Arithmantic Dating Agency

Chapter 8

She was gone, and it was foolish and sentimental to miss her, but he did. They had spent the rest of the weekend locked in his rooms, mostly in bed, but occasionally surfacing for meals. They hadn’t spent all their time making love, but had talked in soft voices about the past, the present, and their hopes for the future.

Breakfast was painful. He didn’t want to make polite conversation – when had he ever done so before at the breakfast table – but Minerva was dying to know how things had gone. She stopped pressing him when she saw his white-faced look of misery. It appeared her prediction about tears before bedtime had been wrong; it looked like there were going to be tears after bedtime. .

“Come and have a drink tonight, after dinner. I promise I won’t ask you anything, but you can tell me anything you want to. Even how stupid the Gryffindors were in potions.”

He smiled faintly, a mere twitching up of lips. “A magnanimous offer,” he said. “I’ll take you up on it. By then, by then, I might be able to talk about it.” By then, he thought, nothing would be able to keep the words back.

He couldn’t understand where this rising sense of panic, of wrongness, was coming from. He needed the day to understand his feelings, to examine his emotions, which now felt as if he was trying to read ak ink in a foreign language he barely understood.

Shouldn’t he be feeling happy?

He could see Filch looking at him across the hall. How he regretted his agreement to help him spruce himself up a bit. Filch had cornered him on the way back from seeing Hermione off at the apparation point, and asked for his help. It seemed that Minerva and Filch’s romance had also reached the critical point, at least in Filch’s eyes: he wanted to look his best when he made his move. No onew new what Minerva felt about the whole thing; coy was an understatement.

Severus had been caught at a disadvantage; he’d been feeling generous and kind and helpful and in love with the whole world. It seemed to him criminal that Filch wouldn’t have a chance to feel this shatteringly happy, and so he had agreed to take him shopping on Wednesday afternoon.

But now, in the cold light of morning, Filch’s whole appearance, the whole idea of him dressing up for a lady was a caricature of all that he, Severus, had done for Hermione. At least, he hoped it was a caricature; he deeply feared it was nothing more than a true reflection of himself, and no distortion. The day came and went in a blur of not-quite misery. Everywhere he went that gargoyle face seemed to be staring back at him. It was fortunate that the fear he had drilled into his students daily kept them on their best behaviour despite his distraction.

Dinner was less of a nightmare partly because he knew he would be able to unburden himself – and where had this urge come from to talk to people about things - and partly because Minerva kept up a stream of catty comments at the expense of the staff and the children, that raised a smile from him from time to time, but largely allowed him to pretend that he was having a private conversation and so not have to talk to anyone.

And then the relief of reaching Minerva’s room, the glass of brandy, and the chance to unburden himself, only he couldn’t think what to say or how to begin. He stood by the fire, on the verge of making a run for it, and trying to find the words to explain how he felt.

He needn’t worry. Minerva went straight to the heart of the matter with typical Gryffindor subtlety. “So, why are you going round like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, instead of a lucky dog who’s probably had more sex this weekend that I’ve had in the last tenrs.”rs.”

He sat down abruptly in a chair. “I don’t know,” he said. “I ought to be happy……”

“Frankly, my boy you should be ecstatic,” Minerva said.

“……but I feel, I don’t know, hollow. I feel miserable, Minerva, why do I feel miserable?”

Minerva looked at him in concern. It wasn’t like Severus to be so open about his feelings; it certainly wasn’t like him to notice that he was miserable. And that was probably part of the problem; he’d been happy for the wee, an, and now he was back to normality and whilst he had never noticed before how empty his life was, now it was thrown into sharp relief. She suspected that this was only part of the problem.

The awful truth was that Severus wasn’t used to being happy; he didn’t know how to cope with it, and it was sending him into a panic. Not something she could say to him either; it was hardly encouraging. The trick was to prevent him from doing something disastrous, and keep him shagging Hermione until even he got used to the idea of being happy for more than ten minutes at a time.

“You are a daft sod,” she said affectionately. “Of course you feel a bit miserable; you’re missing Hermione.”

He looked at her and tried the idea for size; it seemed to fit all available symptoms. It was a rational explanation for why he felt so down, but somehow he didn’t think it was all that was wrong.

“Really,” she said firmly.

He allowed himself to be reassured by her certainty.

She cast around for something to distract him. “I hear you’re taking Argus out on Wednesday.” She knew she had hit a wholly unexpected nerve there; he was so still, his expression so very carefully blank. What on earth could that be about? She made a mental note to Owl Hermione at the very first opportunity. Whatever was going on, Severus was just the sort of person to sit in his dungeons and feel sorry for himself instead of getting hold of the problem by the throat and squeezing it until it gave in.

