Temporary Distraction

by Tourniquette

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.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Miss Granger—that is not the correct casting position for Timore Ululatorum! You torso must be parallel—"

"—To my wand. I know, Professor. You're making me nervous, standing right next to me, breathing down my neck and barking out criticism like a backseat driver!"

"I won't even pretend to know what that means. A real witch could cast this spell if she were hanging upside-down in a vampermyre's web," he shot back, shoving up the sleeves of his robes in a gesture of supreme annoyance. "A Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher must be prepared in all possible areas of expertise, including the curses she must learn to deflect. One cannot break the back of an army through fighting swords with sticks. Again."

She sighed, swiping her hair out of her face to clear her line of sight.

"Stop grooming yourself and CAST THE DAMNED SPELL, YOU STUPID GIRL!"

That did it. Normally, Hermione Granger was cool-headed, calm and collected. She barely ever lost her temper in public, and it hardly became her reputation to break the tradition in front of the greasy-haired git currently hogging her air space. However, his constant pedantic diatribe, foul demeanour and hurtful running commentary on her monumental ineptitude over the past school year were simply too much for her to handle one more nasty insinuation of her immaturity.

Sparks practically flew from her head as she turned around and bellowed, "I AM NOT A STUPID GIRL!" Simultaneously, her concentration faltered, and the aforementioned curse shot from the tip of her wand, streaking across the room in a crackle of murky blue light.

The Professor looked as if he were forming an appropriately livid reply when they both picked up on the low growling sound emanating from the cupboard her curse hit on the opposite side of the classroom. The doors creaked and groaned with a sudden pressure behind them. Then, silence.

"I take it back," Severus hissed furiously, his voice suddenly lowering to a hushed whisper. "Calling you stupid would be an insult to moronic females everywhere."

"Is…whatever that was gone now?" she whispered back in turn, unsure why voice decibels were so addictive under such circumstances. She doubted it, but maybe she had animated a bunch of empty test tubes.

Snape glared at her. "That particular clutch is where Lupin kept his spare boggart and bansidhe collection."

Suddenly, the cupboard burst open in a shatter of wood splinters and flying shards of glass. They dived under a nearby desk for cover as a hazy purple smoke curled its way out of the debris. The room filled with a low-pitched, keening sound, utterly unfamiliar and wholly malignant. Hermione shuddered.

"Stay here." Severus scrambled out momentarily and made a dash for the top drawer of the former professor's desk, searching frantically for something. The fog transformed before her eyes, hideous creatures forming in the hazy gloom as the hissing and wailing rose in volume. Was he insane?

Snape returned momentarily, his wand already out. He grabbed her hand and pried her fingers open, thrusting two small objects into them. "Earplugs," he explained shortly. "Put them on. Now." She trusted him and inserted them into her ears without question, watching in a deepening cocoon of muffled shrieking and foul air that stung at her eyelids. In her quick reaction to the explosion, she had very nearly landed on and snapped her wand in half. Luckily, it appeared unharmed by her clumsiness. Her stomach rolled over.

Fighting off deadly spirits on a weekly basis was definitely NOT in the DADA job description.

After five minutes of intense spells, counter-spells, wards and white magic, the dust had finally cleared in the DADA classroom, and Snape neutralized the last of the ghoul-hybrids from his apprentice's misguided wand waving. Hermione, meanwhile, was busy picking bits of yellow goo from her clothes and hair. She swept a hand up to wipe her brow, and a clump detached from her left eyebrow onto her arm. "Ughhh," she gagged, shaking her hand until the wretched remains of one of the nastier bansidhes finally came off, hitting a nearby pillar with a splat.

Unfortunately, the noise only reminded Severus that the object of his unquenched ire was still in the vicinity. Hermione realised this too, albeit a bit belatedly. The Potions master whipped around, wand still in hand, expression murderous. Hermione absently wondered if she could learn to drop her wand on all future occasions whenever Severus began to insult her. It wasn't her fault, exactly—he HAD provoked her, and she was still finding her footing after seven years of absence from the wizarding world and only one of remedial catch-up.

It didn't look like any of those excuses would stop him from killing her if he could.

