Arithmantic Dating Agency

Chapter three


Severus was sitting in his quarters and contemplating his future: not his immediate future, which consisted of dinner at the High Table with the other teachers; nor even the not-so-immediate future of next week, the aggravation of pupils, and when he could next be free to see Hermione; but the long-term, what-do-I-want-from-my-life, sort of future.

What did he want from his life?

When he had compiled his list, over a week ago, of what he wanted in his ideal woman, bushy hair hadn’t featured at all. (Although he supposed it wasn’t so much bushy, as, as, luxuriant.) Nor had being a bossy Know-it-all. (Again, though, perhaps it could be described as self-confident and - no, she was still a Know-it-all.) Still he had decided he wanted a woman with a brain, to have interesting conversations with, and who wouldn’t ask silly questions.

Hermione had never been one for questions; she was too sure she knew the answers.

He had tried to imagine what married life would be like, but he had no basis for speculation. He presumed that his parents’ marriage was not normal; dear god, he hoped not. He didn’t want a marriage that consisted of arguing and fighting. He had steered clear of passion on that basis. To him passion meant screaming and shouting, and throwing things and a horrifying loss of control. He had envisaged marriage as something calm and serene, with both parties being somewhat distant and polite.

Time had changed Hermione, and for the better mostly, but he didn’t think it had changed her that much. She was never going to be distant and polite; she would be argumentative and bossy. She would take an interest in his life, and, in turn, she would expect him to take an interest in her life. They would be involved.

It wasn’t what he had expected. Hermione had said that people didn’t know what they really wanted, and if that was true, and given that the formula had selected her, then maybe he didn’t want a companiate relationship at all. Maybe he really wanted fire and passion in his life.

That was a scary thought.

What was it she had said, that there was nothing more important than being liked for who you really were. He wasn’t sure he would stand up to such scrutiny, but he was tired of the long shadow of his reputation blighting everything. She, despite their long and not-always-pleasant-past, hadn’t jumped to conclusions, hadn’t assumed that she knew him, but had decided to give him a chance.

He had no clear idea where they were going, if they were going anywhere at aand and he definitely had no idea how to get there, but Hermione had intrigued him.

Then there was the tricky issue of sex. Presumably she would want it, eventually; presumably as a modern witch and a muggleborn, she wouldn’t necessarily think that marriage should come first; so that left the tricky issue of when to make the suggestion. (Not to mention how.)

Too soon was insulting; too late, she would think he wasn’t interested.

Damn.

Maybe he should have kissed her hand after all.

Then there were all the standard worries, about technique and performance. His previous dealings with women had been perfunctory at best and commercial at worst. What would it be like to be able to take your time, to be able to explore and to be explored in your turn? He couldn’t see Hermione lying back and thinking of Slytherin.

And that was your answer really, if she thought he was taking too long to get to the point, she was just as likely to make a pass at him As to the rest of it, he had a vivid imagination and nearly twenty years of fantasy to work through. There was plenty of time to come up with some ideas, and if she thought she could do better, she was welcome to try. Very welcome.

He caught sight of his reflection in his mirror as he made his way to the door. Severus, my lad, he said to himself, you’ve been given a chance at happiness, so grab it with both hands. Reflecting that this was rather too apt a turn of phrase, and dwelling pleasurably on the images that brought to mind, he swept off to dinner.


His sense of satisfaction with himself and with the world in general only increased at Dinner when he compared Minerva’s troubled love life to his own success. The fact that he had created her difficulties only added to his amusement. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven her for the stripper she had hired on his last birthday. She hadn’t been a day under sixty, and yet had still expected to go home with him at the end of the evening. It had taken Remus and Hargid a good ten minutes to pry him free from her.

Filch had apparently made his move. Not in person, but by proxy: a bunch of flowers. Apparently they had been accompanied by a poem. Minerva was sitting glowering at her perfectly innocent dinner. Severus hoped that seeing the vus wus way that she was slicing the inoffensive lamb chop would give Filch pause for thought. Since he was presently full on bonhomie he decided that he ought to do something to help Minerva out - in a couple of days time anyway, no point rushing – if Filch didn’t take the hint that his attentions were unwelcome.