She was damned if she was going to stand idly by and watch him muff this up.

She was surprised when she tried the direct approach and it worked; he must be in a bad way. “Why is Filch making you twitchy, surely you’re not telling me he’s transferred his attentions to you?”

There was a faint twitch of the lips. “I just wonder why you seem so sure that Hermione and I are suited to each other, and yet every time someone asks about you and Filch you say you’re just good friends, and happy for it to stay that way. Surely if the Agency is right about us, it sd had have been right about you?”

Dear god, give him another couple of weeks like this and it would be reading German philosophy, listening to the Ring cycle, and the slashing of wrists. Hers not his; she wouldn’t be able to take al the angs
“
“We’ve been seeing a fair bit of each other recently, you know that. I just want to take things slowly,” she said mildly, deciding to stay in shallow waters. Let Hermione brave the deeps if she wanted.

That soothed him for a while, but then he frowned again “But that’s only because Hermione talked you into it.”

“Look Severus,” she said, trying very hard not to let her irritation show. “Don’t be silly. You and Hermione have lots in common and every chance of being happy together. Whether Filch and I click doesn’t affect that.

“Stop trying to make it complicated. You like her; she likes you. That’s ground for celebration in my book. In fact, sod it, let’s open a bottle of champagne and toast your new found happiness.”

He cheered up a bit at that, but he still looked troubled. She scrabbled around in one of her cupboards to draw out a very dirty bottle. She blew the dust off it, and wrapped the sleeve of her robe round her hand to draw the cork which she managed to ease free without a large pop. She didn’t think Severus’s nerves would stand auddeudden noises.

“You’ll have to make do with mugs, I’m afraid. I can\'t be arsed transfiguring them.”

He just nodded, and put out his hand for her second best tea mug. She filled it to the brim, and then did the same for her mug. She put the nearly empty bottle down on the ground next to her chair, and then said, “I give you a toast. To you and Hermione.”

They ceremoniously clinked their mugs together and drank some champagne.

He grimaced. “It’s warm,” he said.

“It’s a symbol of the warmth of your passion,” she said, improvising wildly.

“What tepid?” he returned, but the mention of the word passion had obviously brought back happy memories of his weekend. She didn’t like the glint in his eye though. “I give you a toast. To you and Filch.”

She hesitated for a moment, it seemed like repeating the gesture with the mugs would be tempting fate; she would be trapped with Filch for the rest of her life. Severus’s faint smirk showed that he knew the reason for her pause. “To me and Filch,” she echoed, and touched mugs. Her fate was sealed.

The things she did for Hermione.

As Minerva levered herself gingerly into bed much later that night, she reminded herself very firmly to write to Hermione tomorrow. She was getting too old for these late night drinking sessions. They had followed the first bottle with a second and a third; only the third bottle had been chilled enough to suit Severus’s delicate palate, then they had felt a bit peckish so they had summoned the house elves to bring them some snacks. Tthere was another reason to write to Hermione; it would be just like some nosey Parker– naming no names, Mr Busybody Albus sodding Dumbledore- to pass on the news of their midnight carouse and Hermoine could jump to entirely the wrong conclusion.

Minerva fell asleep with a faint smile on her face, thinking how unlikely she and Severus were, and what Hermione would do to anyone who trespassed on her territory.

And what on earth was she going to wear on her date with Filch?


Severus found that his hangover on Tuesday morning was sufficient to prevent him from worrying about anything other than when his head was going to drop off, and hoping that it would be soon. On Wednesday morning, he had recovered sufficiently to begin worrying about Hermione again, but he found that he had only a limited amount of time to spare for that when he had the nightmare of getting Filch outfitted dangling before his eyes.

Perhaps that was the solution to his problems: find other things to be miserable about instead. Perhaps he had a finite amount of wong tng that needed to be done, and what he should be doing was worrying about his seventh year potions classes, and what the hell he could do to make Filch even vaguely presentable, and what Minerva was going to do to him if he didn’t manage to make Filch look vaguely presentable, and even the future of the Wizarding World. This would then leave him free to enjoy Hermione’s company without any more angst.

Or, if Minerva was right, and he was missing Hermione the simple solution would be to see her as much as possible.

Somehow, Argus got the impression that the whole trip was being kept secret from Minerva, and that his new look would be unveiled for their date that evening as a big surprise. Instead, Severus had been treated to a long list of ‘do’s and ‘don’overover breakfast until his irritation got the better of him and he had invited Minerva to see to the matter herself.

He’d decided that the best thing to do was to get the nightmare over and done with as quickly as possible, so he had arranged with Filch to meet at the apparation point as soon as morning classes were over. Lunch could wait.

