his eyes off her. But then, after she had rearranged her dress, she looked up at the sombre man who held her arm, and she smiled. Hermione had never seen anything quite as warm and human as that smile, and it was only then that she recognised the Mahaut Celestia whose photograph she had so intently studied that afternoon on Grimmauld Place, and who had been the object of her frustrated curiosity ever since.

Snape escorted his wife towards the group who were waiting to be announced to the assembly that was here to honour the heroes of the war. Hermione noticed Professor McGonagall’s lips twist into a thinly suppressed smile, and she spoke through barely concealed laughter, gesturing at his face. “Severus!”

“Something about my appearance amuses you, Minerva?” Snape replied with his customary frost.

“It’s just,” McGonagall’s eyes were creasing with tears of mirth now, “well, I know it’s a formal occasion, Severus, but no one expects you to wear pink lipstick!”

Hermione had to bite back her own laughter as she noticed it too, and she could hear the boys behind her, creasing up with mirth. McGonagall handed her colleague a tissue, and he wiped away the pearly pink lipstick that was smeared all over his face, casting an accusing glance sideways at his wife, who was gazing nonchalantly in the opposite direction, intently studying nothing in particular. He rolled his eyes in disgust and asked, “Is it all gone?”

McGonagall nodded, obviously unable to trust herself with speech.

“It is nice to see you again, Mahaut,” said Mr Weasley, whilst Lupin murmured in agreement, “I must say that you are looking well.”

That smile made a brief reappearance, and a voice as golden as Phoenix song said, “You are almost as poor a liar as I am, Arthur. I take it that this is the rest of your family? I already know Ginny, of course.”

“Only the redheads.” Hermoine was fleetingly introduced to Madame Snape, who regarded her with all the warmth of moonlight.

Introductions were interrupted by Lupin asking, “So this is the mysterious husband that you kept secret from us all back then?”

“Can you blame us for keeping our wedding a secret, Remus?” There was laughter in her soft golden voice as she continued, “It was hardly a union that would have endeared either of us to our respective bosses, now would it?”

Remus returned the laughter. “I can see it now, Bride’s side or Groom’s side, Mr Riddle?”

Madame Snape giggled. Hermione couldn’t believe it; she actually giggled! Nobody ever giggled in Professor Snape’s presence; he hated it. Giggling in the Potion master’s presence automatically meant: go directly to detention; do not pass go; do not collect two hundred pounds. Yet, here this woman stood, giggling, and were the corners of Snape’s mouth really twitching with amusement? Hermione could only look on in stunned amazement as Madame Snape giggled once more, and said, “It would have been an absolute massacre!”

Snape snorted, adding in a low growl, “Perhaps we should have done it—we could have ended the war there and then, in one fell swoop!”

“If only!” she gasped.

“I do enjoy a wedding though,” chuckled Mr Weasley, “ and it was rather cruel of you to deprive me of my favourite tradition of kissing the bride, so I intend to claim the right retroactively.”

Professor Snape didn’t seem to mind Mr Weasley giving his wife an enthusiastic peck upon the cheek, but he did seem to mind quite a lot when Remus Lupin also claimed the privilege. The expression on his face grew progressively more and more thunderous as each of the Weasley boys followed suit, and he seemed well aware that Harry was only claiming the right to kiss Madame Snape in order to annoy her husband. Hermione reflected that her friend really could be a bit of a prat at times. However, Mrs Weasley took the wind out of Professor Snape’s sail by saying, “Well, if you lot get to kiss the bride, then I think we girls should get to kiss the groom!” And before he could protest, she had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down so that she could plant a kiss upon his cheek. Hermione found this quite amusing at first, Snape looked like the proverbial rabbit caught in car headlights. But then Ginny dragged her forwards to repeat the process, and Hermione was suddenly mortified. As her lips brushed the unwilling cheek of her former teacher, all she could do was cringe with embarrassment at the memory of the enormous crush that she had developed on him after seeing his supposedly dead wife’s picture. Thankfully, no one noticed her embarrassment, and her ordeal was barely over before the Master of Ceremonies, a barrel-shaped wizard in red robes, began to call them all to order.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” his deep voice boomed out over the courtyard, without any need for magical magnification, “if I may ask you now to enter the foyer, and progress down the glass ambulatory in the order that you are to be presented to the assembly. Please wait outside the Hall until you are announced, then walk up the central aisle to take your assigned places at the top table.”

