Arithmantic Dating Agency

Chapter Two


Severus Snape was feeling very pleased with himself.

For the first time since the fall of Voldermort, he was actually enjoying himself. He didn’t miss the almost constant terror, the pain of cruciatus meted out by an impatient and unstable Dark Lord, or the inanities of an almost-as-unstable-as-the-Dark-Lord-Dumbledore. There was many an occasion during the war when he had debated with himself the absolute theoretical maximum depth you could insert a sherbert lemon into someone’s rear orifice without the benefit of mechanical aids. But But he did miss the challenge, the excitement of battling with the finest minds in the Wizarding World. He found himself feeling increasingly nostalgic for Lucius Malfoy. A bastard of the first water, but a clever bastard it had been a delight to lock horns with.

Somehow frightening the living daylights out of children didn’t have the same thrill now that he wasn’t skulking, sneaking and spying. He had been aware that there had been whispers of late amongst his Slytherins that he was losing his touch, but how could he explain to a bunch of snotty teenagers the absolute paralysis of boredom that had descended on him. The problem was that he had run out of enemies, and who would have ever thought THAT would have happened.

The Germans had a word for it, as they had a word for almost every condition of misery – weltschmerz. World weariness, fin de siecle exhaustion without the fun of the decadence.

He sighed. In fifteen minutes he planned to confront the owner of the agency, frighten the living daylights out of them, reduce them to grovelling terror, and then apparate back to Hogwarts in time for lunch. He sighed again. After that though, the whole afternoon spread itself before him like a vast desert with only the faint possibility of a – he flailed around for a suitable metaphor – a cactus to break the monotony.

Yes, that summed it up. Tea with Dumbledore, a chat with Minerva, sneaking his overdue books back into the library without being caught by Madam Pince, all cactuses. Even giving out detentions was beginning to pall as an amusement. He rather thought that the day he stopped enjoying detentions was the day that he would retire to his dungeons and do the decent thing. Not that anyone would miss him particularly, but he thought it would be the honourable thing to do.

Resign.

Understandable paranoia had made him sit outside the address he had tracked the owl to for at least fifteen minutes. Although he had appeared to have outlived his enemies, it didn’t pay to get carelesherehere was always the possibility that he had overlooked someone: one of his school chums, his death eater chums, someone convinced he hadn’t really returned to the side of the Light, or even someone he had taught potions to. In fact, bearing in mind the infantile nature of the humiliation he had been subjected to, it was most likely to be someone he had taught potions to. Which narrowed it down to about three thousand peoin ain all.

The smart money was on a Weasley though. He dreaded the day when the offspring of the last batch of Weasley’s made its way to Hogwarts. Everyone knew that twins ran in the family, and god knew that even without that added advantage a Weasley family tended to run to a Quidditch team. Personally, he considered that rabbits had a bad press – it should be breeding like Weasleys.

Still the scene at breakfast this morning had suggested that the agency was genuine, if completely misguided. Minerva’s reply had arrived by owl to a rather frosty reception. He smiled fondly at the memory.

He recognised the owl straightaway as the one that had delivered his message from the agency. It swooped across the hall and settled delicately on the table in front of Minerva, who removed the scroll from the proffered leg in complete and happy ignorance of the shock awaiting her.

He had hidden his anticipation well, but he was filled with curiosity to see who had been chosen for her partner. He had tried to be as accurate as possible when filling the form in, and he thought he was likely to have got it mostly right. He had known Minerva for over twenty years now. Perhaps her choice was going to be as unlikely as his own.

Apparently so. The last time he had heard Minerva squeal like that – it could only be called a squeal – she had just caught Draco Malfoy attempting to sneak into the Gryffindor common room to plant Dungbombs. He remembered the incident fondly. In his role as spy he could not afford to come down too hard on Deatheater spawn, but Minerva had no such restrictions. Four weeks of detention with Filch, scouring the classroom floors with a toothbrush had been the result of Draco’s ‘youthful indiscretion’.

It was one of his happiest memories of the War Years.

That and the expression of shock when Lucius realised that he had been working as a spy all along.

It hadn’t been necessary to ask Minerva what had caused her outrage, as she was only too happy to communicate it to the world at large, at length and at volume. She had called a staff meeting during the lunch hour, which everyone had attended. Usually there would have been strong expressions of discontent at having to give up their spare time in this way, but they were all agog to see what exactly had rubbed Minerva’s fur the wrong way. Or rather who.