The whole trip was even worse than he had expected. He had quickly determined that Filch had a surprisingly large bank balance for a caretaker – but then what would he spend his wages on? – and could well afford the prices Severus’s tailor charged.

Severus didn’t like shopping at the best of times, and he had rapidly concluded that shopping with Filch wasn’t the best of times. Lucius had introduced him to his tailor at 18; they had agreed on a ‘look’ although it wasn’t called that at the time, and he had stuck with it since then. He considered that it was the only good thing to come out of that particular acquaintance. He had only to Owl his tailor for new robes or whatever else he needed and it would appear. The only thing he had needed to do was visit once in a while to be sure his measurements hadn’t changed too much, and even that hadn’t been necessary in the last five years.

He was therefore disconcerted to find that when he visited the tailors that the wizened old man he met so long ago was dead, and had been replaced by his son, young Mr Willikins. Obviously he should have expected something of the kind, bearing in mind the fact that ‘his’ tailor had been old when he first met him, some twenty years ago. Nonetheless, he didn’t like change, and it made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin.

He was therefore not in the best mood to make supportive noises whenever Filch asked his opinion on different robes. He was on the point of leaving them to it and making some excuse that he had another appointment elsewhere – like St Mungo’s - when the sky fell in.

He should have recognised Hermione’s voice, but he was so taken aback at the thought of a woman being in a gentlemen’s outfitters that it took several seconds to register the identity of the woman. It was fortunate that shock had kept him silent, thus allowing him time to recognise her before his natural inclination kicked in to greet the interloper with the kind of wounding sarcasm that had reduced generations of schoolchildren to tears.

Not that he expected her to snivel, but no man likes being insulted in public and he suspected she would respond in kind.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in an urgent whisper.

“Minerva thought you could so with some help.”

He doubted that it was all that Minerva had thought; he just hoped she hadn’t passed on to Hermione everything that he had said, and in the strictest confidence too. Ordinarily he would have been grateful for the chance to see Hermione, but not in the middle of this kind of establishment. It would only be marginally more embarrassing to have met her in a brothel.

He was even more disgruntled to find that the new owner had no objections to women in his shop; instead, he was positively enthusiastic. Severus was seized with the horrid thought, long since put to the back of his mind, about girlfriends and their need to improve their recent acquisitions. Dear god, no, please no. He liked his robes. He didn’t like the look of the new man either. He looked shifty; his eyes were too close together. He looked like just the type to start insinuating that Sir’s look needed updating and before you knew it, you’d be dressed in green, or worse. Not red. Please no.

He had to get her out of here as soon as possible.

Peacetime had dulled his reactions; a chair had been found for her, a cup of tea had been placed on a table to her side, and Filch was instructed to show her what they had tried on so far. Hermione and Willikins were getting on very well. He kept murmuring compliments about her taste, and agreeing unctuously with her comments.

He resigned himself to the inevitable tedium, and vowed not to concede anything on his own choice of clothes without a fight. There was a horrible moment when Filch paraded in a suit almost identical to his own; Hermione said no very definitely and Filch was ushered quickly back into the cubicle to Severus’s immense relief.

He was aware of Hermione’s sideways glances, assessing his reaction, and he tried not to give anything away. It was one thing to let his guard down with Minerva, but quite another to do so with Hermione, however fond of her he was.

She murmured in the ear of Willikins, who nodded his agreement and he scurried off to fetch another robe from the back of the shop. It was dark red, and very plain. Filch liked it immediately. Of course, he was a Gryffindor; red would make him feel comfortable. The subtle reassurance of his house colours made him stand slightly taller, straighten his shoulders and stand proud. There was no radical transformation into a good-looking man, but a reminder that underneath the caretaker there was a person.

The robe was quickly purchased, and then Hermione took Filch to one side and gently suggested that he have a haircut. “I think it would be a good idea, Argus,” she said gently. “Nothing drastic, just make it look neat and tidy.”

“Do you really think so?” Argus was putty in her hands, and ready to agree to anything that would increase his chances of a second date with Minerva.

“I do. A woman likes to think that her companion for the evening has made an effort.

Willikins nodded in support. “Indeed, sir. If I might suggest the barbers on the corner, and perhaps a manicure as well.”

Everyone looked at Argus’s hands with their dirty and uneven nails. Definitely a manicure.

“They won’t want to put nail varnish on me?” he asked plaintively.

“No, Argus,” said Hermione, with more patience than he could have mustered under the circumstances. “Just tidy them up a bit.”

It took a little more reassurance from all parties to assure Argus he wouldn’t end up with bright-red fingernails, and then he was ushered out of doo door.

“Thank god that’s over,” said Willikins, slumping to the chair and mopping his brow. He suddenly recalled the deference due to a customer of long standing and stood up very quickly. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Sir?”