Hermione’s stomach knotted with a fresh bout of nerves; she exchanged a nervous glance with George, who reassured her with his usual cheeky grin. Harry and Ginny entered first, the ensuing sound of applause doing nothing to assuage Hermione’s anxiety. Dumbledore and McGonagall went next. By this point Hermione wanted nothing more than to turn and run; this just wasn’t right, they shouldn’t be applauded for merely surviving. George and Fred both hooked their arms through hers, making her feel like Dorothy. “Sorry love, there’s no escape tonight,” George hissed.

“But we solemnly swear to help take your mind off it when we get home,” added Fred.

Hermione smiled. “Nudge, nudge,”

“Wink, wink,” whispered George.

“Say no more!” Fred finished.

“Miss Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin, first class. Mr George Weasley, Order of Merlin, first class. Mr Frederick Weasley, Order of Merlin, first class.” Hermione was dragged out into the centre of the hall and walked down the aisle that was flanked by applauding dignitaries. This is ridiculous! she thought, I feel as though I’m on show at Cruft’s. I wonder if the Minister will inspect my teeth?

She and the twins were taking their places at the table when the Master of Ceremonies boomed, “Severus Snape, Order of Merlin, first class, and Madame Mahaut Celestia, Order of Merlin, third class.” The customary applause was this time broken by not so subdued whispers that Hermione caught mere snatches of. From a woman she did not know who sat further down the table she caught, “...lost her powers, poor thing,” and from Fudge’s wife she heard “...not wearing her medal, it’s an insult to the Ministry that is,” She saw Snape glare furiously around the room as he heard the whispers. He didn’t even glance at the woman by his side, but he looked as though he would like to inflict Crucio on those who he knew whispered about her. Madame Snape held her head high, her hand on her husband’s arm as they progressed down the centre of the hall in full view of the assembled multitude. She walked like a queen; her cool gaze, as it passed over the gossiping crowd, spoke that they were beneath her contempt. Hermione envied her composure; she knew that she herself had not walked so calmly.

Hermione was close enough to hear the Minister’s testy voice as the couple approached the table to sit on the other side of her from the twins. “Auror Celestia! Why are you not wearing your medal? This is an official Ministry function, and I might remind you that, as a Ministry employee, it is still your duty, sick leave or not to…”

“I am Madame Snape now, Minister. Please do not insult my husband by forgetting that fact. I came here only for his sake, not for that of the Ministry, and I have no wish to wear anything that was awarded to me on account of my supposed death.” Her voice was without emotion as she cut off the Minister’s tirade, exuding the cold command of one who will brook no argument. Professor Snape glared at the Minister, causing further protest to die upon his lips, and held out the chair for his wife. Quite a formidable team, I don’t envy the Minister, thought Hermione, whose curiosity about Madame Snape was now well and truly peaked.

Hermione barely tasted her food and was relieved that the Minister turned away from her to engage Dumbledore in conversation. The twins were too busy eating to talk much, but she caught snatches of a conversation in French between Madame Snape and the French Minister, polite small talk about a chateau. Snape remained silent. Bored, Hermione stared out across the Great Hall. She had been here once before on a school trip to research the history of the City of London. It had been shortly before her Hogwarts letter had arrived; a lifetime ago. Back then, she had loved the fairy tale grandeur of the gothic tracery and the oak panelling, but it looked almost as beautiful as Hogwarts tonight, glimmering in the light of a thousand candles. Under other circumstances, she might have imagined herself a princess as she watched the sea of jewelled colour that shimmered before her eyes, sparkling with crystals and silks of every colour under the sky. But now it all seemed hollow and entirely pointless.

Food that tasted of ashes and fine wines that might as well have been stagnant pond water were followed by interminable speeches. Hermione had heard it all before: the brave fight, the nobility of sacrifice, the need to remember. One pompous, overpaid fool who had had nothing to do with the war after another repeated the same clichéd formula until it lost what little meaning it had in the first place; the Minister, officials from other countries, on and on until it seemed that the tedium would never end, only Dumbledore spoke with any truth in his words. She dutifully drank toast after toast, glad that the wine began to numb her senses, knowing at last what her classmates must have felt like in Professor Binns’ class.