It was odd though, because he could swear that he had filled in the form accurately on Minerva’s behalf. Perhaps Minerva and Filch were destined to be together? He shuddered at the thought. That was even more unlikely than he and Hermione. Hermione - he felt a smile creep across his face –

“And you can wipe that smile off your face,” snarled Minerva. “It’s not funny.”

“What? Sorry.” He looked at her blankly, dragged back from his pleasant daydream.

“If I find out you tipped Filch the wink about that letter, you’re going to be spending the next six months as a cat toy!”

She realised from his bewildered expression that Severus had no idea what she was talking about. “Sorry Severus,” she said. It dawned on Minerva that Severus was clearly thinking about something other than her love life, and she was intrigued. What had put that smile on his face? “I’m just fed up with this situation; it’s put me on edge a bit.”

“Minerva, have you ever thought that the agency would let him know at the same time as you?”

Obviously not - she ld atd at him with her mouth agape – not a pretty sight, she really should have swallowed first. Ah, her manners returned at last, and she did so. There was a pause whilst she mulled over his suggestion.

“I never thought of that, Severus. Good God. You mean he got a letter like mine. No wonder the poor man is so persistent.” Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know so much about this? Merlin, it all makes sense now. The smile, the abstraction, knowing how the agency works: you’ve been on a date.”

Severus’s smile grew even wider. “I have.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it, but not here - little pitchers and all that. Come and have a nightcap in my quarters later. You can dish the dirt, and then tell me how on earth to put Filch off without hurting his feelings.”

Severus wasn’t sure that he wanted to talk about his newfound romantic interest, certainly not if names had to be disclosed, but he knew that Minerva would cross-examine him until he cracked and spilled all. On the other hand, he was also dying to talk about it, to dissect the possibilities and maybe come to understand them better. He was curious to know what Minerva’s reaction would be to the suggestion that his soulmate was twenty years his junior, and Minerva’s pet student.

Minerva was likely to be the most supportive of all his colleagues as she had long been encouraging him to get a girlfriend. He was therefore very nervous when he presented himself at Minerva’s door. What if she disapproved, or worse, laughed in his face?

“Good grief, man,” she said as she opened the door. “You like you’ve seen a Dementor. What’s the matter? What dark and desperate secret are you going to reveal?”

She clucked round him like a mother hen, pouring him a stiff Firewhiskey, and settling him on the sofa.

“Now givshe she said. “Who is it? It is a girl, isn’t it?”

He spluttered Firewhiskey and spent several moments coughing.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” muttered Minerva. “Well, the way you’re acting I thought it had to be something really shocking,” she said in response to his reproachful glance. “Ok, someone I know?”

He nodded, as he blotted his eyes.

“So, an ex-student, then?”

He winced.

“Aha,” Minerva said triumphantly. “I knew it, it’s the only thing that would make you so twitchy. So a Slytherin then?”

He relaxed at that, which was a mistake. It was as much of a clue as tensing up.

“NOT a Slytherin? Good heavens, next you’ll be telling me it’s a Gryffindor.” Minerva kept a close eye on him after that sally and saw it hit home.

“A Gryffindor, in the last ten years, last five years, last two years?” She ran through the list waiting to see when she hit a sensitierveerve. “Two years, right let me think.”

Severus watched her thinking with some amusement. Now he had decided to come clean, it didn’t seem so bad at all. She hadn’t been upset at the thought of him dating a student from her house, even one so recently graduated. How long would it take her to reach the right answer?

She gave him a very thoughtful look. “You got an owl the other morning, and you were in a very bad mood after that. So you weren’t pleased with the suggestion. So I’m looking for someone who would be perfect for you, but you’d never consider in a million years.”

“Minerva, I can almost hear the cogs whirring in your brain. You’re doing very well so far.” He smirked.

A flicker of – was it shock – and then amusement flashed across her face, to be followed by complete admiration. “Hermione Granger! It’s Hermione isn’t it?”

He felt sheepish. He probably looked sheepish. He didn’t think he’d ever looked sheepish before in his entire life. He nodded agreement.

“Well,” she said. “Bloody good luck to you!” and she raised her glass in a toast. “Not that you’ll need it, you’re absolutely made for each other.”

Then Severus increased his range of facial expressions again and broke out into an enormous, and slightly soppy grin.

“So tell me all about your date,” she said conspiratorially. “Details. I need details.”