"And just what, in the name of all sane wizards everywhere, were you thinking?" He stalked towards her, his eyes black with rage. She cringed at the tone in the final three words. "Summoning the imagery and staging the wand movements before I could prompt you? Anticipating the spell before you cast it? Did I not instruct you never to do just such an idiotic thing? That the slightest distraction during the process of a multi-layered incantation can have disastrous consequences?" His anger increased with every word until he was practically spitting the words at her, towering over Hermione's shorter frame in a shroud of utter contempt. "Well? Say something!"
Her eyes darted about the classroom, now in utter ruins. It would take days to repair all the damage. If that was even possible.

She could think of a thousand things to shout right back at him: that she was trying to accomplish what few of her type successfully did—to re-enter a life of magic with a long gap in practise, that assimilation was hard enough without his constant derisive interjections, that earning Headmaster Lupin's trust in order to study under Snape for the position of DADA instructor was difficult beyond her wildest imagination, let alone attempting to do so with the little preparation she had under her belt! He had made her mornings an absolute nightmare, her afternoons a trial in patience worthy of Merlin himself, and her evenings a living hell. She hadn't been so stressed since her N.E.W.T.S.

…And yet, somehow, against every rational fibre in her body, she was the happiest she'd ever been in her entire existence on this planet.

Unwilling to accept what had smacked her in the face (metaphorically speaking) on more than one occasion, Hermione had suffered the various aspects of love. First, there was denial. She had thought it was a trick her mind was playing on her, some form of Stockholm Syndrome that plagued her thoughts due to the near-imprisonment that her apprenticeship entailed. He wasn't overly attractive. He needed to wash his face more often…and hair, if you really wanted to be technical about it. Lupin barely tolerated him, and everyone else was too afraid to show loathing in public. Second, there was anger. He was a no-good, ex-Death Eater whose sole mission in life outside of teaching had been to make her life and the lives of her friends as miserable as his own lack of one. He treated her worse than dirt whenever she botched up the smallest of tasks. How dare she feel something other than loathing for the man who Harry partially blamed for the death of his godfather! It was unthinkable. Fourth came doubt. Her conscience would subtly insert fertile little thoughts in her mind, such as how sexy Snape's hands were as they wrapped around the handle of a cauldron, the way he instinctively knew just what ingredients to have on hand as she assisted him so that she could learn more about his methods of brewing, even though it was simply a favour to him in exchange for his tutelage, the expression on his face when she did something correctly and he admired her for it, even though he would rather die than say so out loud, the depth of his eyes…

…Then there was Harry. Her remaining best friend from Gryffindor besides Ginny was desperately, hopelessly, undeniably in love with her. He had been biding his time, standing silently by as Ron wooed her in school, been her shoulder to cry on when he fell in the War, and her lifelong champion in the public eye whenever her Muggleborn status came up in conversation. It was at his behest that she returned to wizarding society after locking her wand away over her grief for the dead.

Things weren't the same, but he did everything he could to make her want to give a world she associated with so much sorrow and death another chance. He was her rock to cling to when she missed Ron or Molly, her confessional on whose steps she laid down her sins. He was always there, sharing the little sense of humour that emerged amidst sarcastic comments about Snape's weird fashion sense. In fact, Harry had never expressed any sort of romantic inclination towards her that she could think of before that day they strolled together at Kensington Gardens. They lingered near the Peter Pan statue, studying the tourists. Somehow, the conversation had turned to how tired he was of Ginny trying to foist all of the single female population into his lap, that the rabid fans at his matches had become so fanatical that he had to move down the social ladder to a crummier flat just to avoid unwanted visitors. She, in turn, muttered a few things about the entire staff of Hogwarts thinking she should just ask Snape out (here Harry gave an appropriate cry of horror), because everyone had figured it out and all that sexual frustration on her part was going to become distracting beyond all hope.

It came as a surprise to her—so much so that when he casually suggested that they kill two birds with one stone and marry each other, she had laughed and patted him on the back, failing to register either the look of hurt in his eyes or the tug at her own heart. Her expression sobered.

"I know it sounds stupid, and I'm hardly going to ask you to understand or even condone it, but there's just something about him. I have to know…who it is, first. Please understand."

"Understand?" Harry shot back angrily, rising to his feet. "He's an evil bastard, Hermione, and you want me to say that it's okay if you settle for me after he throws your feelings back in your face? And he will, I promise you that." He folded his arms stiffly, as if the fury had sucked all warmth from the day, even though it was a sunny spring afternoon.