She glanced sideways at the glazed looks on the twin’s faces, and caught Snape looking with concern at his wife. Hermione stared, disconcerted; she had never before seen affection soften his face, however briefly. Madame Snape’s face remained set in the same cold mask of unfeeling, the antithesis of the laughing woman she had seen outside in the courtyard. Hermione suddenly realised that the crush that she had harboured for Snape during her final two years at school had been because she had known that he had once loved. She had wanted him to look at her like that, even for a moment. He quite obviously had never stopped loving this woman, and Hermione found that she wanted to get to know Madame Snape. She didn’t share the whispered prejudices of the purebloods. Yet she did wonder why someone like Professor Snape would fly against such deep-seated convention. Hermione had never been a gossip by nature, but she had always been curious, and her continued fascination with Mahaut Celestia was far less painful to her than the contents of the speeches to which she did not want to listen.

The food consumed, the speeches spoken, the guests stood and allowed the tables to clear with a blink of magic. The band in the gallery above their heads struck up a sombre waltz. It was expected that those classed as heroes, who were here to be honoured, should perform the first dance with their respective partners. So now she would dance with George as once she had danced with Viktor Krum at another ball long ago. Hermione was far less enthusiastic tonight, not least because as much as she loved both Fred and George, she was well aware that the clumsy sods were going to stand on her feet, which already hurt because of those accursed heels. The last time she had gone dancing with the twins, she had found herself fervently wishing that high heels came fitted as standard with steel toecaps. At least there were plenty of couples on the floor tonight; Dumbledore danced with McGonagall; then there were the Snapes and various Weasleys, as well as Hagrid and Madame Maxime, and Remus danced with Tonks, even Moody had managed to persuade Mrs Figg to gamely dance with him, despite the fact that he was a health hazard on the dance floor.

Hermione endured an excruciating dance with each of the twins, during which she felt as though her poor toes were being subjected to more than one Unforgivable, before retiring gratefully to the sidelines. Harry and Ginny soon joined them, since Harry was both an unenthusiastic dancer as well as an awful one, so Ginny’s toes had suffered too. Hermione noticed that the Snapes continued to dance, oblivious to the other couples that surrounded them. Fred commented upon the fact that Snape had flatly refused to dance at the Yule Ball, despite the fact that he had received more than one offer, mostly from members of staff. Yet, now he danced with his wife, they moved as one, graceful and elegant, eyes locked.

The boys were soon engrossed in an animated Quidditch discussion, again. Hermione turned to Ginny, whom she noticed was also watching one couple in particular, and asked, “So. How did Madame Snape help you so much with your NEWTs if she’s lost all of her magical abilities then?”

“That’s the weird thing,” Ginny murmured, “I don’t get it at all. She had power; she said it wasn’t as much as she had once had, but she definitely still had some. She got a new wand and everything, but then she found out that she was pregnant, and she just disappeared without warning, for weeks. The rumour was that they’d had a fight and she left him. Snape went after her a few days later though; he even missed classes and we both know that he never does that. When she came back she called me to their quarters and told me that she had no ability to help me anymore with my practical work, but she didn’t say why. I never asked; it didn’t seem right. She still helped me with the theory though, and I don’t think I would have done half so well without her help.”

“But why, why would she lose it like that?”

“Dunno. Tell you what though, Snape’s face when she told me about it wasn’t happy. Well, you know, happy by his standards.”

“I can understand the initial damage; that makes sense from what I read in the paper. But there are very few things that are able to completely rob a witch of power, and all of them are dark.” Hermione was racking her brains, trying to remember the books that she had read. The only thing that made sense was a power transference, and the book had been old and vague, but she was sure that it had said that power must be sacrificed willingly, and why would any witch, especially a pureblood, do such a thing? She made a mental note to try and find the book again the next time she had an hour to spare in the Ministry library.

Harry turned round, distracted from Quidditch talk for long enough to grunt nastily, “If you ask me, Snape probably robbed her of power so that he could control her. Why else would she put up with the greasy git?”

