This story was entered in the Sycophant Hex: Spring Faire Festival under the General Story: I Want to Kiss the Bride.

The criteria is below:

Summary: Hermione is about to get married when a certain Potions master realizes she should marry him instead. He has forty-eight hours to stop the wedding and get her to marry him.

Rules:
1. Severus Snape is to be portrayed by Severus Snape. He does not have really silky hair. His nose is hooked, not aquiline. In other words, keep the Snape as close to canon as possible, in both appearance, and characterization.
2. Snape does not kill the other canon male involved (i.e. potential groom).
3. Snape does not snatch Hermione away from the wedding or some other such rubbish.
4. Snape is not to be turned into any of the following:
- Mr. Darcy
- A fluffy bunny
- A sap

Notes:
1. Hermione's potential groom may be any other canon character.
2. Any characters can be enlisted to help Severus in his endeavor.
3. Genre up to the author. The story can be comedy, angst, drama, or any other combination the writer chooses.
4. Hermione does not have to end up marrying Snape.
5. All standard SH rules and submission policies apply.

Severus Snape and the Wedding of the Century is one of the two Second Place Winners for the General Category!

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Severus Snape and the Wedding of the Century


The fact that Hermione Granger was one of the very rare people I was interested in spending time with – a lot of time; possibly the rest of my life – hit me at a time calculated to cause maximum inconvenience. It occurred to me while I was sitting on a public platform, with a little under forty-eight hours to persuade her not to marry that insufferable idiot, Potter, before I could even begin to wonder whether she might then be persuaded to marry me.

When Granger left Hogwarts, after what Professor McGonagall refers to as The Events of That June, I did my best to forget about her, Potter and all the others in that year of school, who'd so antagonised me during their time there.

Granger was easy enough to put out of my mind; while I occasionally came across her name in academic journals, our disciplines had little in common, and headshots of her appeared only rarely in the mainstream wizarding media. Potter was difficult to forget; although he avoided publicity initially, he soon became accustomed to giving interviews, and to being photographed while walking down any street in the wizarding world. Weasley was even more difficult, since I spent the following year teaching his younger sister.

She came to me at the end of the first week of the autumn term, to say, rather inarticulately, that she didn't hold me responsible for what had happened to Ron. Since the blame for his death undoubtedly lay with me – even to the fact of putting the poison that finally killed him in the hands of his torturer – I didn't quite know how to respond; I said as little as possible, and ushered her out of my office as quickly as I could. Nevertheless, I watched her all year, observing the tiny frown lines that she'd acquired too early, and the abstract expression that occasionally crept over her face, and I thought about her brother's body, and the furious, hurt expression on Professor Dumbledore's face when it was returned to the school. Not to speak of the - understandably - extravagant grief of his mother. I wasn't fond of Weasley, but his death was not what I would have wished. He was not another Sirius Black.

After that year, though, the last of the Weasleys left school, and Ron's unfortunate fate faded from my mind. People became accustomed to Harry Potter, and to a life without fear, and began to get on with their lives. The Potters and their cohorts were no longer rammed down my throat in every conversation.

As for myself, I had a kind of fame, too. I was "brave Professor Snape", who'd worked for Dumbledore within the very heart of Voldemort's schemes, at great risk to my own life and (more importantly) reputation. In the aftermath of That June, Professor Dumbledore made it known that I'd saved many lives; indeed I had, but still, to have this publicly acknowledged came as a surprise to me. I was so used to playing my role as the dour and yes, I acknowledge, bitter Potions Master, that it took some time to adjust to the admiration.

I received a few visits from breathless women in their late twenties, who'd been terrified of me (and generally terrible at potions) during their years at Hogwarts. The first time, I was taken by surprise enough to allow the girl to seduce me. While the physical pleasure couldn't be denied, particularly since I'd almost forgotten the existence of that particular kind of release, I had no interest in her intellectually or emotionally, and as soon as I realised that she had designs not just on my body but on my life, I terminated our involvement. After that, I learned to be more circumspect with these quivering romantics, who believed that my cynical manner concealed a Mr Darcy screaming for release. Nevertheless, I had become reacquainted with my own body and its desires, a matter of some pleasure to me.

And so we carried on with our lives, until we reached the tenth anniversary of the death of Professor Dumbledore. A suggestion by Hermione Granger that we should celebrate the life of Dumbledore, rather than the overthrow of a person who was in truth just a very one-dimensional, embittered child, had been passed on to the Ministry via Arthur Weasley, and accepted eagerly by those with the authority to implement it. Annual celebrations were instigated, involving magical fireworks (much safer than the Muggle variety, incidentally), speeches, champagne and various musical renditions. I felt compelled to attend the first one, but had since managed to evade that particular torture. Nevertheless, as the tenth anniversary approached, I received a strongly-worded letter from no less than the Minister of Magic himself, insisting that my presence at this year's event was required.

Glancing through the programme that had been enclosed with the letter, I groaned at the thought of sitting through hours of poorly performed music and various interminable speeches, including one by the inestimable Harry Potter himself. At least the Minister of Magic had known better than to ask me to prepare an address of my own. However, glancing down through the small print, I noted that Minerva McGonagall (of course) would be speaking; also Arthur Weasley (good god), Madame Olympe Maxime and various other worthies. Hermione Granger, apparently, would be giving a short talk on Muggle relations. Remembering Granger's idea of a short essay, I judged that at least I could rely on getting in a nap at that stage of the proceedings. On second thoughts, however, her homework had never been dull, once she'd realised the pointlessness of scribbling down everything about a subject, no matter how irrelevant. Her speech would probably be the most interesting of the lot – not that that was saying much.

---

When the day arrived, I and the rest of the staff, along with a few allegedly well-behaved ornaments of each school house, marched solemnly along to the Three Broomsticks, where we travelled by Floo to the Leaky Cauldron. The Knight Bus had been commandeered for the day to relay people from here to Richmond Park, where the event was to take place. A little-used area of the park had been selected; it was also a weekday, so it had been a simple matter for the Ministry to place Muggle-repelling charms to keep curious Muggles at a safe distance, while guards in Muggle clothing had been placed at regular intervals around the perimeter. Since there were still several square miles for the general public to roam in, and since it was pouring with rain, the general feeling seemed to be that there was no need for further precautions.