They were to be disappointed in large measure. Whilst she was keen on the malefactor being tracked down and ritually disembowelled in front of the whole school she was less interested in revealing her dark secret. Her temper having cooled in the interim, she had been faced with the sheer horror of telling her colleagues the identity of the man selected for her. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak, on the nature of the letter, but she could at least draw a discreet veil over the identity of her paramour. Bitter experience indicated that there would be precious little sympathy forthcoming. Indeed, money had already exchanged hands on the issue.

It was those with wagers who were the most disappointed by Minerva’s characteristically tight lipped refusal to discuss matters. Severus had been most amused at the way Minerva had cut off Sybil’s attempt to name names with an abrupt, “Yes, I’m sure you can see the answer in your teacup, Sybil, but if you don’t want to be picking splinters out of your arse for the next month I suggest you shut up before I shove your crystal ball in the orifice you usually talk out of.”

The teachers exchanged glances. Minerva was rarely crude, so this meant that whoever it was it was very bad indeed. There was a subtle flurry of betting as people changed horses in mid-race.

“And if any of you buggers are thinking of trying anything to find out who was nominated to be the love of my life, let me remind you I am in charge of the upcoming review of salaries.”

The teachers had filed out, having assured Minerva to a person that she could rely on their support, muttering under their breath about miserable cows and trying to cancel the wagers.

She stopped Severus on his way out of the door. “Speaking of the salary review, Severus. I was wondering if I could persuade you to do me a little favour.”

“Gryffindor sublety yet again, Minerva. I presume you want me to find out who is responsible?”

She nodded, biting back the angry reply trembling on her lips.

“You know that I will need to see the scroll?”

She nodded again, and reluctantly handed it over. “You will be discreet about this, won’t you Severus?”

What he had wanted to say was that it was a little late for discretion when you had announced your displeasure to everyone within a five mile radius but curiosity had overridden his natural tendency to sarcasm and he had uttered the necessary assurances to make Minerva hand over the scroll. It wasn’t that she believed him, but he was the best choice for the task.

He had waited until Minerva had left before opening the letter.

It is with great pleasure blah blah blah open mind blah blah not chosen for themselves blah soulmate blah perfect match is….

Severus had strolled off to his dungeons with a beatific smile on his face. It seemed that their beloved caretaker had also decided to venture into the perilous seas of love.

It had made Hermione Granger seem almost …pleasant.

He looked at his pocketwatch. He had another five minutes to go before storming the Agency buildings.

He allowed himself to wonder what the Gryffindor Know-it-all was doing now. He wondered if she had ever managed to tame that truly appalling mane of frizzy hair.

Four minutes.

Everyone had expected her to take up with either Weasley or Potter after the war, but it seemed that she too was looking for a companion.

Three minutes.

He wondered what on earth the Agency thought they had in common.

Two minutes.

He wondered what she’d be like in bed.

One minute.

Where on earth had that thought come from?

Time up, he crossed the street to the door. The locking charm was complex, but he managed to break it. The door opened onto ay, iy, institutional office containing cheap furniture. He slipped through the door and his suspicions were confirmed. The only splash of colour in the room was the occupant, whose flaming hair proclaimed them a Weasley.

“You!” he said in tones of absolute loathing. “I knew it!”

Ginny Weasley.

He felt an immense surge of gratification. The old instincts were still there and peacetime had not dulled them too much. He had thought a Weasley the most likely candidate, and it was indeed a Weasley. He conveniently ignored the fact that he had expected it to be Fred and George or, as an outside chance, Ron.

Ginny, judging from her wide eyes and gaping mouth, was shocked to see him. You underestimated me there my girl, he thought with grim satisfaction.

“P…professor Snape! What are you doing here?”

“As if you don’t know Miss Weasley. Playing dumb, although a role naturally within your reach, will not benefit you right now.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she stuttered.

Severus felt his tenuous grip on his temper fail entirely. His carefully prepared speech fled from his mind, and he abandoned silky sarcasm in favour of outraged volume.


Hermione’s formidable powers of concentration were disturbed by the sounds of shouting from the next room. She was on the point of casting a silencing charm, when she thought she recognised the voice. Curiosity over why Professor Snape found himself outside her office overcame her reluctance to break an interesting line of work.

She opened the door to a scene familiar to her from potion’s classes. Ginny was pinned between Snape and the desk. He loomed over her, using the advantage of his height to force home his points.

Hermione to the rescue again she sighed.

“Professor Snape,” she said warmly, “how nice to see you again. How are you?”