“No thank you.” Hermione and Severus spoke almost in unison.

“If you’ll excuse me then…..” Willikins disappeared into the back of the shop; probably in search of a little something to calm his nerves.

“Severus, why are you looking at me like that?” asked Hermione, with some asperity.

“When Remus started his relationship with Miss Wilmott, she spent the first six months dropping hints that he ought to wear this or that set of robes, until the poor man gave in and allowed her to choose all of his clothes.”

“And you thought I’d want to do the same to you? Now why would do something so foolish, when you look so sexy like that?” she asked, stepping closer to him and playing with his top button in a way he found entirely distracting. “Although,” she said – he braced himself for the bad news – “I do have one complaint. All those buttons look wonderful but they’re an absolute sod to undo quickly.”

He would have flushed, but all the blood in his body had decided to head south.

“May I suggest we go elsewhere,” he said, “because if I kiss you in this establishment, I will never be able to show my face in here again.”

She smiled sweetly, helped herself to some floo powder on the mantelpiece, provided by the establishment for the convenience of its patrons, and announced very firmly, “Hermione Granger’s flat.”

As he followed, he reflected that perhaps Minerva’s intervention wouldn’t be disastrous after all. Five minutes later, he was convinced of it. He was also damned certain that Hermione had been right about the sodding buttons.

Much, much later, when he was lying sated and contented in her arms, she asked softly, “So, are you going to tell me what got Minerva so jumpy?”

“She didn’t tell you then?” he asked, winding a lock of hair around his finger.

“No, she didn’t. All she said was that you were going to beyouryour tailors this afternoon and that you could probably do with some help.”

He was still intent on playing with her hair, but then he took a leap of faith and answered, even if obscurely. “It’s Filch and Minerva. If they are supposed to be so suited with each other, why did you have to work so hard to persuade her to go out with him?”

“Well, in the first place, she didn’t apply to the Agency, so she wasn’t open to the prospect of getting herself a lover. And in the second place, what you have to realise is that the equation measures how fitted le ale are to each other. Not everyone they pair up are one hundred per cent, bona fide soulmates.

“Most people are ordinary, with ordinary hopes and fears. They can have a relationship with lots of people and be happy. They are like tiles – square, regular - and they can be put against other tiles to make a pretty pattern. They are joined together by experience and time, and love of their children. And then there are people like us: jigsaw pieces – irregular and uneven – and we’re designed to fit in only one place in the world. We can fit somewhere else, but only if we cut off the little piece that sticks out, or if we ignore the space that should have another interlocking piece in it.

“Most of the people that come to my agency are jigsaw pieces, not tiles. If they were tiles, they would have found their own tile and settled down by now. Minerva and Filch fit together, but they’re normal shaped jigsaw pieces; the standard shaped ones - two lugs, two spaces, that you can force into most spaces in the puzzle and you wouldn’t notice that they didn’t fit unless you looked at the picture.

“You and me are odd-shaped pieces, that can only fit together. I’ve accidentally run my name in combination with 500 wizards, and never come up before. I ran your name without me as a possible match, and came up with a couple of witches.”

He looked up at that. He thought about it; could he see himself with anyone other than Hermione? No. Not that he would get the choice anyway, because Hermione said mock-severely, “and don’t think I’m going to tell you who they are either. You’re mine, and I’m not taking a chance of you getting away.”

Obscurely, the idea that he had alternatives made him feel better, and Hermione’s way of explaining things made him feel sorry for those poor little tiles. He wasn’t difficult, or ugly, or sad, or passed over by life; he was special, he was unique and the reason no one elad wad wanted him was because they weren’t the right jigsaw piece.

And he was a silly sod for even doubting that Hermione and he would be happy.


His newfound mood of contentment didn’t fade even when he had to leave for Hogwarts. It survived unimpaired through the long trek from the apparation point; Albus had proved distressingly intransigent about dropping the wards - Minerva said he was sour because he wasn’t getting any.

He was even whistling to himself as he headed to the Library to pick up a little late night reading. He was disturbed to find that the door was ajar – if one of the students were in there after hours there would be hell to pay, good mood or no good mood. It was fortunate that he stopped to listen in an attempt to locate his prey, because if he had actually put his head round the door he would have had to cast Obliviate on himself.

What he heard was the unmistakable sound of Minerva. Minerva and Filch. He could hear heavy breathing, and Filch was saying something about Harder! Harder!

Severus froze in horror. Dear God, no.

Rapidly he shut the door, cast silencing and locking charms and made a run for it. He only hoped that no impressionable minds had seen – he gulped – he didn’t like children, but even he had to admit that that was going too far.