Of course, it wasn't pouring with rain over the actual site, where weather staff were hard at work attracting watery sunshine, which shone hazily over the tarpaulined ground. We were among the last to arrive, and the place looked like nothing more than a Muggle festival I'd once stumbled across while walking in the Wiltshire countryside. People had brought picnic tables, and these were strewn with every kind of food imaginable, surrounded by replete, sleepy-looking witches and wizards.

As honoured guests, the Hogwarts contingent was seated on the stage. Professor McGonagall oversaw the seating of the students who had accompanied us, and then beckoned me over. I joined her readily, realising too late just who she'd been, apparently accidentally, concealing with her body when she moved aside, to reveal a slightly stunned looking Harry Potter, seated a mere three feet from the chair Minerva seemed to be proposing I take. Still, at least there would be someone sitting between us, I thought, as I carefully arranged my features in a bland expression.

"Er," said Potter.

"As expressive as ever," I thought.

"Professor Snape," said Potter, with a poor attempt at heartiness. "How are you?"

I sighed inwardly. Still, the boy was getting on for thirty, and no longer under my jurisdiction.

"Very well, thank you," I replied, making an effort to be civil. "And, er, how are you?" I finished, somewhat lamely, it must be admitted.

His features fell into a practised, professional grin. "I'm fine, thanks. The Cannons won the double a couple of weeks ago, you know - cup and league. I'm still coming down from that, really."

I cracked a gritty smile. Potter's confident expression wavered, and we stood in silence, nodding at one another and avoiding eye-contact for a few excruciating seconds, until Minerva intervened.

"So, Harry, how are the wedding plans coming along? Everything organised, I trust?"

Harry gave a relieved bark of laughter. "Oh, well, you know Hermione, Profess- Minerva. Once she sets her mind to things...we've had the entire thing organised for months, actually. You are coming along, aren't you?"

Minerva smiled at him indulgently. "Of course I am, Harry. Two of my star pupils - I wouldn't miss it if you paid me five hundred Galleons not to turn up!"

Potter grinned - a genuine smile this time. "Well, I assumed so. Hoped so, anyway - Hermione would've - we would've been really disappointed if you hadn't made it. But Hermione wanted her mum to manage the RSVPs, and so we don't actually know who's coming and who isn't."

I coughed. "Excuse me." I hesitated. "Am I to understand, er, Mr Potter, that you are getting married? To Hermione Granger?"

Potter nodded. "Yes. Um. I asked her at Christmas, and, well, she said yes, and there didn't seem to be any reason to wait, and so - the ceremony's in two days."

"Ah." I pulled myself together and attempted a pleasant smile. "Well, then, I offer you my congratulations."

"Thanks, sir." Potter really looked as if he meant this - the blithering fool. "Well…" he caught the eye of the Minister of Magic, who was moving purposefully towards the centre of the stage while shooting fierce glances in the direction of those who were mingling behind him, "I think we'd better sit down. It looks as if Peter wants to get things started."

I nodded an acknowledgement, and took my seat, with Minerva on my right. A couple of seconds later, I noticed a flushed Hermione Granger standing a few feet away, looking much the same as she had when she'd left Hogwarts, if slightly more groomed. She was having an animated conversation with the now retired Professor Flitwick, with whom she'd always been rather a favourite. At the sudden plethora of "shushes" echoing around the arena, she looked across at Harry, and her eyes widened as she took in my presence. She whispered a goodbye to Flitwick, and made her way over to take - of course - the seat between myself and Potter. She squeezed Potter's hand, and then turned to me.

"Professor Snape!" She smiled politely, and continued in an undertone. "How are you? We haven't heard anything of you in a while."

"Yes, well…" Again, I was at a loss for words. "I'm very well. And you?"

"I'm very well, thank you."

"I understand congratulations are in order?"

Her smile took on a fixed quality – perhaps she'd had to put up with rather a lot of congratulations over the past few months. "Yes, I suppose so, if you put it like that."

"Well, then," I said, "I offer you my congratulations."

She nodded politely, and we turned our attention to the front of the stage, where the Minister of Magic was making his preliminary remarks.

The performances and speeches were as uninspiring as I'd anticipated, and I was relieved when the interval arrived. Unfortunately, those of us who were seated on the stage were required to remain seated, while house-elves distributed drinks, which meant that I was forced to continue attempting polite conversation with Hermione Granger. We managed quite well for a few minutes, until she said something earnest about the house-elves who were serving us, at which point I was unable to refrain from exercising my talent for sarcasm.

"Yes, Miss Granger, I recall your unsuccessful little campaign during your schooldays to release the house-elves from serfdom. You still haven't realised, it seems, that they simply don't wish to be released."

Her eyes flashed. "I disagree. Dobby, for example, is very happy as a free being."

"Ah?" I leaned back in my chair. "And tell me, Miss Granger, what does Dobby do with his days, now that he has his freedom?"

She gave a wry smile. "Well, he helps Harry keep house – but he does that through choice, not compulsion. He will never be compelled again!"

The familiar Gryffindor fervour recalled to my mind every time she, or Potter or Weasley, had ever annoyed me. I controlled myself, however, and merely replied: "I see. So the free house-elf serves Harry Potter of his own free will, while the others serve their honourable old wizarding families because they do not wish to be free. I see no difference."

Her face instantly became a mask of sheer fury, and I recoiled slightly before continuing: "I should have thought that your experiments at school would have made it clear to you that you have fundamentally misunderstood the house-elf issue, Miss Granger." A little devil compelled me to add, "Or is it Ms Granger, these days?"

A fiery flash in her eyes told me that arrow had hit home, but she merely said, "Yes, actually. And I'm going to remain Ms Granger after the wedding, too, at least in my professional capacity. I see no reason to lose my identity or become simply an extension of my husband, even if he is still the most famous man in the wizarding world."

The reminder of Potter only served to infuriate me even more. "Well," I hissed at her furiously, watching a worried looking Potter make his way up to the front of the stage in preparation for his speech, "since you have such a high opinion of yourself, I'm amazed that you're even deigning to marry Potter!"

She went pale at this. "For your information," she said through gritted teeth, ignoring the pained look Potter shot her from the centre of the stage, "we both came to the conclusion that we weren't going to meet anyone else we would get on with as well, and so we thought, why not? We can settle down, have children, live in peace, and just get on with life, without being pestered by star-struck, lovelorn idiots."

