Somebody Else's Wedding

At 6.55 Hermione Granger woke up in a hotel bedroom with a splitting headache and a dry mouth, which told her that she might have overdone it slightly on the drowning of sorrows front. Something she’d promised herself to keep to an absolute minimum until the whole appalling experience was over.

It couldn’t have been more than one bottle of wine though because she dragged herself upright and had actually made it to the shower before the wake-up-call. She answered it dripping wet, her towel clumsily wrapped. After the recorded message shut off she replaced the receiver with care. It was that or hurl the whole blasted contraption to the floor.

“Pull yourself together, Granger. One of your oldest friends is getting married. And whatever your personal feelings about it Harry actually seems to have fallen in love. The fact that you had a brief,” she paused to select the precise word, “fling with him three years ago is neither here nor there.” It sounded pretty convincing. “And the fact that Harry took up with him immediately afterward.” At least Harry said it had been afterward, and she’d insisted on believing him. “Was absolutely no reflection on you. It was just unfortunate timing that could have happened to anyone.” This didn’t sound quite as good, and she thought she might have caught the very slightest tremor in her lip, so she took a deep breath before the finale. “I’m sure Harry and Draco will be very happy together. And I’m happy for them.”

She fixed herself with the blazing glare that brooked no argument before swallowing three aspirin and getting dressed. By the time she stepped out of the hotel Hermione Granger was confident that she was the very picture of the happy, self-possessed bridesmaid.

To prove it she bought a copy of the Daily Prophet with her coffee. The story – complete with a saccharine picture of the happy couple – was above the fold:

Wedding Bells for Potter and Malfoy

Some are calling it the social event of the year, some say the century. Whatever they say, anyone who’s anyone will be at the wedding of Harry Potter (AKA The Boy Who Lived) and Draco Malfoy.

After that there was a lot of guff about Malfoy’s surprise defection from the late, but unlamented Voldemort – apparently aided and abetted by Prof. Severus Snape – his subsequent career with the Order; Harry’s numerous heroics and their whirlwind romance. For more details see pages 3, 4, 5, 6, & 7.

She set the paper down with a sigh, inadvertently exposing the story below the fold, which made her spit coffee over most of it. The picture – a good quarter of the front page – was of a gondola, presumably in its native habitat of Venice. What was newsworthy about it was the couple entwined on the seat, unruly red mop mingling with sleek blond tresses.

“Ron?” she asked. His photo couldn’t answer, of course, and he had his back to the camera so she had to read the headline to confirm what she already knew. By the time she’d done that he’d drawn back – from what could only be described as a snog – for her to recognise Fleur Delacour. For one moment she caught the full force of Fleur’s wide smile – raw excitement and joy. Then the photo looped back to the beginning, and she saw the light gleam off the ring on her finger (and that had to have been magically enhanced in the Prophet’s dark rooms).

She took a long deep breath and let it out again. Then she read the rest of the story to make sure.

“All right, Granger, I stand corrected, both of your oldest friends are getting married.”

The Ministry – the only building that could be found large enough to accommodate the guest list – was in the expected state of bedlam. She showed her invitation to a grim faced Auror, who was conspicuously failing to enter into to spirit of the occasion. After that she ricocheted off two work colleagues and innumerable strangers before making it to Harry’s dressing room.

“Are you decent?” she asked through the door, but didn’t bother waiting for a response. The dressing room – like any room containing Harry and his clothes – looked like it had been hit with a particularly nasty hex. Harry was in front of the mirror, which was attempting to talk him through tying the cravat that was the final touch to his formal robes. From the mirror’s patient yet desperate tones it wasn’t their first attempt.

“Now you bring the short end round again, under the long end then use your left hand to…”

“Hermione, you’re here!” Harry dropped both ends in favour of grabbing her in a bear hug and swinging her around twice. Somewhere off to the side she thought she heard the mirror swear. She punched him lightly on the arm.

“As if I’d miss this. Even if you are being broadcast live over the Wizarding Wireless Network – who’d keep you from going out in public looking like you can’t dress yourself?”