"Harry," she began, reaching for him, but he pulled away, and she dropped her arm. The sincerity of her words that followed left no questions between them. She closed her eyes. "I do love you. When you've known someone for so long, it's difficult to imagine your life without him, and I don't want any part of a future that doesn't include you in it."

He looked up at this, but she shook her head once, a jerky movement to cut off any forthcoming protests. "I'm very confused right now, and I'll be damned if the one time in my life that I need to stay logical is the one time I act rashly. I just have to see if there's anything between him and me. Do you understand? If he doesn't care one whit about me, I'll walk down the aisle with you in a heartbeat."

He had been furious, naturally. They hadn't spoken since. That was two weeks ago, the longest they had even been out of communication, and her soul felt poisoned by her indecision. She wanted to know, she HAD to know whether there was any small chance she could be with her ex-Professor and still have Harry's friendship. Hermione had worked up the nerve to speak freely to Severus that weekend. It didn't matter if he laughed and mocked her, walking away and leaving her with the dashed hopes of a naïve innocent, like some First Year student whose emotions he could petrify and throw to the winds with a single sentence. He treated her like that all of the time, had done so when she was still regaining her education the year prior to this one. But he respected her more than anyone else she knew, despite his callousness, so perhaps there was some small chance…

Finally, Hermione entered the stage of resignation and acceptance. Since early January, she had felt this way, and she had no idea if her fate was to suffer this tug of inescapable attraction alone, or to endure it with him.

It wasn't coming out. This confession of her ridiculous infatuation had frozen her lips shut. Not that it was an appropriate time to say she adored the way his hair occasionally fused at the tips because he couldn't be bothered to tie it back, but she damn well should have said something. Unfortunately, she just couldn't manage to voice a coherent thought except to say, "…I'm sorry."

He sneered. "How marvellous. My collection of tri-syllabic, inept, Gryffindor-laced apologies is now complete. I'll add that little gem to Chapter Five: Verbal Indigestion." Severus had to restrain himself from throttling her. "This is the sort of calamity I'd expect from Longbottom if he were still bungling up his Potions assignments. Your incompetence and complete lack of common sense today set a new low. Congratulations, Granger."

Hermione drew in her breath sharply. She willed herself not to break down in front of him as he stalked past her to the door.

"You will not instruct a single student until every inch of this classroom is restored, at which time I shall convene with the school board to review your work and see if you have any future in academics in this institution. Do I make myself clear?"

She flinched and swallowed hard, unable to look at him, and nodded.

His fathomless eyes skirted over her once more—was that mere disdain or remonstrance to her continued existence? In a typical billowing of his black robes, he was gone, and she was alone.

Hermione waited until his footsteps faded away before she collapsed wearily onto the debris scattered across the nearest desk, her hands almost too sticky to release her wand as she finally allowed herself to sob.

It was eleven-thirty p.m. that evening when he awoke on top of his Quidditch uniform, the crest of his team etched neatly into his forehead over his faded scar from when he dozed off in front of the telly. He lived among Muggles in London, and so most of his visitors that didn't use the fireplace happened to be non-magical. So when he rubbed his bleary eyes and forced them to focus on the mess of brown hair obscuring the peephole in his door, Harry Potter thought it might be his frizzy-haired landlady trying to sell him adult channels again.

It wasn't.

"Hermione?" he croaked in disbelief.

The creature before him was everything that was tragic and immersed in the terrible beauty of life—or at least she had come to represent that in his own. She looked like she had been crying for hours; her eyes were puffy and swollen, as was her nose, her clothes were filthy and torn, her hair stood out every which way, reminding him of an old black and white feature where a monster created a bride with lightning bolt hair, and…was that Poe plasm on her neck?

"I tried going to a pub, but the stupid bloke at the counter told me I'd already had one too many, and I hadn't even had anything to drink!" wailed the tear-streaked woman in front of him. The sobbing resumed with fervour.

Dumbfounded, Harry didn't even realise how much he resembled his father as he hastily ran a hand through his hair, brushed Hermione's away from her face, and shut the door behind them.

One Week Later…

The minute Snape had walked out the door that day he knew he had gone a bit too far. She was annoying, she was headstrong, and unlike her standard approach to most intellectual subjects, she was too impatient to master the skills necessary to teach DADA. But Hermione Granger was far from incompetent. If he held the world to her standards, they were all doomed.