I was stunned. Two of the most romantic, eligible figures in the wizarding world, and - "You think that's a good reason to get married?"

She opened her mouth to reply, and then shut it again as Minerva McGonagall leaned over, directing a severe glare at us both. "Sorry," she mouthed to Minerva instead, and subsided into her seat. I nodded my own apology – to Minerva – and attempted to concentrate on the speeches. The Minister of Magic having retired from the dais, Potter was now getting into his stride, his tone increasingly enthusiastic as he spoke of honour, truth and bravery in the face of evil. Good Gryffindor values, of course; and many of his empty aphorisms were followed by smatterings of applause from various sections of the audience.

I risked a glance at the woman on my left. Miss – no, Ms – Granger was staring at the floor, an expression of what I can only describe as horrified puzzlement on her face. As I watched her covertly, she began twisting her fingers in her lap, shooting unreadable looks at Potter and evidently quite unable to concentrate on his speech.

Belatedly, a memory came back to me, and I realised why she'd been so furious a few moments earlier. I thought of the teenage Hermione dashing from my classroom, hands failing to conceal front teeth that extended down to her chin, and felt a twinge of guilt. Still, that was how I'd treated all of my students; I'd made it my policy never to show favouritism. Except to Slytherins, of course, but I looked upon that as a means of counteracting the poor treatment Slytherin House received from the other teachers.

When Harry returned to his chair, it was Granger's turn; as I watched, she suddenly looked seventeen again, vulnerable, pale and childlike. Then she smoothed down her hair (to little effect), dusted off her robes, jutted out her chin and headed for the centre of the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began. "My name is Hermione Granger, and I am a Muggle-born witch."

There was a brief silence, before applause thundered from all parts of the crowd. On either side of me, Potter and Minerva clapped loudly, and I brought my own hands together reflexively. Smiling, Hermione watched her audience for a couple of minutes, before raising her hands for silence.

"Professor Albus Dumbledore, the man whose life we are celebrating today, believed passionately in equal rights for all wizards and witches, regardless of their origins, and for those species that coexist with us. He worked tirelessly to change attitudes and to give people like myself a fair chance in the wizarding world.

"Ten years ago, someone tried to kill me, and all those like me who are not of pure wizarding descent. He tried to persuade pure-blooded witches and wizards that they should be a race apart, untainted by Muggle genes. His name was Voldemort." She paused, looking around at the crowd, which was now listening in silence.

"But thousands of you," she gestured at the crowd, taking in every listener, and then turning to bring in those of us seated behind her, "Muggle-borns, pure-blooded witches and wizards and those of mixed blood, disagreed with Voldemort, and put your lives on the line. We fought together to defend the basic human rights of every witch and wizard." The smatterings of applause that had sounded throughout her speech crescendoed again, and once more she stopped to allow people to express their feelings.

"Since that time, the wizarding world has worked to ensure that the kind of attitudes that brought about the Wars of Voldemort, which claimed so many of our lives, and those of the Muggles among whom we live, could never prevail again." And having warmed up the crowd, she launched into the main part of her speech, beginning with a litany of the many Ministry initiatives to improve relations between Muggles and the wizarding world.

Seated behind her and slightly to one side, I had an excellent view of her mobile face, flushed with fervour as she faced her audience. I considered her opening cheap, but no more so than the entire offerings of those who had preceded her. And there was no doubt that her speech was delivered with more sincerity than any of the others had been. I watched her gain in confidence as she realised that the audience was hanging on her words, and use that assurance to stage-manage their responses. Remembering her awkward initial forays into race relations, which I'd so recently derided, I observed her indulgently as she gathered herself for the conclusion, which involved a call for universal justice and humanity that brought the crowd to its collective feet. Then she subsided, shy in the face of such overwhelming adulation. After a decent interval, she stumbled back to her place, to be embraced briefly by Potter, who looked genuinely enthusiastic for once, as the Minister of Magic took to the stage once more.

Beside me, I could feel her catching her breath as she recovered from what I belatedly realised had been an ordeal; glancing up, I noticed tears glistening in half-closed eyes, which she tried to conceal by rubbing repeatedly at her eyebrows. Her hair was rumpled, the parting awry, and I suppressed an impulse to take a few strands in my hand and gently push them over to the other side. Before I could begin to consider what this new tenderness meant, she looked across at me through her lashes, and a jolt shot through me. There was so much naked emotion there, directed for just a second at me, that for a moment I understood what it must be like to be a creature that Hermione Granger wished to help. I thought of the people she'd lost during the war – her father, boyfriend, close friends – not to speak of the amount of energy she'd expended worrying on Potter's behalf, and felt something – an affinity, kinship, perhaps – with her, born of shared experience.


The event wound up with another musical set. Through one muddy performance after another, I pondered the problem of how someone like Hermione Granger could come to marry Potter. Hermione, with her long dark hair framing her sensitive face, had an elusive beauty that in truth had nothing to do with traditional standards of attractiveness; it flickered and promised, rather than boasting or preening. Despite being a teen pin-up for the past fifteen years, Potter was certainly no beauty. Not that I had any pretensions as to my own qualifications in that department, either, I hasten to add.

Still, looks were unimportant. Hermione, however, was highly intelligent; she was by far the cleverest witch of her generation. Potter, on the other hand, had a good brain; but he'd repeatedly shown himself to be woolly-minded in the extreme during my classes.

Hermione talked; Potter was monosyllabic. I couldn't repress some sympathy for him in this respect; still, I had a suspicion that I could find plenty to say to the little minx, and it wouldn't all be about Muggle relations, either…

I sat up with a jolt, jostling Minerva, who frowned at me. I was in no state to respond, however. I'd spent the past twenty minutes or so thinking – no, daydreaming – about the woman I'd come to regard as one third of my personal nemesis during her schooldays. Daydreaming, and stealing glances at her out of the corner of my eye, drinking in her lovely hair, and wondering how she – oh, god. She was getting married in two days – to Potter. It had taken me nearly thirty years to find another woman whom I thought could be my equal, intellectually and emotionally; and now the object of my infatuation was marrying James Potter's son. In two days' time. My lips twisted in acknowledgement of the irony.

Hermione – oh, those four lovely syllables – chose that moment to glance up at me again and caught the full brunt of my sour expression. I hastily attempted to rearrange my features for her benefit, but she merely looked away, fingers fidgeting on her thighs.