Of course Severus couldn’t give too many details, what with Hermione’s illegal activities and his dropping Minerva in it, but what he could talk about he did. How she’d swindled him into having lunch with him, and how they’d talked and talked.

When he finished, she leaned back in her chair with a satisfied look on her face. “Very nice,” she said. “Very nice indeed. The question is, now what are you going to do?”

“Ask her out for dinner?” he said tentatively.

Her expression indicated that he had failed some sort of test; an expression he hadn’t seen from her since he had actually graduated.

“And what else?” she persisted.

He cast his eyes round the room, searching for inspiration, just as he had once done as a pupil. He could see a bunch of flowers on the table behind Minerva; obviously her rejection of Filch hadn’t extended to throwing away his floral offering.

“You mean flowers?” he said slowly. He thought back to the old formal rules of courtship that had applied when he was a student: flowers, chocolates, and giftsl gil given in a carefully prescribed manner. “I had given some thought to it,” he said – he wasn’t about to admit that he hadn’t done anything of the kind, not when Minerva thought it was so clearly appropriate – “but I thought that as Hermione was a modern witch she might not appreciate something like that. She might consider it old-fashioned.”

Minerva probably wasn’t fooled for a second, but let it pass. “You’re right that she’s a modern witch, so if you’re looking for a doormat you’d better cry off now. But, even bearing in mind she’s a muggle, she’ll think it’s romantic. I guarantee you, flowers melt the hardest of hearts.”

It was with great difficulty that Severus stopped himself looking at the roses behind her. From the twitching in Minerva’s left eye she could clearly tell what he was thinking though.

“I’ll have a word with Sprout tomorrow,” he promised.

“Sprout?”

“If Hermione is to have flowers, then she’ll have the best damn flowers I can find.”

“That’s the spirit, my boy,” she crowed. “Any ideas as to what to send?”

“How about Snapdragons?”

They both giggled at that – which Severus blamed on the Firewhiskey. “You know,” she said, “I rather think she’d appreciate the compliment.”

He thought about it; he rather thought his Hermione would.
raisraised his glass in salute to Minerva. “Cheers! Here’s to romance.”

Severus made his way down to see Sprout in her greenhouses as soon as he managed to find a moment. He had dropped a hint at breakfast that he would like a favour, and she had been so surprised that she had merely gaped at him for several seconds before saying that yes of course she would help with whatever he needed.

His morning had been taken up by Albus being frivolous and vexatious, and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from a full frontal assault. Minerva, seeing him wriggling around in his chair, had managed toert ert the old coot’s attention allowing him to make his escape.

He didn’t mind telling Minerva about Hermione, she was an old friend; he definitely wasn’t going to allow that old bustard to know anything about his newly acquired private life. It was going to remain precisely that – private. Well, it would if Minerva kept her trap shut.

If Sprout had been startled by the request of a favour, she was even more surprised to find out what it was.

“Flowers? Flowers? You actu wan want a bunch of flowers?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I actually want a bunch of flowers.”

“Spring, eh? And a young man’s fancy turns to love?” Then she had nudged him in the ribs, and laughed coarsely.

He had forgiven her almost immediately, partly because she had called him young, partly because she hadn’t laughed in his face, but mostly because she entered into solving the problem of the right bloom with enthusiasm. He could have anything he wanted out of her greenhouses, it seemed, just for the asking. She had a soft spot for lovers, and would do all she could to help.

“Right,” she said, moving briskly between the rows of plants, “what sort of young lady is she?”

“Sensible, practical, very intelligent, and used to the very best.”

It didn’t escape his notice that, whilst Sprout was trying to help choose the right blooms, she wasn’t above trying to sneak extra information out of him to work out who was the recipient of his affections.

“Not a very easy combination to please,” she said thoughtfully. “We can dismiss roses straight away: too obvious, too easy, and too predictable. Something rare but not exotic, from your description I suspect she wouldn’t appreciate the hothouse blooms.”

“No I don’t think she would,” he agreed.

“There’s always the Madonna lilies. Elegant, sophisticated but perhaps a bit plain for your purposes.”

He followed her to look at the pure white blooms. They were beautiful, but not as dramatic as he had hoped for, still - “Hermione would love these,” he said.

Fuck.