Ginny nearly jumped down his throat; her voice was purest outrage as she leapt to the Potion master’s defence, “How can you look at them dancing together like that and say such a horrid thing, Harry? He adores her!”

“Snape only adores himself; he wouldn’t want people to laugh at him because his wife walked out!” he spat before turning back to the twins.

Ginny was spitting fury now, she snapped, “Come on, Hermione. Let’s leave these three prats to their Quidditch prattle and go to the Ladies’ room.

“What did we do?” protested the twins as their sister stomped off. Hermione shrugged sympathetically and followed Ginny, who was obviously in need of moral support.

When Hermione caught up with Ginny, her friend was still visibly fuming. “Of all the ignorant...narrow-minded…petty, nasty things to say. Grrph!!”

“You know that Harry hates Professor Snape, Ginny.” Hermione was trying to sound comforting, but she really wasn’t doing so well, since she was pretty disgruntled with Harry's gross insensitivity herself.

Ginny slammed the lid down on one of the toilets and plonked herself down, chin in her hands. Hermione followed her into the cubicle and closed the door, leaning back on it to study her grumpy friend.

“Snape saved Harry’s life again in that final battle,” grizzled Ginny, “why does he always have to think the worst of him, just cos his dad hated him? It’s so bloody petty.”

“You’re getting a bit upset over this, Ginny. Snape doesn’t go out of his way to get people to like him; I don’t think he cares. Aren’t you overreacting a bit?”

Ginny sighed, looking suspiciously as if she was trying not to cry. “Perhaps. I just really like Madame Snape. I know she was manoeuvred into helping me with my defence, but she was great, scary sometimes, but cool. Do you think Snape would ever hurt her?”

“No,” Hermione answered honestly, “not from what I’ve seen, but that’s precious little, Ginny.”

“It’s such a stupid thing to say; there’s no reason he would want to deprive her of her magic. He was the one who got her to help me in the first place.”

“Shhh!...Someone’s just come in, keep it down, Ginny.”

Two loud, grating voices could be heard entering the room outside the cubicle, older women by the sound of them. Hermione thought she recognised one, Mrs Fudge? “I mean, I know divorce is frowned upon in the wizarding world, Amelia, but no one expects a wizard to stay married to a Squib. There are limits, don’t you know!”

“Well, Messalina, perhaps he loves her.”

This comment was followed by some vicious cackling from both witches. “Snape in love! Now there’s a vision, Amelia. Ooh, you are funny! In love with her money, more like!”

“Yes, I heard she was rich, too. But still, it’s such a risk, isn’t it? A Squib, even a rich one of pureblood ancestry, hardly makes good breeding stock. I know Snape was never exactly the most eligible bachelor in town, but even he could do better than a Squib!”

“He’s going to regret it when his own son and heir doesn’t even make it into Hogwarts! You mark my words, Messalina.”

“That’s it!” Ginny hissed, her voice dangerously quiet. Before Hermione could even try to stop her, she had been shoved out of the way. The two older women stopped dead in amazement when they found themselves confronted with the five foot ball of fury that was Ginny Weasley. “How dare you!” she spat vehemently. “You stuck-up, patronising old…” It was Ginny's turn to stop dead, pale as a ghost, as the door of another cubicle behind the two older women swung quietly open.

Madame Snape stepped out, her face still set in the same regal and uncaring mask of icy calm that she had worn throughout dinner. She nodded with polite condescension at the two older women as she swept past them; they stared at her with horrified embarrassment, looking as though they wanted a hungry dragon to come along and swallow them. Then Madame Snape turned and gave Ginny and Hermione a grim little smile as she walked slowly towards the sink. The two mortified hags retreated into cubicles as Madame Snape washed her hands. As she dried them, Ginny went over to her and touched her gently on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Madame Snape.” Ginny’s voice was barely a whisper as the other woman turned to face her, impassive still.

“You are no longer my husband’s student, Ginny, so please call me Mahaut. It is my name, after all. And although it was very sweet of you to attempt to defend me back there, I do not need your help. Perhaps in future you should choose your battles with a little more wisdom.” Madame Snape’s voice was as impassive as her face, firm but not unkind.