Her troubled air reminded me of her furious explanation as to why she was marrying Potter, and I wondered how much of it had been true. Quite a lot, judging by her look of shock and – had that been enlightenment? – immediately after the outburst. All right, then. If she was really marrying Potter for such nebulous reasons, then I was going to do my damndest to talk her out of it. Somehow. Somewhere. I had no clear idea as to how this would be achieved, but I resolved to try.

A burst of applause sounded, and I joined in automatically, acutely aware of the woman on my left as she shuffled in her seat while clapping politely. The Minister of Magic strode off the stage to the left, indicating that the main event of the day was over.

---

Much like a wedding, however, the party had only just begun for the privileged few. The Hogwarts representatives, including the variously overexcited and terrified students, were ushered into a large, candlelit marquee, where tables had been elaborately laid in preparation for a feast worthy of Hogwarts – unsurprising, since our team of house-elves had been commandeered for the occasion.

I secured a vantage point along a side table, from which I could be sure of intimidating the more bumptious of our students if necessary. The other teachers arranged themselves at regular intervals among the students, and I settled down to enjoy the meal and chaperone my pupils, glad of the respite from the uncomfortable presences of Potter and Granger.

During the various courses, my thoughts turned regularly to the newfound object of my affections, and I began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. Ms Granger was attractive, there was no doubt about it, but she was also bumptious, irritating and infuriatingly intellectual. In addition, I was fantasising about a woman who was over twenty years my junior – who was, in fact, the best friend of the son of my exact contemporary. And my sworn enemy; I felt my blood pressure rising at the mere thought. I wondered guiltily how she would feel if she knew her old professor was thinking about her in that way, and doubt upon doubt crept over me.

By the end of the meal, I had convinced myself that what I felt for Hermione Granger was nothing but transitory lust, which could easily be satisfied in other ways. I resolved not to think any more about her and Potter, or about their impending marriage.

The house-elves appeared briefly to Banish the tables and chairs to the edges of the marquee, leaving a broad swathe of floor free for dancing and conversation. Minerva and I escorted the children back to Hogwarts using a Portkey and then returned by way of Hogsmeade, to find the house-elves circulating amongst the crowd of guests, offering champagne to all and sundry. I accepted a glass – I have always appreciated a good bottle of Bollinger – and retired to the periphery of the marquee to observe the other guests.

The wine was excellent, and I took several more glasses during the next couple of hours. Professor Flitwick kept me company for a short while, before leaving in pursuit of an old research partner whom he'd spotted across the room. Various others replaced him, including an already inebriated Asian girl whom I recognised as a contemporary of Potter, Weasley and Granger. Padma Somebody, that was her name. She'd had a twin sister, I recalled, who'd been one of Voldemort's first victims during the Second War; something about having relations with Muggle-borns. Clearly, the wizarding world had been as inefficient as ever in helping people to cope with their emotional problems. Feeling a certain amount of compassion for the girl – woman, I suppose – I managed to hand her over to an unsuspecting ex-Hufflepuff without hurting her feelings too badly.

I breathed a sigh of relief, which was cut short as I turned to find Hermione Granger bearing down on me, a determined expression on her face.

"Professor," she began. Reflexively, I held up my hand.

"Please, Ms Granger," I said. "You may call me Severus, now. It's not as if you're a schoolgirl any longer."

She stared at me. "Well, all right, then, er," she took a deep breath, "Severus. I – I…" Her momentum apparently lost, she began again. "Well, I just wanted to tell you that I didn't exactly mean what I said during the performance. About why Harry and I are getting married. I mean, that is part of it, to be quite fair, but, you know, obviously we love each other, and everything, and…er…would you like to come to the wedding?"

Taken aback at the unexpected conclusion to this speech, I permitted myself an acid smile. "Ms Granger, while I appreciate your invitation, I'm sure that if you'd really wanted me to celebrate your marriage, you would have put me on the invitation list several months ago – along with the rest of the Hogwarts staff, I imagine." I took a sip of wine, wondering how nobody had chanced to mention the forthcoming wedding to me before today. But then, everyone knew I had no love for Potter and Granger: perhaps they'd thought it best to remain silent on the matter.

Hermione looked indignant. "To be perfectly honest, we did talk about it – for quite a long time, actually – but we decided, it was Harry, in fact, that since you obviously preferred to keep your distance, despite everything we all went through together ten years ago, it would be best if we left you to it. To whatever you wanted from life now. And," she added, gaining momentum, "you can't tell me to call you 'Severus' and then carry on referring to me as 'Ms' or 'Miss Granger', you know. My name is Hermione. I bet you still think of Harry as 'Potter', don't you?"

I didn't deign to respond to this, and so she continued, gesturing with the hand holding her wine, so that it slopped dangerously in the glass. "Look, Severus, I know you've always disliked us, and especially Harry; he's never said exactly why, but I gather he thinks you had good reason to dislike his father, although personally, since I understand that all the bad stuff happened while you were at school together, I think it's a little harsh, and even childish, actually, to hold a grudge so lovingly for this long, and to transfer said grudge to his son, who didn't even know who you were when you started persecuting him at school; yes, I remember that first Potions lesson, even if you don't…" She ran down, and took a sip of wine before resuming. "Anyway, what I started to say was that, well, I understand that you might not feel comfortable around us, after all the things that happened while we were at school, but that I – and Harry, we've talked about this quite a lot – really appreciate the work you did against Voldemort, and we feel that this, sort of…cancels out the way you treated us at school. And we – I – would like to think that you might feel the same about the way we treated you." She lifted earnest eyes to meet my own, and dropped them again, apparently not reassured by what she saw there.

I was silent for a few seconds, revolving her muddled speech in my mind. Various responses occurred to me, along the lines of, "How dare you presume to tell me that holding a schoolboy grudge is childish when you have no idea of the reasons behind that grudge!" or "How dare you 'forgive' me for the way I treated you!" or "So, the great Potter and Granger wish to make peace with me? How very righteous of you." (oh, that one would have been satisfying!). As I opened my mouth to take a breath before launching into a tirade, I caught sight of her expression: it was so hopeful, but braced for my rebuttal, and suddenly I couldn't do it. Life had been too pleasant during the past ten years; I'd grown soft, and no longer yearned to humiliate her, or even Potter.