In truth, Severus had been in a particularly foul mood that day because of yet another friendly encounter with Lupin over the fate of a Third Year Hufflepuff who had stolen one of his elixirs. Of course, he rightly concluded that the guilty party and any accomplices that might turn up later ought to be expelled, and he said so at the last staff meeting. But did Lupin ever dole out the justice his wayward charges so right deserved, Nooo, Severus thought bitterly, of course not. Kind, Generous-To-A-Fault Lupin doesn't mind that some of the hallway furniture tries to eat unsuspecting victims. 'So the lounging seats are a bit carnivorous. So what? Children make mistakes.' Mistakes, my arse.

This was the line of thought that carried through the day's lessons, right up until the fateful accident with the mutating-Transfiguration hexes and the ghouls in Lupin's closet. Lupin had always had something in his closet, but Snape suspected it had nothing to do with Boggarts.

That had been the last he had seen of Hermione for seven days. He had stopped in the DADA classroom once, and it was spotless, but when he tracked the Headmaster down and inquired as to when Miss Granger had returned, Remus simply gave him a cool look and informed him that she would not be returning for at least three days.

Where the devil was she, anyway? He needed her assistance on the latest batch of Dreamless Sleep potion! How in blazes was he supposed to instruct her further on combating vampire-goblin hybrids if she simply disappeared when it suited her fancy? Insolent chit.

He didn't like the odd lurch in his gut when Lupin had left him with that morsel of information. Not one teensy-weensy bit. Not at all.

Now it was Thursday, one week exactly from her disastrous misfire incident. Snape strode into the Great Hall, intent on being as surly as possible towards anything that moved until breakfast was over, when he noticed that the staff was unusually talkative that morning.

In fact, he was the only one at the high table eating anything. Did they know something he didn't? He spat out his porridge. "What's all this, then?" he snarled at Flitwick, who was passing by with a tray of scones he had 'borrowed from his students' table. "Is the meal poisoned, Filius? Speak up!"

"Ah, Severus, let it never be said that Slytherin humour can't be just the spot to brighten one's day," Flitwick chirped, his demeanour so cheerful that Snape had a toothache just from looking at him. Severus rolled his eyes and focused his attention on his neighbour.

The Potions master set down his spoon and glared at Sinistra, who always sat on his left side. He continued to shoot daggers at her until Mme. Sprout took notice and cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Oh, good morning, Severus. Have you heard the wonderful news? Lupin's been telling everyone. Our Hermione and Harry Potter are to be married! Isn't that fantastic?"

For the second time that morning, Snape choked on his food.

Just remain calm. You've made your decision, you're happy with it, and no kind of apology he could ever bring himself to make will change your mind. Hermione squared her shoulders and continued her morning work in Snape's laboratory. Just because she owed him for teaching her did not mean she had to tolerate his cruelty.

Severus entered his workspace later than she did, an unusual occurrence, but that was due to Hermione's early bird arrival (and her silent vow to be more efficient than him at everything from then onward). It was a full hour before he brought the marriage up. He had to, to utter distaste. It was either that our come full circle to the outburst of the last week, and Merlin's beard, he was NOT about to apologise to a Gryffindor, much less an uppity Muggleborn priss like Granger.
"Word has reached me of your…engagement." He did not look at her and continued his preparation of the philtre warming up in front of him.

Hermione started when he broke the silence. "Yes," she finally said. When it became apparent that he was waiting for more information, she decided to humour him. "Harry wants to avoid the press, Rita Skeeter especially, so we're being married in two days at Glastonbury."

Professor Snape nearly dropped the vial he was holding. Two days? Forty-eight hours? But he merely said, "Congratulations. And when will you be returning?"

A long pause. "We won't. Harry's accepted a position with the Vratsa Vultures. I'll be working with Charlie Weasley during his home games and with the team as a public relations coordinator when they're on tour. I turned in my resignation three days ago." She finished chopping up the last of the Mandrake root on her board and added it to the potion swirling on the counter. "I suppose if you need any extra draughts of Pomfrey's medicines made up, I could do them tonight. Leave a list for me. I'm off to prepare for today's lesson."

And she strolled out the door in the most cavalier attitude one could imagine. Severus could do nothing but stare at her retreating form in utter shock.

For once in his life, the sharp-tongued Potions master was left speechless.

