The door flew open.
"Leave, Miss Granger, before I lose my polite manners."
"How can you lose something you never put on? Good evening, by the way."
Hermione was faced with a distinctly ill-tempered Professor Snape, whose vertical frown line between his eyes seemed even deeper than usual.
"We had an arrangement. The only condition you set, I more than fulfil — I'm in an extremely foul mood — so let me in, or are you going to put your honour at risk?" she pressed, undeterred.
"Why insist on voluntarily subjecting yourself to my mood? I've never heard of a masochistic streak in Gryffindors."
"I'd be happy to debate that with you further — once you let me in. Ron is furious I just left him sitting, so I'm not going anywhere until you speak to me civilly!" she threatened, and Snape began to realise she might actually camp outside his door all night until he gave in.
"If you insist on ruining your evening…" he finally relented, and Hermione stepped inside.
"What do you want, you infuriating piece of Gryffindor?" he asked in an offended tone, stopping in the middle of the room.
"As I said, I'm here to christen the dartboard," Hermione replied, attempting a slightly softer approach.
"You're insane," he said, his voice tinged with a diabolical laugh.
He went to the bookshelf, took the box with the darts and the stone, and handed her the stone as though doing so might speed this whole ordeal along.
The background image came into sharper focus — Severus Snape looking around nervously, as if unsure why he was trapped in this round contraption. He made disdainful remarks about his situation, though of course, no sound could be heard.
"Excellent, may I have the darts — all flavours, please, and all of them. I'm going to need every single one!" she announced defiantly.
Snape still watched her sceptically, searching for the reason behind her bold behaviour but finding none.
Hermione began with honey darts, aiming not for the centre but deliberately at Snape's hair. Twice she gathered up all four darts and hurled them again with full force and startling precision at each of his greasy strands. Inside the picture, he raged and ducked, trying to shake the sticky liquid from his hair.
She switched dart types.
"Colour really suits you, Professor," she remarked dryly after the first rotten-tomato dart. "You should wear it more often — it goes perfectly with black."
Snape observed her every move. She was one big storm of emotion, and her energy seemed to fill the room to the rafters. He couldn't remember the last time such life had been in these walls.
"I must say, I already feel slightly better. But actually, I'm here to play with you," Hermione said, brushing strands of hair from her face. Her cheeks were now faintly flushed from her outburst.
She turned to him, placed the stone in her open right hand, and held it out to him.
"I refuse. Play on your own if you enjoy it," he still replied dismissively.
"Put your hand on mine and press — don't worry, I don't bite. George gave me a tip to make the game a little more… dynamic."
Snape stared at her as though she'd just invited him to an execution. Still, she thought she caught a spark of curiosity in his dark eyes.
"Don't act like this — when you danced with me, you weren't so shy."
He seemed to find no rebuttal to that argument and slowly placed his hand over hers.
Their eyes met, and for a long moment, both seemed to forget why there was even a stone between their hands. In slow motion, they pressed their palms together, and a wave of heat surged through both of them from that single point of contact.
Hermione felt herself transported back to the Great Hall, barely resisting the urge to fall into dance position with him again.
Snape's eyes roamed her face like a map, until suddenly they yanked their hands apart — a voice from the dartboard had just sworn loudly.
"What are you doing here now? Isn't it enough you keep throwing honey in my hair? Get lost!" came Snape's voice, crystal clear, from the dartboard.
"Thank you — you look stunning yourself, Professor. Honestly, you should put a bit more effort into your hair; this isn't news, but your self-neglect is starting to get excessive!" Hermione shot back, grinning triumphantly.
Hands on her hips, neatly dressed in her school uniform, she had just been catapulted into the dartboard's background alongside him.
Snape's restraint seemed to have evaporated in the last few seconds. He set the stone aside and armed himself with green-mustard darts.
"Well done, Severus — more green eyeshadow for the insufferable know-it-all, if you please," encouraged dartboard-Snape, egging on his real self.
The real Snape bent down to pick up the tomato darts, transforming Hermione in seconds into something resembling a living plate of spaghetti with sauce.
Thus dartboard-Snape and dartboard-Hermione bickered for another fifteen minutes, while the real Snape and Hermione were soon too breathless from all the bending, throwing, and sniping to continue.
"Truce?" Hermione panted.
"Fine by me," Snape replied, also breathless. "Cold herbal tea?"
"Good idea," was all Hermione could manage.
Exhausted, they sat on the sofa, tidying their hair and downing two cups of herbal tea each in one go.
"Why are you angry with me, anyway?" Hermione asked once her voice had returned.
"Because you ignored my advice with adolescent defiance."
"Why are you interfering in my private life when you've only just got one of your own back?"
"I simply hate to see talent wasted."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You have talent — more than I've ever seen in a wizard. Do you really want to end up as some housewife at the stove? Weasley can neither judge nor recognise your intellectual needs, and he certainly won't challenge you. As for the rest, I'd rather not discuss it — if he's physically the man of your dreams, go ahead, it's not my place to judge."
Hermione stared at him wide-eyed. A compliment? From Professor Snape? Well… a compliment wrapped in barbs, but still. She needed a moment to respond.
"As misguided as I think your interpretation is, I must admit — I'm surprised. You think about me?"
Snape sipped his tea and answered with a seriousness so calm it sent a chill down her spine.
"You've forced me, repeatedly, to confront my own life. It was unavoidable that I'd think about you as well."
"Can we bury the hatchet? And please — if you're ever in a bad mood because of me, deduct points from me and not every Gryffindor who crosses your path."
"The outcome will be the same," he said, giving her a sideways look.
For the first time that evening, Hermione saw satisfaction — even balance — in his eyes. She loved this dart game.
"When do you start tutoring me?"
"Next Wednesday. Three o'clock."
"Agreed. I hope it calms you to know that at least once a week I'll have a conversation partner suited to my 'talent.' Thank you for the tea. Good night, Professor."
.
END OF CHAPTER
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