Hermione couldn’t help it; she tried to stifle a horrified gasp as Madame Snape withdrew her hands from the towel that she had been drying them on. She failed, earning herself a reproachful look from her friend and a bitter grimace from the owner of those shattered hands. “My apologies, Miss Granger,” Madame Snape’s tone was one of forced nonchalance as she replaced her white kid gloves. “I had no intention to frighten you with my grotesque disfigurements, but one must wash one’s hands.”

Without exhibiting the slightest tremor in that glacial composure, Madame Snape swept past the two stunned girls and left the room.

“Come on, Hermione,” Ginny loudly and pointedly declared, “let’s go back to the dancing before those two hags come back!”

An hour or so later, after both Hermione and Ginny had allowed their poor feet to be stomped on a few more times under the dubious guise of dancing, they both discreetly fled the sweltering heat of the Great Hall to sit in the relative cool of the Glass Ambulatory. It was still and calm here, quieter too. Hermione could hear herself think again now that she was out of the deafening clamour of orchestra and gossip. Large comfortable armchairs had been magicked into place to provide a haven for weary partygoers, but the sun had barely set, the night was still young, so they found themselves alone in the shadows. They sat in grateful silence in the darkest corner for a while, Hermione could tell that her friend’s fury was still quietly simmering away, so she held her tongue. She herself had been impressed by Madame Snape’s quiet dignity in the face of such blatant prejudice and shocked by the contrast between her appearance now and the old photos she had seen. When The Daily Prophet had blandly said that Mahaut Celestia had been tortured; Hermione had thought only of the Cruciatus Curse, which she herself had endured and survived without any enduring after-effects. It had not occurred to her that there might be more physically enduring forms of torture practised by wizards.

Two figures drifted arm in arm out of the chaotic hubbub of the hall; Professor and Madame Snape. They walked to one of the groups of comfortable armchairs near where Hermione and Ginny sat concealed by darkness. Without a word, Professor Snape pushed his wife, gently but firmly, down into a chair, and whilst she indolently cooled herself with a white lace fan, he lifted her feet onto a footstool, removed her shoes and attempted to rub her feet. Madame Snape’s cool reserve evaporated as quickly as a dementor in a chocolate factory. She squeaked and giggled loudly, trying to wrest her foot from his grip. Still, without a word, he shot her a warning glare that would have reduced the average first year to jelly, but Madame Snape merely countered the glare with a wicked smile and deliberately used her other foot to push her husband off the edge of the footstool. As he picked himself off the floor and dusted off his dress robes, he finally spoke to her, but not with the anger that Hermione had expected, rather with remonstrating affection. “Untrustworthy trollop!”

She was laughing. “Would you have me any other way, Severus?”

He stood up to his full height, folded his arms and looked down at her smiling face. He sighed, “I must be utterly insane, but I don’t suppose that I would.” He bent down and kissed her lightly upon the forehead. “Rest here, I will bring you a drink.”

Despite the fact that she had harboured an intense crush on the man, and despite the fact that she had always defended him to Harry and Ron, Hermione was still utterly disconcerted to witness him behaving pleasantly, even when it was only when he thought that there was no one looking. She was pulled out of her reverie when Ginny nudged her, signalling her to follow as she set off to see Madame Snape.

“Hello Ginny, Miss Granger.” They were greeted with a cheerful smile; the mask did not make its reappearance.

Interesting, thought Hermione, apparently, we are not a threat. “Please call me Hermione,” she replied.

“Oh yes! I remember now, Severus mentioned you.”

“Don’t tell me,” Hermione said with a rueful grin, “he called me a bushy-haired Gryffindor know-it-all?”

“Almost, I believe that his exact words were, Bloody annoying bushy-haired Gryffindor know-it-all. But you shouldn’t take it personally, since everyone annoys him.”

“Except you,” Ginny added.

“Me more than anyone else! Just between you and me, I think he just likes being annoyed.” Madame Snape seemed perfectly at ease, and Hermione felt herself relax under the other woman’s bright gaze as she settled into an adjacent chair. “Anyway, your hair doesn’t look in the slightest bit bushy to me.”