"Hermione," I said, and she jumped slightly, but then moved closer, waiting for my next words. Personally, I wasn't quite sure how to proceed, now that I'd finally uttered those beautiful syllables. Such a lovely name; why hadn't I ever noticed that before? You could have your Juliets, your Rosalinds and your Cordelias – give me Hermione any day of the week.

Taking a deep breath, I forced my mind back onto the subject at hand. "I'm – not – friendship does not come easily to me. As Minerva McGonagall will tell you."

Hermione relaxed visibly. "She has, actually. In fact," she screwed up her face with the effort of recall, "she said that you'd lived with bitterness for so long, it was almost more embarrassing for you to stop being bitter than it was difficult for you to be happy."

I blinked. "You've been talking to Minerva? About me?" My god! Damn gossiping women! What did they say? What on earth had Minerva told her?

Hermione smiled; it was one of those infuriating smiles that women so often wear after they've just returned in pairs from the ladies' toilets; an expression that says, "We know. We have pooled our experiences, and we understand far too much about you."

"Well," she said, "I know Minerva always felt, sort of, responsible for you since Dumbledore – died, and so we asked her advice. About inviting you to the wedding."

"Ah." I considered this. "And she said you shouldn't?"

"Yes. Actually, she said that perhaps the best thing for us to do was simply leave you in peace." Hermione hesitated. "But, Professor – Severus – I really do appreciate everything you did against Voldemort. I mean, you were amazing, and so brave – it must have been terrifying wondering whether you were going to be betrayed at any given time, or whether Voldemort was simply stringing you along. And it seems such a shame for you to hide yourself away, when you were a true hero!"

At this, the bitterness returned. "Let me be honest, Hermione," – there was that word again, but I dealt with it more calmly this time – "I was in no shape or form a hero. The work I did was sordid, unpleasant, borne out of loyalty to Dumbledore and to myself; and at times, it was necessary to betray good – I won't say innocent, because nobody is innocent, but inherently good – people, in order to maintain my cover. I certainly wasn't brave or honourable!"

"Oh, but no, you don't understand!" she responded, reminding me painfully of the innocent twelve-year-old she'd once been. "I know about all that – but it had to be done. We all did things that we wish we hadn't had to, around that time. All of us!"

And do you know that Ron Weasley was one of those I was forced to betray, dear Hermione? Your boyfriend, the young man about whom you were so heartbroken that, as you stood over the injured Lucius Malfoy, the only person you killed during the late war (you were usually so admirably restrained; most of your victims were merely bound and passed to the Wizengamot for trial), you dedicated his death to your lost love. Do you know that I watched, as they tortured him? That the best I could do for him, finally, was to make sure that Malfoy overdosed him on the potion, to kill him after he'd suffered only a few hours, so that they couldn't make use of his body as they'd intended? Do you know this, Hermione?

I said slowly, "You killed Lucius Malfoy."

Her mouth hardened. "Yes." She nodded as if to confirm this to herself. "I did. I wish I hadn't; at the time, I thought he deserved it. He probably did. But I still wish I hadn't done it."

"Then," I said, as gently as I could, "you should realise that I also did things I cannot forgive myself for during those times. And that is why I don't accept that I'm a hero."

She gazed at me seriously for a long moment, and then nodded again. "I do understand," she said. "But, what I'm trying to say is, if you look at it that way, we're all guilty. And yet we – Harry and I, especially – are held up to the wizarding world as examples, beacons, almost. We try to live up to our reputations, but obviously we're never going to manage it. The Harry and Hermione propagated by the media – they're not real. We – we're all just pretending, really."

We stared at each other in mutual misery for a few seconds, until someone coughed behind me.

"Hermione! Professor!" I whirled around guiltily to behold Potter – Harry – gingerly holding three full glasses of wine, his expression obviously an attempt at cheeriness.

Hermione jumped, too, I noticed. "Oh, thanks, Harry!" She took one of the glasses, and favoured him with a warm smile, but seemed unable to think of anything constructive to say.

It fell to Harry to break the silence. "You, er, you two have been looking very serious for a while. I thought I'd come and see if I could cheer you up." He looked anxiously at Hermione, and she smiled back at him reassuringly, as if to say, "I'm all right, and the big bad wolf hasn't been huffing and puffing at me." Aloud, she said:

"Yes, well, we were talking over old times. And I was trying to persuade Severus to come to our wedding, after all."

"Ah." Harry turned to me. "And, will you, Sir?"

"Severus, please," I said unwillingly. "I – haven't quite decided yet. Perhaps…"

"Well, you'd be very welcome. Honestly." He looked as if he meant it, too, the irritating berk.

Hermione took charge. "If you'd like to come, the reception is going to be at Dunstanburgh Castle – it's one of those places that all the Muggles think is a ruin, you know; they're all over Northumberland, but actually it's lovely inside. It starts at two, and you can just turn up – there's no need to bring an invitation, or anything."

I couldn't resist retorting, "A good thing, since I haven't actually received one," which she took relatively well, merely raising her eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"Harree!" A piercing squeal made all three of us jump, and a young woman – girl, really – dressed in a bright orange Quidditch top and a very short Muggle skirt bounded into our midst and wrapped her arms around Potter, whose face took on a glazed, slightly sheepish look.

"Teresa!" Potter said, disentangling himself. "I didn't realise you were going to be here."

Short blonde curls bounced as the apparition nodded.

"It's great, isn't it! I thought I had no chance, but my Uncle Lewis wangled me an invite, so here I am! Wow, it's great to see you! Come and meet my friend Imelda – she's dying to be introduced!"

"Hi, Hermione, Professor Snape," she added as she hooked her arm through Potter's, and began manoeuvring him away.

Hermione nodded wryly at the girl. Harry gave her an apologetic look, which he just about extended to include me, and then allowed himself to be pulled away.

"Did I recognise that young woman?" I inquired.

Hermione laughed rather hollowly.

"I suppose so," she said. "She must've left Hogwarts about three years ago.

"Hmm," I said. The girl's face had looked vaguely familiar, but I wasn't interested enough to waste time considering who she might be.

"He gets that a lot," Hermione added. "I suppose I'll have to get used to it – half of those girls think I'm the devil, and the other half want to be me. At least I know Harry never looks at them twice," she added more quietly. "I mean, he's barely interested in me that way – I know he's not attracted to anyone else." Her voice trailed off as she stared broodingly at her wine glass.