Severus had not anticipated this. What was he to think? This could hardly be a prank now. His bemused mind seized on and discarded a series of explanations, which became increasingly bizarre as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

It was a prank played by one of the Weasley brothers on Hermione. It was a prank played by Ginny on her boss. It was Ginny trying to matchmake. Hermione… he gulped… Hermione had a crush on him.

Good god, that must be it! Hermione had a crush on him and had taken the opportunity that the letter had afforded to put herself forward instead of other, obviously more suitable candidates.

He allowed himself to be drawn into Hermione’s office and prepared to let her down gently. She was, after all, a very powerful witch and who could predict what her reaction to rejection would be?

As Hermione ordered tea, he examined her for signs of lovesickness. There were none of the usual symptoms he had observed in others – no inane grin, no dopey expression, no flustered fussing round the teapot, and no fiddling with her hair. Mind you, any attempt at mock grooming would probably result in her hbecobecoming permanently attached to that frizzy mass. There was no apparent loss of intellect at all, which led to one of two conclusions. Either there was no crush, and Ginny was responsible, or she had had a lot of practice in disguising the symptoms.

Perhaps from potions classes?

He shuddered at the thought of being the object of some pre-pubescent schoolgirl’s fantasy. How demeaning. He rather thought not though. He had become adept over the years at spotting the pupils – make or female – labouring under the misapprehension that beneath these black robes beat a tortured soul who only needed true love to achieve happiness / equipment to make a donkey envious / a slytherin sex god of unparalleled kinkiness / delete as appropriate. Not that he was denying the last two, but he was hardly likely to be interested in sharing that with spotty teenagers.

His ruminations were interrupted by Ginny bringing in the tea things. He was pleased to note that the tea had been properly prepared in a pot. Leaf tea too, judging from the strainer on the tray. He was surprised. Even pureblood wizarding families had succumbed to the lure of convenience and now brewed up using a teabag in a mug.

He accepted his cup of tea – a touch of milk, no sugar – and sipped it in silence. He was surprised to find it was a delicate blend of rose pouchong and Earl Grey that was rather pleasant. He made a mental note to try the blend at home. He sipped his tea in silence. It was time to force her into making a move.

Predictably enough, she did. Gryffindors really were no challenge at all.

“So, what brings you here, Professor Snape?”

Rather than launch into a long and tiresome narrative he simply handed over the piece of paper electing Hermione Granger as his one, true soulmate.

He watched her eyes flick across the paper until they came to the final sentence. He sat back in his chair in anticipation of a demonstration of the fiery Granger temper. There was none of the outrage he had expected, just a peculiarly thoughtful expression settled on her face.

Her eyes abruptly focussed on him, and he was treated to a leisurely but thorough examination of his person in a manner rather reminiscent of Voldemort searching out a spy or Mrs Norris on the hunt.

He barely resisted the urge to shift awkwardly under her gaze. Some conclusion was obviously reached, and she leaned forward to say in the blandest tones possible, “Your … eagerness to arrange a date is obviously flattering, but surely an Owl would have been sufficient?”

It seemed Miss Granger wanted to play games. He hoped she was a good loser.

“Indeed, Miss Granger. But I was so - eager for your - company, that I couldn’t help rushing here to - arrange our first meeting.” She flushed, and he didn’t think it was because she was flattered. She had never been stupid.

“I am gratified to hear it,” she shot back. She had certainly developed more of a backbone since Hogwarts, or perhaps it was just that she no longer felt constrained to be polite to him now that he could no longer deduct house points. “Although I suppose the more interesting question is how you managed to find me. The anti-tracking charms should have prevented you.”

“Time delay,” he said simply.

“Really? That’s very impressive.” He couldn’t detect any sarcasm in her voice; she seemed to be sincere. He preened himself slightly. It was true, it was a very remarkable piece of tactical thinking, but it was nice to be appreciated.

“You must tell me all about it. Perhaps over lunch? My treat.”

He had been so busy congratulating himself on a job well done, that it took several seconds for his brain to catch up with outside events. So it was a slightly bewildered Severus who found himself being firmly escorted from the premises and into a restaurant a few doors down. It didn’t look particularly salubrious from the outside, but the interior was incredible: all red plush, spindly gilt chairs and glittering chandeliers.

“I know,” she said, “it’s terribly Gryffindor, isn’t it? But I promise the food is worth it.”

He was surprised to see that she was smiling warmly at him; like a friend, as if they shared some sort of secret understanding. He cautiously smiled back. This certainly wasn’t the way he had expected things to go when he set off this morning; she seemed to be taking seriously the idea that they should become romantically involved, which he considered to be very peculiar indeed. He was determined to get to the bottom of this little mystery, collect his free lunch, and then be on his way.