“That’s because I spent an hour and almost a whole bottle of Sleekeasy’s combing it into submission for her before we came out tonight,” Ginny informed her. “It’s only a few weeks since I last saw you, and you look huge!”

Madame Snape rolled her eyes, making herself look remarkably like her husband in the process. “Don’t remind me! I feel like a battleship! I thought poor Severus was going to injure his back hauling me out of bed this morning; he refused to use magic.”

“So this is where you’re hiding!” said Professor McGonagall’s voice.

“Minerva, and oh, it’s Molly, isn’t it? Ginny’s Maman?”

“Yes dear,” said Mrs Weasley, “how are you doing, you must be exhausted after all of that dancing?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Actually I wanted to dance some more, but Severus is being rather tiresome, and insists that I sit a couple out, so it’s nice to have company.”

“Well, we’ve both had our feet stomped on quite enough for one night,” Professor McGonagall grizzled, “so we will happily keep you company. Although, I can’t help but notice that your toes are un-assaulted by masculine attempts at dancing?”

Madame Snape’s reply was rather smug, “Severus insists that I dance with no one but him, which is fine by me, because he never stomps on my feet.”

“Some people have all the luck,” grumbled Molly, “I swear that Arthur gets clumsier as he gets older.”

McGonagall nodded in agreement. “If Severus Snape dancing in front of the students wasn’t right at the top of my list of “one hundred things that are never going to happen at Hogwarts”, I think I’d suggest that he give dancing lessons next year, for the general benefit of the witches of Britain.”

“He’d go an interesting colour if you did!” Madame Snape could barely contain her mirth at the thought. They were all laughing now. Hermione was amused as much by the realisation that Madame Snape was not as remote and haughty as she had originally thought, as by the image of the Potions master turning Dancing master.

In the midst of their cackling, the object of their mirth returned, bearing a tray with glasses and champagne. He bent down to put it on the table that stood by the side of his wife’s chair.

“Severus,” she purred delightedly as she reached for a glass, “how sweet of you to bring me champagne!”

He grabbed her wrist, and put a glass of juice in her hand. “The champagne is for the others, the peach juice is for you.”

“I’d rather have the champagne,” she grumbled.

“Babies don’t like champagne.”

“The little parasite is half French, Severus; she adores champagne!”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to refer to our child as the little parasite?”

“I hate to break this to you, Severus, but until she turns eighteen and leaves home, she’s a parasite.” Snape rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation, choosing to ignore Mrs Weasley, who was in the process of falling off her chair due to a fit of giggles. Mahaut took a sip of her juice and wrinkled her nose in disgust. She held the glass out to where her husband was pouring champagne and suggested hopefully, “Bellini?”

“Virgin Bellini,” he said firmly as he pushed the glass away.

“Tyrant!” her tone was one of mock outrage as she told him, “I’ll have you know that my Maman drank a glass of red wine every day when she was pregnant with me.”

“Which explains a great deal,” he muttered under his breath, before cutting off further protest by asking, “What are you hens cackling about, anyway?”

Mahaut smiled sweetly at her husband. “Oh, just girly stuff. You know, boys, hair, make-up, that sort of thing?”

“There’s no hope!” he grizzled as he turned and stalked back off to the Hall, accompanied by the sound of renewed feminine laughter.

Mahaut giggled into her peach juice and said, “Who needs magic when that works like a charm? It gets rid of him every time. I fully intend to teach it to my daughter.”

“Have you thought about names yet?” asked Mrs Weasley.

“We’ve agreed that Severus gets to name this one. Because my family is a motherline, she will be a Celestia rather than a Snape, so it seemed only fair that he should get to choose her first name. I’m just hoping that he doesn't come up with anything too ghastly. I’m fairly certain he’s not going to name her after any of his favourite potions, but you never know!”

“I don’t know,” quipped Ginny, “Polyjuice has a certain ring to it!”

“Polly for short!” giggled Mahaut.