Suddenly, the idea of attending the wedding of these two people, so patently mismatched, was unbearable. For Hermione – intelligent, thoughtful, kind and, yes, even beautiful, to me – for lovely Hermione, to be throwing herself away on solid, boring, broomstick-for-brains Potter felt as if it would be the worst thing in the world to happen.

"Hermione," I said impulsively, "please remind me again why you're marrying Potter?"

She looked at me guiltily. "It's – we've both been so lonely, you know? For so long. I always kind of thought Harry and Ginny would get together eventually, but they never did, and now Ginny's in New Zealand, and I was honestly starting to think I'd never meet anyone who would truly help me get over Ron." Tears started in her eyes at this admission, and she took a large gulp of wine. "And so, when Harry asked me, I just thought, why not? We've been friends for so long…there wasn't exactly any courtship involved; it was almost more of a business proposition than anything else, but it just seemed that at least it would take away the problem of having to find a husband, someone to have children with. I can see Harry being a great dad, and we're friends – that's the important part."

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't accustomed to this kind of frank exchange, but I felt I had to try and do something. Hermione was patently miserable, and I knew for a fact that she'd still be miserable after she'd married Potter, no matter how many children they spawned to distract themselves.

"Hermione, you're twenty-nine. Your life isn't even a third over." She looked up at that, and I forged on, encouraged. "I fail to see how, at your age, you can justify agreeing to share the rest of your life with someone because you're friends. I, for one, am almost fifty, and I certainly do not think that my life is over or that I will never again meet anyone I would like to share it with."

Hermione looked as if an idea had occurred to her; she opened her mouth, but then appeared to think better of whatever she'd been about to say, and took a demure sip of wine instead.

I was starting to feel slightly light-headed from all the wine I'd drunk. I remembered a time thirty years ago when a pretty Muggle-born girl had tried to befriend me, and I'd pushed her away, already entrenched in my bitterness and hatred for anything in the world that was bright and happy. Suddenly, I (or perhaps it was the wine) decided that this was not going to happen again, or at least, not without me making a damn good attempt to put things right.

"Hermione," I said tentatively, and then stopped.

"Severus?" She smiled, her brows raised in enquiry. What a difference a few hours can make, I thought. If I had been told at lunchtime that I would be spending the evening sitting in a corner swapping confidences with Hermione Granger, I would have shrugged and said that someone must have been indulging in illegal potions. Well, alcohol wasn't illegal, but perhaps it had a similar effect. I took courage.

"There is…there is another alternative to marrying Potter - Harry - if you're interested."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Go on."

The humiliation of what I was about to say loomed so large above me that I actually shut my eyes for a few seconds. Then I opened them again and met her eyes.

"You could…come and see me. Sometimes. We could do things – not sex, I don't mean sex," I corrected hurriedly, as her brows rose even higher. "I mean, we could…" I gave up. "Hermione, I would like to see you again. I don't say I'm in love with you; that would be ridiculous on so short a reacquaintance, but I think that love could be a possible outcome of our relationship. Possibly," I qualified again.

"Love," she repeated. She was no longer looking at me, and this somehow gave me the courage to press my point.

"You and I – we've both known pain, and suffering; we've lost loved ones. I feel that we – we have an affinity."

That was it. I had to stop this verbiage now. I selected the only means to hand, downed the rest of my drink, and kept my mouth firmly shut on it.

Hermione stared at her glass, while I contemplated possible escape routes and means of ensuring that I never had to see her again. I hadn't come up with anything better than fleeing to Australia, however, when she spoke.

"I won't say I'm not interested," she said slowly. Suddenly her head darted up again, and I saw a fire in her eyes that hadn't been present all day. "Because – amazed as I am to be saying this – I agree with you that we've made some kind of connection this evening."

My arm reached out towards her, almost of its own volition (I certainly didn't mean to try and maul her), and she stepped back.

"But, you know," she continued, "you must be aware that this would be a terrible time for me to change my mind. I mean, the wedding's in two days! The entire wizarding press is in a frenzy about Harry and I – it's ridiculous, obviously, but still…if I call off the wedding, I'll always be The Woman Who Broke Harry Potter's Heart. People will hate me!"

She looked lost and terrified, the way she had just before she'd given her speech earlier. I resisted the temptation to sweep her into my arms and make her forget about the rest of the world. Instead, I steeled myself.

"Hermione." I swallowed. "There is another thing you should know, before you make your decision."

She looked at me questioningly. I took a deep breath.

"Your friend, Ron. Your boyfriend. You see, when I mentioned earlier this evening that I'd been forced to betray people to maintain my cover – he was one of those people, I'm afraid."

Her face had gone stiff, the way it used to at school when I was insulting a Gryffindor student.

"Tell me," she said.

And so I did. How Malfoy had brought Ron to the ceremony, thanks to a hint from his son. How Ron had been tortured. How Voldemort had intended to use Ron's body to lure Harry Potter out of hiding. Exactly what they'd intended to do with his body. How I'd thwarted their purpose using the potion. When I'd finished, I twisted my hands around my wine glass, wishing I had a full glass to sip, and waited for her reaction.

She was silent for a long time. Around us, people circulated and chattered, but nobody seemed inclined to interrupt us. Really, I reflected, it was a wonder we'd been left alone for so long. Perhaps we looked too serious to be good company; certainly, the vast majority of the guests seemed bent on having a raucous evening.

Hermione took a couple of deep breaths, as if she was about to start speaking, but didn't say anything. I was thinking longingly of Australia again by the time she finally looked up, and I saw tears in her eyes. Again, she took a breath, and this time I realised that she was rehearsing her words before uttering them aloud.

"You were right," she said. Her voice wavered dangerously, but she carried on. "You were completely right to do what you did. It was horrible – oh, god, it must've been horrendous – for Ron, but you had to do it." The tears began to escape her eyes, and she swiped at them angrily with the back of her free hand, turning towards the corner to hide her face from a rowdy group of wizards sitting a few feet away from us.

"And Ron would have wanted you to do it that way!" She was crying openly now, and this time I did put my hand on her arm, looking furtively around for a possible route by which we could escape the crowds while she recovered. She continued: "He knew what was at stake; we all did. He wouldn't have wanted you to risk your cover to save him."