It’s a shame he’d never heard the muggle saying there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

The waiter recognised Hermione; clearly she came here frequently. They were ushered to a table hidden discreetly in an alcove, and the waiters bustled around with menus, and napkins and little bread thingies in a basket.

Whilst they were contemplating their choices, the waiter handed Severus the wine list. He eyed the list; he had contemplated ordering the most expensive item on there, until he had seen the price of the cheapest bottle. Good God. That was at least a month’s salary. He looked up, surprised to feel a slight twinge of guilt. Surely Miss Granger had no idea what the prices were like in here, or she would never have suggested it. He was wondering how to break the bad news to her gently, so that she wouldn’t faint or burst into tears, when she noticed his unease.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can afford it.”

“You CAN? The Agency does that well?” he blurted out, before he could stop himself. Asking questions about someone’s wealth was very vulgar, but how on earth had she become that rich?

“Gracious, no. Not the agency. The real money comes from an investment business I run, playing the muggle stock markets.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple,” she said. “I use Arithmancy to predict the movements of stocks and shares, and make investment decisions based on those predictions. It’s very easy really.”

“But that’s illegal,” he said, not that that was intended as a criticism at all; he was, if anything, impressed. “If the Ministry ever found out what you were doing, you’d be in terrible trouble.”

“I know. That’s why I started the agency.”

“How so?”

“I use it to cover my tracks. Because all my clients are supposed to be anonymous, it’s easy to slip a fee in here and there. In the muggle world, it’s called money laundering: making dirty money clean.”

“So let me get this straight. You run a dating agency that takes advantage of unsuspecting witches and wizards solely for the purpose of covering up an illegal operation that manipulates the Muggle stock market to make you fabulously wealthy. Hermione, are you sure you weren’t mis-sorted?”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that!”

“HOW would you have put it then?”

“I run a dating agency that brings happiness into the lives of many … in order to cover up an illegal operation that has made me fabulously wealthy and hasn’t done any harm to anyone. Well, apart from the slight world recession I created last year, but I am fairly certain I the the formula sorted out now.”

He just looked at her in amazement. He had always thought of Hermione Granger as a rule-obsessed, know-it-all with no sense of humour. She still appeared to be a know-it-all, there appeared to be signs of humour, but by God, she was running roughshod over the Ministry of Magic. She had obviously overcome her desire to obey authority; Potter’s attitude had obviously rubbed off on her.

The long dormant part of Snape, that had wanted to rule the world, woke up and took a long, hard look at Miss Granger and ded itd it liked what it saw. Given the right encouragement it would be perfectly happy to kiss the hems of her robes. Or perhaps elsewhere…

It wasn’t the money that interested him, although money was nice: something you quickly realised on a teacher’s salary. What was attractive, seductive even, was Hermione’s attitude. Somewhere along the line, she had turned into a powerful and determined young woman, and Slytherins found power very sexy.

So it was that he ordered the second most expensive bottle of wine on the menu to go with their food – no point in being flashy – without a qualm. The waiters were polite without being obsequious, and almost invisible, and he barely noticed as their lunch was served.

He did notice that it was all Hermione had promised; the food was worth putting up with this garish décor.

“So you own the agency?” he asked, more for something to say than anything else; it was obvious she ran the pla

“Mostly. Ron and Harry own 5 % each. Of course, they only get a share of the agency income, not the rest of it. They didn’t want to take the risk.”

“Risk?”

“Of going to Azkaban; well, and of losing all their money. It was a little disappointing really.”

“And is there a serious risk of going to Azakaban?” he asked.

“Not really. I shouldn’t think that there are more than three people in the world who would understand the Arithmancy involved, and all of them are purebloods, so they would be at a complete loss when it came to understanding muggle economics. The chances of anyone being able to understand the fusion of the two are negligible to the point of impossibility.”

Almost despite himself he found he was interested; he had never really thought Arithmancy was that useful, and making money was certainly useful. “So how does this apply to helping people find romance?”

“The big problem is that what people need and what people want is very different. They have these fixed ideas in their head about who they want to be with, whether it’s a blonde or someone with large breasts; they keep choosing large-breasted blondes and wonder why they aren’t happy. Take Harry and Millicent, everyone’s wondering what on earth those two see in each other.”

Severus nodded. He had often sat and watched them at the occasional party or reunion with bemusement. They appeared to have nothing in common and yet were apparently very happt mat made him feel … wistful.

“What’s Millicent’s defining characteristic?” asked Hermione.