It was a good job the war was over, because he suddenly appeared to have lost any ability he ever had at keeping secrets.

“Hermione,” she said thoughtfully, “Hermione, Hermione?”

He could tell the precise moment she identified the correct Hermione: her hands tightened round the stem of the lily, nearly snapping it, and she swivelled towards him.

“Stone me, Hermione Granger.”

Here, again, there was shock but not the horror he had secretly expected.

“Then I have the perfect flower,” she announced triumphantly. “She’ll love it. I don’t know why you didn’t mention her name straightaway, it would have made things a lot easier.”

“You know why not.”

“Yes I do.” And then in answer to his unspoken query: “I think you’ll get on very well.”

Having thought of himself as a wholly unlikely candidate for romance, he was incredibly touched to find that the women who had known him the best and the longest were so accepting of the idea that he should have a girlfriend. Or at least be attempting to get one.

Not that he had any attention of letting them know this of course, or he would never hear the end of it.

“Now, follow me you daft sod.”

Sprout headed for her private greenhouse: she obviously had something very special in mind. She stopped in front of a particular pot, and gestured to it airily, “You’re welcome to have this. It’s been a complete bugger to grow – five years of hard graft before it flowered.”

It was very special. About two feet high, it consisted of a vine-like plant coiled round a pyramid, and was surmounted by thst bst bizarre flower he had ever seen. It was black, a true black not the dark red that was so often passed off for black in roses, and had six petals arranged in two triangles set slightly at a different angle. It also had long, black streamers falling from the centre of the flower down to edg edge of the pot.

It was the most amazing thing he had ever seen; he was convinced Hermione would adore it.

“Tacca Chantieri,” Sprout said. “It’s very rare. I doubt she’ll ever have seen it before.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said softly, reaching out a finger to stroke on of the soft petals. Sprout blushed as red as if he had called her beautiful. “But if it’s taken you so long to grow, surely you don’t want to give it away from something as trivial as this. There must be other plants, snapdragons perhaps?”

“Don’t be daft, boy, there’s nothing trivial about love. Anyway it’s growing them that’s the challenge,” she said gruffly.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, “but thank you. Hermione will be very impressed. I’ll be sure to mention you grew it.”

There was a glint in Sprout’s eye as she added, “You might change your mind about sending it though when I teou iou its nickname.”

“I’m listening.”

“The bat plant.”

It was Sprout’s day for surprises. Instead of throwing a tantrum, Severus laughed. A deep, rich laugh.

“Even better,” he said. “A thing of beauty, a mystery and a joke all rolled into one. Thank you, it’s perfect.”

Sprout wrapped the plant for him, and he carried it carefully back to Hogwarts. It was too big for an owl, so he would have to cast a complex apparation charm to send it to Hermione. He attached a note to it, thanking her for lunch, and suggesting next Friday for Dinner. If she was agreeable, he would meet her at her offices at 8pm, and then they could apparate to the restaurant together.

If Minerva thought old-fashioned courtesy was the way to go, old-fashioned courtesy she would get.

His little bubble of happiness survived even the sight of coming in to dinner to see Minerva and Pomona, huddled together, and clearly discussing his love life. He settled next to them with a nod and a “Ladies.”

“Severus,” complained Minerva, “how on earth are we supposed to talk about you if you are in earshot?”

“Don’t mind me,” he replied, smirking. “Chat away.”

“You’re a very evil man, Severus Snape. Don’t worry Pomona, we’ll continue this later.”

Dinner was nearly over, when a large owl swept down to deliver a scroll to Severus. He could hear Minerva muttering something about Hermione bekeenkeen and that she would have made the bugger wait a little longer as he opened it.

She was free that night and would be happy to go out to dinner.

He was brought out of his happy daydream by Minerva hissing in his ear, “Will you stop smiling, you’re frightening all the children?”

He quickly swallowed the last of his dessert and headed off to his quarters for some peace and quiet.

After he had left, Minerva said, “I hope it goes well for him.”

“Is there any reason to suppose it won’t?”

“Oh, they’re perfect for each other, I grant you, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be plain sailing. Pomona, mark my words, there’ll be tears before bedtime.”

“Just as long as there is a bedtime.”

They looked at each other in amusement and then sniggered their way through the last of the pudding.