I decided against pointing out that, in my experience, anyone being tortured eventually forgets all their principles and loyalties. She probably knew that; she wasn't stupid. I also refrained, rather nobly, I thought, from pointing out that I had indeed risked my cover by doctoring the potion that had been administered to Weasley. Instead I said, "Would you like to go somewhere more private?" Realising how it might sound, I then hoped desperately that she wouldn't misinterpret my intentions. If she would be misinterpreting them; I was no longer sure of anything, where she was concerned.

Hermione shook her head – which incidentally set her hair floating about her shoulders in a style reminiscent of a Waterhouse nymph, or so my intoxicated inner voice described it to me – and wiped away more tears. "No, I'm fine, honestly," she said, although she patently wasn't. "It's just – it's a long time since I've really talked about Ron, or even thought properly about what he must've gone through. You – I kind of file things away in my memory, you know, and then try not to think about them again."

I nodded, recognising the behaviour. The silence stretched between us as Hermione briskly located a tissue and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. While she took more deep breaths, and cleared her throat several times, I became very aware that my hand was still resting on her arm. I wondered how it would feel to caress that arm; to move my hand up to her shoulder and neck; to trace her lips with my fingers and kiss the tears from those eyes. Firmly, I reminded myself that the woman's fiancé was somewhere in the vicinity; he might even be loitering close by right now, wondering why Hermione was crying and what I'd done to her, and why I had my hand on her arm.

Reluctantly, I withdrew my arm, and she looked up again.

"Hermione," I began, and then found myself lost for words. Her hair was full of static, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were red and she was sniffing after her bout of weeping. As far as I was concerned, she looked utterly enticing.

Hermione smiled weakly and fumbled in her handbag before extracting some kind of make-up compact that she proceeded to dab over her face.

"I'm alright," she said, " really. But I should find Harry – it's late, and goodness knows what he thinks we've been talking about all this time."

She stood up, making rather an issue of patting her hair and smoothing down her dress – to avoid having to meet my eyes, I thought. Lifting her robes in one hand, she made to walk around me; helplessly, I caught her arm again, and she gazed straight up into my face. I have no idea what she saw, or thought she saw, but her eyes widened, her lips parted and she reached out a hand towards my face, withdrawing it before it came too close to look incriminating to observers. I felt as if every molecule of air between us was tangible, from the tops of our heads to our shoe soles.

It was over in an instant; Hermione disengaged her arm gently, and began looking around her, presumably in search of Potter.

"Goodbye, Severus," she said. She looked back at me for a moment. "I'll – I will think about what you've said."

And she was gone.

---

I awoke the next morning with a headache and a dull suspicion that I had done something terrible. This was confirmed an instant later as the memory of the previous evening came back to me; I rolled over and buried my head in the pillow, but it wouldn't go away. Eventually, I had to acknowledge that I would need to get out of bed to answer the call of nature – and that, while I was about it, I might as well see whether I could put together any kind of potion that would get rid of the hammer that was beating arrhythmically against the inside of my temples.

Hangover potions abound in the wizarding world, but unfortunately they are not known for their shelf-life. I understand that Muggles have concluded that there is no cure for a hangover. This is not the case in our world; nevertheless, the very fact that one is generally required to concoct the hangover potion while hungover means that these potions are generally about as effective as the Muggle "remedies".

I fumbled some ingredients into a cauldron, approximating the measurements, and left them to simmer while I saw to my morning ablutions. When I returned, the concoction was almost ready, and I added the final ingredients before taking a preliminary sip. Establishing as far as my ruined taste buds would allow that the potion tasted at least vaguely correct, I downed it in one gulp and then proceeded to the Great Hall, hoping it would take effect shortly.

Unfortunately, the only effect of the potion proved to be an emetic one, and I was forced to exit the Hall in an untimely fashion and go in search of the nearest bathroom.

Somehow, I made it through the day without embarrassing myself further. I also managed to avoid Minerva, whom I suspected would be keen to dissect yesterday's events if I allowed myself to be caught by her, and curious as to whether I would, after all, be attending the wedding of the century. Eager to maintain my privacy, I retired to my rooms immediately after dinner, and settled down with a book, sipping extremely slowly at a bottle of Butterbeer and thinking longingly of tomorrow, when I would hopefully wake up without a pounding head and growling stomach.

Tomorrow, however, Hermione would in all probability be marrying Potter. I contemplated a world in which this happened, and felt a chill that had nothing to do with my fatigue. I thought back over the past ten years, during which life had been so gentle and undemanding. Having barely survived the previous twenty, one would have thought I would be desperate to make something of my what remained of my life. But the last few years suddenly seemed arid and depressing. I knew I was being sentimental, but the idea of carrying on with my life without a Hermione to talk to, argue with and, ideally, give earth-shattering orgasms to suddenly felt very bleak. My imagination was stimulated by the idea of Hermione having an earth-shattering orgasm; I lost myself in fantasy for a few moments, until I was disturbed by a cough emanating from the direction of the fireplace.

Very grateful for the fact that my chair wasn't facing the fire, I turned around slowly.

Hermione's head was sitting in the fire. "Severus?" she said timidly.

---

The weather the following afternoon was beautiful – a perfect June day. It would be, I thought. The sun wouldn't dare not shine for the golden couple.

A crowd had gathered in a field beside Dunstanburgh Castle, which loomed over the Northumbrian coastline. I was standing on what appeared to be a well-trodden path, and I trusted that the appropriate measures had been taken to discourage Muggles from visiting the area. I'd arrived with Minerva, but had managed to lose her very quickly to Molly Weasley who, as usual, seemed to have a lot of gossip to impart. Now I was waiting, along with the rest of the expectant crowd, for the happy couple to emerge from their private ceremony and launch the festivities.

I'd been here for an hour already; Minerva had been keen to ensure that we arrived on time (although how we could possibly arrive late, since we were Apparating, I was unsure). We'd arrived early enough to watch Hermione and her fiancé walk into the castle, hand in hand, followed by Remus Lupin and a tall woman with dark hair whom I presumed was Hermione's mother. I'd therefore had plenty of time to imagine them making their vows to one another, and smiling into each other's eyes, trying to appear eager in order to camouflage their doubts.