He spread his arms wide in a sheepish shrug, two parts charm to one part self-deprecation.

“It’ll be our little secret.” Her hands worked quickly at his neck – how anyone could make such a meal out of right over left, up and round, around the right, wrap then tuck through was a mystery to her. She tightened it up, before kissing him on the cheek. “Have you seen the Prophet this morning?”

He blushed, but it didn’t stop him grinning. She wasn’t sure what could at this point.

She grinned back at him, she’d have had to be heartless not to. He was so happy with the world.

“So I hear. Do you think we can convince them to elope? Avoid all this hoopla?”

She assumed a martyred expression to make him giggle. The sound bubbled out of him like spring water.

“You’re probably right. Still, one wedding at a time.” Words to live by. She pushed him away and straightened his robes for him, brushing off some invisible lint. “Now stay here and whatever you do don’t touch that cravat. I’m going to check on Draco.”

“Are you decent?” she asked through the door, and most definitely waited for the reply before opening it this time. Seeing Draco naked was the last thing she needed today.

“Granger? Get in here, I need you to witness that I broke this mirror in self-defence.”

She arched one eyebrow at him before realising that the effort was wasted while she was on the wrong side of the door.

If Draco’s room looked better than Harry’s – mess that a normal person might have made rather than a small elephant – he was having no more success with his tie. The fact that he was gripping his wand with white knuckles and flourishing it aggressively suggested that he was dealing with that with less grace.

“Really, Sir, I really do think that if we just try once more you’ll find that none of this will be necessary.” The mirror sounded like Jeeves with Wooster standing on his foot. “Ma’am I implore you…” It trailed off, apparently too discreet to specify what she was implored to do. She tried for the same firm-but-joking tone that she used on Harry and Ron.

“Draco, stop being ridiculous. Pre-wedding jitters are one thing, but I’m sure they don’t excuse property damage, much less murder of a semi-sentient piece of furniture.” She paused to wrestle with temptation, and lose. “You’re supposed to be a good guy now, remember?”

He turned in a rush and she reminded herself to be firmer with temptation next time.

“I’m sorry.” She said, watching his lip twist. “Come here at least.” He did and she did his tie for him. “There.”

“Don’t mention it.” Then, since neither of them knew what to say next they stood and looked at each other for a while.

“So,” she managed when the silence had become embarrassing. “Can I tell Harry you’re ready?”

He was almost as bad as Harry, the mere mention of the wedding made him light up.

“Right” Harry she could tease, but with Draco she was still walking on eggshells. “I’ll let him know.”

Before they could say more there was a knock on the door and Ron poked his head round the edge.

“Hello, Ron.” They chorused it together, then stared in mutual horror at what they’d done.

“Hello.” Ron repeated back. He shook his head as if it clear it. “Actually I was looking for Hermione.”

“You’ve found her.” Draco replied, standing up. “I guess I should be getting into position. See you both in a bit.” He tossed them a salute as he left.

“I’ve read the Daily Prophet, if that’s what you mean,” she interrupted. Then because there might have been an edge in her voice she lent in to hug him briefly.

“Congratulations, Fleur’s a lovely girl.” I can’t believe I just said that. I sound like a withered spinster of 50.

Apparently the virus of wedding bliss extended to engagements though because Ron didn’t call her on it. He had the same face splitting grin Harry did – and even if it disappeared quickly it was obviously an effort to hold it back.

The expression “What the devil does Harry have to be worried about?” flickered across her mind, but she kept it to herself.

One eye on the clock she pulled him lightly out of the door. A passing House Elf with a platter of smoked salmon considerably larger than he was pushed them apart. Ron gripped her arm and pulled her off to the side to speak urgently.

“It’s just we weren’t going to tell anyone until after Harry’s wedding,” he said.

“Ron, everyone knows you’ve been seeing Fleur. You brought her to your family’s last Christmas remember?” She and Mollly had got on like a house on fire, much to Hermione’s surprise.