"How can you allow this?" Snape fumed, pounding the desk in front of him with his fist. "It's intolerable—and in the middle of the spring term! There is no way to find a replacement, Lupin, none." He grated his teeth in vexation, ready to tear at his hair next if his molars should prove insufficiently durable under stress.

"Well, it's remarkably simple, Severus," Remus replied calmly, as if Snape hadn't burst into his office a few moments ago, ranting and raving like the lunatic everyone thought he secretly was. "She filled out the necessary paperwork, I signed it, Vector submitted it to the Board—"

"Don't play dumb with me, old man!" he snarled at the Headmaster, neatly forgetting that Remus was the same age as he was. This was playing out remarkably like one of countless arguments between himself and the previous Headmaster, who smiled down at them contentedly from his portrait over Fawkes' perch. Severus spun towards him. "And you!" he shouted furiously. "I bet you're enjoying this, aren't you, Albus? Just like old times, eh? Fiddling while Slytherin House burns!"

"Severus, dear boy," Dumbledore replied cheerfully, "You're not making any sense. Besides, I'm only here for the treats." And he popped a lemon drop into his mouth.

"Right! That reminds me," Lupin said, rushing around the desk to offer Snape a platter of treats. "Sprout had the elves bake these this afternoon. Try a chocolate biscuit. They're delicious." Fawkes rustled his wings and started preening.

"I don't WANT a bloody biscuit! I want my apprentice back!"

Remus sighed. "Severus, that's really not my decision. Don't worry so much. We'll find you another qualified student, I promise you." Dryly, he added, "Look on the bright side. You won't have to deal with the 'annoying Gryffindor know-it-all' any more, and now you'll have your chance to teach Defence."

"If you think I'm going to let some upstart young buffoon run my Potions lab, you've another thing coming," Snape practically bellowed. "No one knows how to calibrate the instruments correctly. No one has the patience that I do to store and label our supplies properly. No one—"

Abruptly, he cut himself off. No one can do my job but me.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. All of these years after his promise to Dumbledore, he had been content to wait out the DADA position until such a time as it was suitable to hand over his current station to someone else. Meanwhile, the DAD slot had encountered problem after problem, and despite a yearly vacancy, Dumbledore had declined to offer him the position on the grounds that there was no wizard who could perform the duties of the Potions master as proficiently as he could.

Well, he had been correct then, but he was only half-right now.

In Severus' mind, there was only one other person in all of Britain who was qualified to assume his current position, who could store and brew the ingredients correctly, who was as critical and as tough a perfectionist about the subtleties of Potions as himself.

As luck would have it, she was due to leave the country for Eastern Europe in two days.

He blinked. Lupin and the portrait of Dumbledore were staring at him, waiting for him to say something. Fawkes started screeching and erupted in a molten fireball of feathers and ash.

I don't have time for this nonsense, Snape thought irritably. I have a school's academic reputation to save. Without a further glance at either of his superiors, he rushed out of the room and down the stairs to write an urgent letter.

"How odd," mused Albus, sucking on another lemon drop. "Do you think he's allergic to phoenix dandruff?"

It was almost ironic—Somerset was having one of the most gorgeous May weekends on record, the secret invitations to old friends had returned with almost no declines, the Tor was perfect for the ceremony, and her dress had been charmed to perfection. Sure, there had been a couple of flukes: Harry developed a mysterious vomiting illness during their romantic dinner yesterday evening, and Hermione suspected a sore Magpie fan of paying the cooking staff to spike Harry's wine with a Puking Pastille. Ginny was absolutely mystified when the bridesmaid dresses arrived, ten sizes too large and bright orange. "The seamstress owled me back and said she thought it was a Giantess' wedding!" the redhead exclaimed, dragging her hands down her cheeks before working through the night to charm them into smaller sizes and a less hideous colour. And it took two buckets of water to wake her up after she had a whiff of the lovely roses that arrived at the Burrow that morning.

No matter. She loved Harry. Harry loved her.

So why do I feel like I'm dying inside?

Hermione shoved those thoughts to the back of her mind as Luna took her gown out of the closet at a room at the local inn. In a major break with tradition, the guests were celebrating the after-party before the actual ceremony. Harry was incredibly paranoid that reporters would find out where they were and swarm the hills, ruining their privacy. He figured if the celebrating looked like anyone's wedding beforehand and the couple blended in, none of the locals would know until the vows were taking place. Hermione had retired early to change and eat, though her stomach was too queasy to really digest anything.