The five of them lost track of how long they sat, immersed in boisterous gossip. Hermione was later amazed at how quickly she came to think of her stern former Transfiguration mistress as simply Minerva, and how fast the mysterious Madame Snape became merely Mahaut, the one who always had something silly to say. Firstly, they bitched about men for a while, which was always enjoyable. Then Molly got ever so mushy on the subject of babies, causing Mahaut’s lip to curl in disgust at the merest mention of nappies; she insisted that that was what house-elves were for, and Hermione demonstrated remarkable restraint by failing to mention SPEW. They went on to spend a considerable amount of time discussing the fashion sense of some of the other women at the party, in particular Mrs Fudge and any others that they had noticed being nasty behind Mahaut’s back, which in turn brought them round to the highly educational subject of the Minister’s mistress. Hermione had not realised how badly she had been in need of a silly fun evening, and she had never dreamt that she would ever find such an experience with two people as unlikely as Professor McGonagall and Madame Snape, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had had so much fun without taking her clothes off.

Whenever the opportunity arose, they also tried out Mahaut’s “charm” on the men in their lives, who all decided to attempt to butt in on the conversation at some point during the course of the evening. They used it on Mr Weasley first, then Dumbledore, Harry, and finally the twins. Mahaut was right, it did work like a charm, every time. Professor Snape wandered in occasionally, but Hermione was far too preoccupied with the conversation to wonder how he always knew when they needed more drinks. He didn’t try to join the conversation again; he seemed content to leave them to it. He even managed to ignore Minerva’s comment about what a good waiter he would have made; his lip hardly curled at all.

But eventually, just after midnight, Professor Snape reappeared with a determined look upon his face.

“Hello, Severus. We’re still talking about hair and make-up,” Mahaut teased, then added with relish, “and babies!”

Snape rolled his eyes in undisguised disgust at the sheer unrepentant girliness of this statement, but nevertheless seemed undeterred. He walked resolutely over to Mahaut’s chair, folded his arms, and loomed menacingly over her. She smiled up at him, cheerfully refusing to be menaced. “Wife, I am bored,” he hissed, “and what is more, I am tired. I have spent the evening being polite to dull people so that you may sit here gossiping like a mother chicken, and I have had enough. I have done my duty, and now I wish to go to bed. Yet, despite my overwhelming weariness, I have magnanimously decided to permit you to drag me around the dance floor one last time before we retire.”

“As you wish, husband.” Mahaut reached out both of her hands so that he could help her up.

“You’re fat!” he grunted affectionately as he hauled her to her feet.

“And you, Severus, are arrogant,” Mahaut replied with acidic sweetness, “but I try not to point it out in polite conversation.”

“You shouldn’t have to face those bitches again!” blurted Ginny, inadvertently shattering the tacit silence over the incident in the ladies room. Her outburst earned her reproving looks from her mother and Snape.

Mahaut merely smiled, obviously completely unfazed. “You don’t understand, do you, Ginny? Facing those women with a polite smile and more dignity than they can muster in a lifetime drives them all insane. Let them talk, and I will dance all the more joyously in the knowledge that it enrages them so. Goodnight everyone. I enjoyed meeting you, Molly, Hermione.” Mahaut waved farewell to them as she took the arm that was proffered to her, and allowed her husband to escort her back into the crowded Hall, once he had said his own farewell.

Hermione went back to Grimmauld Place that night feeling that her curiosity was at least partly satisfied, and hoping that she had made a new friend.

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Author’s note: I wanted to tell this from a fresh point of view, someone who wasn’t involved in the original story. But in case you hadn’t figured it out, Severus and Mahaut got bored on the journey and indulged in a spot of oral sex in the carriage. Unfortunately, and unbeknownst to Severus and Mahaut, Dumbledore had installed a magical intercom between the two carriages. When he switched it on for a little chat/game of eye spy, all they could hear was some rather frenzied moaning, a bit of groaning, and the occasional “oooh!” Needless to say, Flitwick’s eyes nearly popped out of his little head, Poppy went distinctly poppy coloured, Minerva pursed her lips until they became a very thin line indeed, and Albus claimed that that pesky poltergeist must have been up to his old tricks again and promptly switched the intercom off! But trust me, when Severus finally got out of that carriage he had pink lipstick smeared on more than just his lips! I know this because it all happened in great detail inside my twisted little head, but I couldn’t figure out a way to write it down and make it fit into the context of this particular story, sorry about that.

Thank you to Kathy for being my beta!