“Yes,” he said, but she’d clearly missed the point. “But we weren’t going to tell anyone about the engagement. It’s just, well, this is Harry’s day, and Draco’s.” Their eyebrows quirked in unison, despite all the water under the bridge they both know there’ll be that little pause for a while – probably a long while. “We don’t want him to think…”

“Ron,” she rolled her eyes at him for emphasis. “I saw Harry this morning. He was delighted, waving The Prophet around. We decided you could probably be persuaded to elope, but Fleur would insist on a big wedding.”

There was a swish of expensive fabric from one side and she looked up to see Fleur.

“But, of course,” she said. In blue silk cut close to her body she made Hermione, dressed neatly in a perfectly nice dress only two shades muddier feel dowdy. If the wedding had had a bride Fleur would have upstaged her – effortlessly. “I want everyone to know I’ve caught him.”

Ron’s smile broke through as he took her hand and received a light kiss on his cheek. Fleur was grinning like a schoolgirl. Hermione felt like slapping one of them on general principles.

“Congratulations, Fleur,” she said instead, and then “You both look happy,” because she thought she should have something else to say.

“Then stop worrying about Harry. He’s delighted for you both anyway. And so am I” She must of sounded sincere because something relaxed in Fleur, who leant in to kiss her on the cheek. She smelt of bitter orange blossoms and angelica.

“Thank you, Hermione,” she said. “It means a lot to Ron, and me; to us.”

Before the conversation could make her feel anymore uncomfortable another voice cut across it.

“Much as I hate to interrupt this touching scene,” Years out of school Snape’s voice still caused all her free-floating, unattached inadequacy to coalesce in a missed heartbeat – although these days she didn’t show it. “Especially since any delay keeps alive the faint possibility that Draco will come to his senses.

“You must be the only wizard in Britain to think that Harry isn’t good enough for Draco.” Ron said, before Snape’s expression sent him back pedalling. “Not that Draco isn’t…” She never got to find out what Draco wasn’t because Snape decided to deal with the situation by stalking off in a dramatic fashion. It was hard to say whether he was mortally insulted by the slight to his protégé or simply wanted to get things over with.

“I’d always thought,” Fleur said, as they trailed after him, “That the Best Man should be a little more, how can I say, enthusiastic?”

The wedding was beautiful. Snape handed over the rings on cue without even a hint of hesitation. The confetti, which descended over them all at the end while Harry and Draco kissed, released smoothly, even if she was still picking it off her gown three hours later.

Fleur had caught the bouquet. Although Hermione wasn’t sure it counted when the flowers were snatched from a nearby arrangement by one of the grooms on his way out and thrown like a quaffle. Still, it had made Fleur and Ron happy; maybe Harry had finally developing some emotional radar.

She did her duty and danced at the reception. With Harry first, who was enthusiastic, but dangerously inept; then with Draco, who was equally clumsy, but had the sense to realise it. After that she danced half a self-conscious waltz with Ron, before she was rescued by Ginny who, breaking in, dragged her laughing round the dance floor until the music stopped.

After that she worked her way through the rest of the Weasley clan until it was time to wave Harry and Draco off and she could relax.

At that point relaxation most definitely required a drink. Which was how she ended up sipping scotch at the bar next to Severus Snape.

“Thank goodness that’s done and over,” she said, to no one in particular halfway through her first glass. He surprised her by replying.

“Yes.” He raised his glass in salute. “I hope they’re very happy.” It sounded like a toast so she drank before replying.

“I don’t,” he swirled the contents of his glass round and talked into it. “But they are disgustingly in love and will probably be equally disgustingly happy, despite my disapproval.”

She was tired enough to be curious and the warmth of the whiskey sat in her stomach and made her bold.

“Maybe,” he snorted. Their conversation was punctuated by long pauses as they sipped. “Why do you disapprove?” Fortunately she was between sips, even so she almost choked.

“What? I don’t disapprove.” For the first time he looked at her directly; it was the sensation of being a Potions ingredient he was about to cut into she disliked. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” He sounded interested. “At first I thought you were still in love with Potter.”

“I was never in love with Harry.” She sounded bleak even to herself and suddenly realised she wasn’t quite sober – she wouldn’t have been so honest sober. “I mean, not for a long time now.” She drained her glass and waved for another round to cover the lie. “And where did you get the idea I disapproved in the first place.”