He thought about it. She was lumpen, bland, and unremarkable: nothing in her to catch the eye of a man who had ladies swooning at his feet once the war had ended. The only thing he could remember about her with any certainty was her complete lack of physical coordination. “She’s very clumsy,” he offered, but that couldn’t be it? Why would someone find that attractive.

“Exactly. And what’s Harry’s defining characteristic?”

“Hero Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World?” he sneered.

“Precisely. Put the two together and what do you get?” He shook his head; he couldn’t see the connection. “Someone who needs to be saved, oh, only in a little way, but someone who needs to be saved every day and someone who needs to be a hero.”

He looked at her in dawning understanding, “So he gets to feel important and needed every day?”

“And what’s more potent than that?”

But what then, came the question, could Hermione possibly need from him. Not money; she had plenty of that. Not position; the glamour of a pureblood family would mean nothing to her. Not associating with a hero, for what that was worth; she was a heroine in her own right. None of the things he thought he could offer to a woman would appeal to Hermione. What was left then? Not good looks, not a pleasant disposition, and surely there were others as intelligent as him that she could choose.

He suddenly felt very old and tired. He hesitated, and then asked, “Why do you think we would be suited to each other?”

“I can’t say for sure; I haven’t and I won’t look at the file to find out. That’s the point of a courtship: finding out about each other. I will say this though: my name shouldn’t have been on the database; I thought it had been removed after the initial trials. Over 580 Wizards have been on my books and that’s the first time my name has come up. I suspect you’re the first one who has ever indicated that you might find intelligence attractive. Frankly, I find that more than a little depressing.”

“There has to be more to it than that,” he said impatiently.

“Of course there is. I want someone who finds my intelligence attractive but who sees me as something other than just a bookworm.”

“But you just said you wanted to be appreciated for your intelligence,” he said, amused.

“I’m a girl Severusm alm allowed to want two mutually contradictory things,” she said smiling slyly. “Do you think there is much more important than being liked for who you really are?”

He flinched at that a little; it was too close to the bone. “You’re sure that this isn’t some dreadful mistake?”

“Of course, I’m sure. I wrote the calculation. I don’t make mistakes.”

He smiled; he liked self-confidence, when it wasn’t in his classroom anyway. They sat in silence for a while, before they reached some tacit agreement: that topic was closed, for now anyway.

“So,” Hermione said, “you were going to tell me about the tracking charms you used…”

He accepted the new topic of conversation gratefully. Now it was his turn to show off; so he did. So he told her about his first attempt in Remus’s name and how that had failed; and he told her about his second attempt, and the time delay on the locator charm, and how that had succeeded; and then they had anotbottbottle of wine; and he told her about Minerva and Filch; and she was impressed and amused by turns, and he felt a warm glow of satisfaction; and then they had dessert; and then they had a spirited discussion on how to improve her defensive charms; and then they had cheese and port; and then he was surprised to find that they had been there for four hours; and then they had some coffee and petits fours and he was sorry to realise that the whole, wonderful afternoon was coming to an end.

He was stirring his coffee, wondering how on earth he could persuade her to have lunch with him again, when her hand came to rest on top of his. “I’ve enjoyed this afternoon a great deal, Severus. I hope you’ve changed your mind about how unlikely this all is, and that you’d like to have dinner with me some time.”

So he took his courage in his hands, and for once eschewed Slytherin obfuscation and simply said, “I’d like that very much.”

She smiled and said, “Since I’m not at the beck and call of an employer, perhaps you could send me an Owl when you sort something out.”

They were interrupted by the waiter bringing the bill. He shuddered to think what the final cost was, but she hadn’t even blinked. She had merely asked for a receipt and muttered something about expenses.

They parted company before the door to the Restaurant, and it was only with the greatest of difficulty that he restrained himself from kissing her hand.

He apparated back to Hogwarts and enjoyed the stroll up to the entrance bathed in sunlight, He was full of fine wine, fine food, and had spent a very agreeable afternoon with a beaut…he balked at that … a passably attractive young woman.

Who had flattered him.

Who seemed to enjoy his company.

And who seemed to be as shifty, sly and underhanded as any Slytherin.

Maybe he could ask her to advise him on some investments. No point letting all that financial wizardry go to waste.

Perhaps this relationship thingy wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

He wondered what her views were on black robes as opposed to dark green.

He needed only one thing to make the day complete. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Bertram for making the place look untidy. Take your hands out of your pockets, stand up straight, and don’t think I can’t see that face you are pulling just because my back is turned. Detention with Filch tonight I think.” He strode off with his robes billowing, and his trade-mark smirk on his face.

Severus Snape was back!