"How's it going, love?" Harry popped his head in, looked remarkably handsome and…carefree. It's first time he's looked this happy since the day I came back to Diagon Alley, Hermione thought. Oh.

"HARRY!" Luna exclaimed. "If you want to make the bride late, it's best to leave her to her fate." And she tried to shove him out the door.

"Erm, right," Harry mumbled, scratching his head. "Oi! Luna, I just want one minute alone with her—oof!" The Ravenclaw had apparently taken wrestling lessons over the winter holidays.

As if Lovegood were not there, Hermione leaned over and gave Harry a light kiss. "I love you," she whispered, smiling.

"I love you, Hermione."

"Good. Now scram so that I can look the part of the bride like I mean it."

"Yes, ma'am." He had what he wanted. No point in messing matters up. Harry waved and returned to the festivities.

But even as he left his best friend and lover, radiant and smiling at him, for him, Harry wondered if he was doing this for them, or for the memory of someone else.

Outside, a rather tall and muscular woman with dark, limp hair and a shawl covering most of her face was arguing with Emmeline Vance.

"I assure you, the entire staff of Hogwarts was invited," the stranger purred in a decidedly impatient tone.

"Fine, Professor, Sinistra." She let the woman pass, muttering, "Though I could have sworn I let you in over two hours ago…"

Just as Harry was about to go check on his bride-to-be again, a hand reached out and stopped him from leaving the dance floor. He frowned. Hadn't Ginny had enough dances?

"You wouldn't leave without doing the honourable thing and burying an old hatchet, would you, Potter?" a familiar voice drawled.

Harry groaned. "What are you on about, Malfoy? I have to go. Hermione's waiting. For the record, just because you didn't turn out to be a Death Eater does NOT mean I don't hate you."

"Yes, well, hate is all relative," Draco waved his hand dismissively. "Care for a dance?" And before Harry could protest, a tuxedo-clad blond Slytherin—also known to wave his wand both ways, Harry had discovered—was leading him in a tango.

"I think it should be obvious to both of us by now that you're a prat, we're both good at Quidditch, I'm most definitely straight, and there's not a damned bloody thing you can do to change that in the next five minutes. But if this is your thing, then by all means, be my guest. Then kindly sod off."

Draco shrugged, correctly Harry's posture and hand positions effortlessly as Alicia Spinnet and the Weasley twins gave them odd looks from the punch table. "I'm actually here at Hermione's request—and as a favour to an old friend. But really, Potter," he said, grinning, "don't you think I know a good, subversive opportunity when I see one?"

Luna had just left to fetch Hermione a glass of water when her door slammed shut, and the future Mrs. Harry Potter found herself face to face with the oddest-looking witch she had ever seen in her life. "…Professor Snape?" she squeaked out finally. "Is that you?"

Snape's eyes darted around the room, and once he had determined that they were alone and Ms. Vance was not about to burst inside and arrest him, he made quick work of the flowery ensemble Draco had picked out for him (damn that boy!) and threw off the rest of his costume.

"Don't ask," he said shortly. A few deep breaths, time enough to see how absolutely beautiful she looked in white satin. Then, "You cannot marry Potter."

Hermione very nearly did an impression of a guppy fish. "And why not?" She finally sputtered. "Why should I care at all about what you think? You made me feel like dirt. You don't care whether I live or die, much less marry Harry."

"You're wrong," Severus said, fighting to say what he wanted to say without apologising or being slapped. "I need you." No! "The school needs you. You're the only one who can fill either my position or the DADA slot. There will never be a more talented, more deserving person for Hogwarts, and I will not allow you to throw your brilliant mind away on a spectator sport."

"But you said—"

"Forget what I said. We need you. I won't let you go through with this idiocy."

She crossed her arms. "And what if I want to be selfish?" she asked quietly. "What if my interests are motivated by self-preservation?"

Severus Snape took two tentative, halting steps forward. This was insane. He was insane. "Whatever gave you the impression, Hermione," he murmured softly, daring to touch her trembling hands, "that mine are not?"

Then she was crying and laughing and swearing and smiling at the same time, and there were no more words.

Harry was dancing. He was dancing with Draco Malfoy while he watched his Hermione through a shaded window, her silhouette embraced by another.

He wasn't exactly sure why he was crying. But at least his dancing partner had the sense not to complain.

Fin