“Don’t be stupid, Granger, and, please don’t presume I am. An idiot could see you don’t want to be here any more than I do.” A bitter smile. “Why else would you be talking to me?”

“I don’t disapprove,” She repeated. “And the only reason you do is that you’re clinging to your silly prejudice against Harry and don’t think that Draco’s fit to head Slytherin House now he’s tainted.”

He must have been a little drunk himself because he betrayed himself by a slight spasm of his hand as it rested on the bar.

“Ah, the standard Slytherin response to the truth,” she pressed her advantage. “Claim the situation is complicated.” She put a lot of venom in that last word. It felt good to vent at something, even Snape’s petty prejudices.

“Draco can no longer be an counter-balancing influence, something that is sorely needed. And I am without a successor.” He straightened up to stare her in the eyes. “In any case we were talking about you.”

“So I don’t like weddings, “ she said with bad grace. “Saccharine monuments to the patriarchal system at the best of times.” Aware that she might have strayed from the point she regrouped. “Anyway, Harry and Draco aren’t two epic figures that should be locked in endless combat. They’re people, people who damn well deserve a better crack at happiness than they’ve had so far. And maybe, just maybe, people might take the point that cooperation is more productive than endless squabbling.”

“Despite the fact that we two prominent alumni can’t speak for five minutes without arguing?”

“Don’t make jokes, Snape,” she snapped. “It doesn’t suit you.” As soon as the words were out she felt a stab of remorse. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” The apology hung in the air for a long time before he nodded. The nod might have meant anything, but it kept her talking. “I’ll admit I’m on edge, if you’ll admit that Harry and Draco getting married won’t necessarily lead to the downfall of Wizarding civilisation.”

“If Voldemort couldn’t manage it, I doubt those two will. Not that that’s an excuse.”

She wasn’t sure why she was still having this conversation, but getting up to walk away would have been far too much effort. Anyway, there was something oddly relaxing about Snape. At the very least he wasn’t likely to announce his impending marriage.

“Someone from the Prophet asked me for a quote on it earlier. Lord knows what I said.”

“I’m sure you dissembled competently.” Off her incredulous look he continued calmly. “Oh, don’t be obtuse, Granger. You’re upset that your two childhood friends are pairing off with other people when you – I gather from the resounding silence on the subject in our honoured press – are not.”

“I don’t think I care to be spoken to like that. By anyone, much less you,” she said as coldly as she could manage. In a moment, she realised, she’d either stalk out or slap him – and if the former was more likely the latter wasn’t completely impossible.

“I don’t much care,” he replied. “If you wanted Mr Weasley you could have had him during the four years he spent mooning after you. It’s a bit late for second thoughts now. If you want Mr Potter, well, you can’t have him.” He waved his hand in a quick, impatient gesture. “Pull yourself together.”

“Then stop shouting.” In fact she’d got quieter as she got angrier, but she paused long enough to glance around. Everyone was having far too much fun to notice their spat. “And if you don’t want either of them, why should you care if they’re getting married to other people?”

“Do you want to keep them in amber for always, just the way it was in school? People change; grow up.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk.” Righteous indignation let her swallow past the lump in her throat. “People aren’t pawns to shuffle around on your chessboard either. I have mixed feelings, maybe, but I’m happy for all of them as well. You can’t even bring yourself to congratulate Draco without sneering.”

“Mine, at least partly. At the time there were more important considerations than his happiness.”

“Alright,” she says unwillingly. It would be easier to condemn his wartime decisions if she hadn’t ended up making some herself. “Now tell me something.”

“Why are we having this conversation? You’re normally about as emotionally accessible as a stone. Now you’re practically confessing your fatherly love for Draco.”

He broke eye contact to look at the floor and she almost smiled. Typical man, mention emotions and they freeze. It was odd to see Snape embarrassed; for a fleeting moment he looked like he was about to ask her not to laugh.