Finally, there was a disturbance inside the entrance to the castle, and Hermione emerged, arm in arm with Potter. Hermione was dressed in a long Muggle gown; her hair was up, and she looked radiant. She and Potter shot conspirational glances at one another as they moved to meet their guests.

The crowd clapped and cheered for several minutes; Hermione and Potter grinned and then began to look increasingly sheepish until the noise died down. I willed the guests to be silent, wishing that this little charade could be over with as soon as possible.

Potter cleared his throat. It occurred to me that it was strange, after so many years in the limelight, that he still looked uncomfortable, but it didn't matter, because when he began to speak, the hush was instantaneous.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" He smiled around at the assembled guests. "Hermione and I would like to thank you all for coming here today. It's lovely to see everyone, and we hope you'll have a great day, as we intend to do. I'd also like to extend a special thank you to Hermione's mum, Jane Granger, who's put so much effort into organising this, in consultation with Remus Lupin." He waved an arm towards a couple standing off to the side, a few metres away, and the crowd clapped appreciatively. Mrs Granger's eyes were bright as she smiled at her daughter; Lupin just looked slightly baffled by all the euphoria.

Hermione squeezed Potter's hand; he smiled at her and continued. "As you know, we came here today to get married." Cue cheers from the crowd. Potter pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. "We did this because we loved each other very much as friends; we've been friends for so long, and been through so much together, that we thought maybe we were being stupid looking around for some kind of mythical true love. Maybe the person we were looking for had been right beside us for almost twenty years. We thought. And so we decided to get married."

That had shut people up. A flicker of hope flared somewhere in the region of my stomach.

"But we overlooked something vital in our relationship," Potter continued. "We love each other, but we're not in love. There's no spark there, nothing that excites us about being together romantically. Essentially, we'd both decided to just settle for something that seemed to be enough."

"It wouldn't have been, though. And luckily, we realised this in time, before anything irreversible could take place, accusations could be thrown or, or even children created."

Murmurs broke out at this. I caught sight of Molly Weasley wiping away tears, a few feet in front of me. Beside her, Ginny Weasley, tall and willowy in a pale green dress, gazed attentively at Potter.

"And so," said Potter slowly, "we decided last night that it would be best not to get married."

The murmuring grew louder; people began turning to one another openly with shocked exclamations.

"Therefore, this is no longer a wedding celebration. However," he held up a hand in an attempt to silence the crowd, and it worked, to some extent; the noise died down enough for him to be heard. "However," he reiterated, "we would still like to celebrate something today. We'd like to celebrate the fact that all of you," he gestured extravagantly with his arm, knocking Hermione quite hard on the shoulder in the process, and then gazed at her vaguely in apology before continuing, "came here to wish us well, and to be with us today. And so we'd like to ask you to continue celebrating with us, just for the hell of it. You've all been invited because you're special to us – well," he looked wryly over to a corner where cameras were flashing madly, "not quite all of you, but almost. So, please, stay; you all look wonderful, and I'm so pleased Hermione insisted on Muggle dress for the women, because you look gorgeous, all of you! Stay and have a drink with us, and celebrate the fact that we're here to enjoy ourselves. Now," he smiled at Hermione, "I give you, not my wife – my un-wife, in fact – but truly my best friend – Hermione!"

Amid scattered applause, Hermione flashed Potter a blinding smile and then stepped forward, cheeks flushed. "I'll keep this short. I just want to emphasise that this is a joint decision. We talked long and hard about it yesterday – I do realise that we left things terribly late – and we've both agreed that this is what makes us happy. So, we're very happy being unmarried, and we hope you'll be happy for us, too!"

She stepped down and into the arms of her waiting mother to hide her face for a few moments, emerging suspiciously bright-eyed but smiling. Meanwhile, Harry began gesturing people inside to what turned out to be a rather luxurious ballroom.

I spent the next few hours talking gibberish to anyone who attempted to make conversation with me. After a while, I grew tired of even pretending to be sociable, and concentrated on scowling ferociously at anyone who looked as if they might be contemplating an approach. It had the desired effect, and I soon acquired a pleasing amount of personal space. I took the precaution of lurking in an alcove, which allowed me make myself almost invisible should I feel the need.

Over the course of several hours, I watched Hermione work her way towards me, talking patiently to each guest who crossed her path. Finally, as the low sun turned the ornate windows punctuating the wall opposite me a dusky red, she reached my alcove and leaned inside, a questioning smile on her face.

"What have you been doing to scare people off like this?"

"The usual," I replied airily. "Frowning, sneering, being sarcastic. If all else failed, I was simply rude."

She grinned, the first genuinely happy expression I'd seen on her face either today or at Dumbledore's memorial.

"So," I said, feeling foolish. "You're not married."

"No," she answered, and took a step towards me.

The two metres of air that separated us seemed to thicken with desire. However, I resisted the temptation to carry her off to somewhere private and then ravish her. "You do realise," I said, as severely as I could, "that those speeches of yours earlier were disgustingly sentimental."

Hermione looked up at me through her lashes. "I thought you'd like them." She moved towards me again, and added, "I remember the Yule Ball, in our fourth year at Hogwarts. You spent most of the evening blasting bushes apart, and rooting out people who'd gone off looking for a little privacy."

And then she was there, within touching distance, and all thoughts of rebuking her for sentimentalism disappeared. I glanced around, but there were people everywhere, although nobody seemed to be paying us particular attention.

"Bushes?" I echoed, frantically trying to think of a witty response.

"Er," said Hermione, and then stopped. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her eyes were dancing, although she looked nervous. She took an unsteady breath. "I have a headache. Do you – could you possibly take me somewhere private for a few minutes?"

I gaped at her. "Er, ah, we can't very well go to my apartments if you're not feeling well; we'd have to Apparate to Hogsmeade and walk from there..."

"I have a Portkey here," she said, fumbling in her handbag and bringing out a biro, "that'll take us to my flat."

I raised an eyebrow. "Do you, er, always bring Portkeys to weddings?"

"Only when I feel it might be necessary." She sounded slightly breathless, and finally I understood what she was trying to do.

"I shall be pleased to accompany you," I said with what dignity I could muster.

She smiled up at me, and held out the biro. "We can't stay too long," she said. "But I think an hour or so away from all of this noise will help my headache."

"I – I wouldn't object to taking a break from all these people," I admitted.

I took her hand, and the biro with it, and the world dissolved around us.