“Because if Minerva had lived she’d have spoken to you.” There was a flash of self-deprecating humour as he went on. “And talking to you myself seemed marginally less unpleasant than involving anyone else.”

“For Minerva then,” she said, touched despite herself. “I’m fine. Yes, I could be handling this better than I am, but I’m honestly going to be fine.”

Thank goodness, he seemed to take her word for it, nodded slightly and saluted her with his glass.

There was yet another long pause as she cast around for something else to say. After the silence became uncomfortable, but before it could become painful, she fell back on banalities.

“So, how’s Hogwarts these days?” He raised an eyebrow at her, but apparently suppressed his first comment.

“Nothing changes,” he said eventually, “If anything the current crop is even more inept than your lot – and they don’t even have your excuses. I’m constantly amazed I’ve avoided being blown up all these years – or being turned into a frog for that matter.”

“I’m sure you can bring yourself to recommend me one or two for the Untouchables though, won’t you?” She smiled mock-winsomely at him. “And ask the obligatory searching yet discreet questions?”

“There might be a few who aren’t a complete loss,” he allowed. “If I work their fingers to the bone before the exams a couple might even approach competence.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I hadn’t heard that you were dealing with recruitment this year.”

“I’m glad some of our security procedures are working then.” She shrugged at him. “But it’s probably more likely that the memo is still working its way through the system.”

“Congratulations.” She waved them aside. Her promotion had been a champagne moment a month before, by this point it was just another headache.

“It’s mostly paper work and meetings. Endless meetings with silly people who produce equally silly paperwork.”

“No doubt,” he sounded amused. When he half smiled it just about reached his eyes and he looked almost human.

“Nevertheless, we should talk.” His tone effortlessly converted ‘talk’ into ‘plot’ or ‘intrigue’, possibly even ‘connive to fundamentally alter the political environment of the British Wizarding World’. His brow furrowed slightly and she noted that he was letting her see him think, a subtle suggestion of trust that he might just be drunk enough to make accidentally.

“We may disagree.” She had her own ideas about what fundamental alterations should be made to the current political environment – otherwise there’d be little reason to put up with the paperwork.

“I’d be absolutely astounded if we didn’t.” Subtle irony momentarily abandoned he managed an open smile that took years off his face. “Is that a reason not to … discuss matters of mutual interest?” His lip twitched at the oblique vocabulary and she found herself smiling back.

“No,” she said, “Certainly not.” She was in no state – either emotionally or chemically – to make fine political calculations, but even so there undoubtedly were a number of issues they might find common ground on – or at least common enemies. In any case being approached by a Head of House for this sort of a chat was a traditional indication of having achieved a certain amount of prestige, influence, or even power – and being expected to achieve more. At that moment she couldn’t for the life of her remember whether it was supposed to be more auspicious to be approached by one of the other houses or your own.

“It’ll be a relief to escape the office.” The smooth cadences of business were easier for both of them she realised. Still, it was time to quit while she was ahead, or at least even. And before she drank any more. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to go. I’ll write you about Hogwarts.”

He managed a short inclination of the head; it might have been a bow. On impulse she stuck out her hand and he shook it. He had rough hands, almost scarred.

Half way across the room she felt the urge to look back. She resisted it until she reached the door. When she did she saw him watching her and unaccountably felt herself blush. She turned away before anyone, especially him, could notice.

Outside she was far too sensible to bang her head against the wall – even lightly – but she felt like it. Of all the foolish things. He might be tall and dark – but most definitely not handsome. He might be intelligent, endlessly subtle and witty in his own way. He might be all of those things, but for her to imagine that she had a crush on Severus Snape was evidence that the day’s events had temporarily unbalanced her; that she hadn’t got laid in too long, or that she’d had too much to drink. Most likely all three.

She cut back through to Muggle London to hail a cab and set off home, confident that she’d have come to her senses in the morning.

A/N

This was originally written for the Love Draughts Snape / Hermione challenge. Grateful thanks therefore to Bailunrui who ran the challenge and Wendynat who’s request I answered as well as Jan Dark who was kind enough to beta.

Somebody Else's Wedding

by Oni Jade