Clock Barn, Hampshire, August 1996

Hermione plucked at the front of her bridesmaid dress, conscious of the glamour that covered the still healing scar bisecting her chest. Not that any of the guests currently crowding the timber-framed barn could see the injury from their stupid, stupid charge into the Ministry.

Her lips pressed together and an ache burned around her heart. Not for Sirius Black. She'd never really known him, and over the last year being cooped up in his hideous old house seemed to have twisted his mind. Made him thoughtless. Reckless.

She sank back into her chair and sighed. Her mother would chide her for skulking about at their table, for not making the effort with family and friends she hardly saw now from one year to the next…

She wished she'd asked Harry to come with her. A friend to talk to. One who knew. Who understood. But…he was better at the Weasleys in the weeks before school started. Fresh air, flying and close to people who loved him.

The thought sparked that she should've asked Ron.

Merlin, no.

She frowned into the sparkling remains of her champagne. Not him. He made her wrists itch. And she was not thinking about what that meant.

Stupid spell. As if she needed a poke in the arm every time a wizard caught her eye. And that's all it seemed to be. A 'Hello, he's nice'…and then nothing.

After all, even with a kiss, Viktor had never sparked the spell again.

And Ron, well, it wasn't so much a spark, or that jagged fire that had made her knees weak the night of the Yule Ball, but more a sharp jab. Usually when Ron did something particularly thick-headed…

…like eating all of her grapes when she was on her sickbed.

Sometimes she wondered what she saw in him.

At least she wouldn't have to carry either Ron or Harry through the next year. She huffed a laugh. And poor Neville. She'd never seen anyone divest themselves of their Fifth Year Potions book faster.

She had to wonder if Professor Snape was taking as much joy in being rid of a host of his most hated students—

"Sitting all alone?"

The voice and the flare of hot magic made her start and she clattered her champagne flute back onto the table.

"I'm sorry." He gave her a sure smile as he pulled out a chair and sat, without asking. "Did I startle you?"

"I was miles away," she murmured. She gave him a quick smile. "Hermione, cousin of the bride."

"Anthony, younger brother to the groom." He sighed, something false and overly dramatic. "And passed over to be best man. Those…duties —sadly— fall to another."

Hermione's eyes tightened. Was there something in that statement? About the best man having the pick of the bridesmaids? A prickle of dislike was forming, though he was conventionally handsome in an insipid Malfoy way —all blond and light eyed— and his voice was more attractive, being deep and smoothly rich.

No, regardless of his voice, the spell had got this one very wrong.

His arm slid along the back of her chair. "We should get to know one another."

Hermione almost groaned. He was what? In this early twenties. Had that awful line ever worked on anyone? Even an inexperienced book-worm with one fairly sloppy kiss to her name?

There was an easy why to drive him off. "I'm sixteen."

He shrugged and have her a dark smirk. "You're legal enough."

Hermione stared at him. Her cousin had married this foul man's brother? Her chest was tight and the hint of metal warmed the air as magic rose, fierce and hot, through the bound strands of her hair. "I'm legal?"

"Calm down, sweetheart."

And he grabbed her shoulder.

"Fuck!"

Anthony's chair slammed to the floor and he was clutching his hand, wild tremors shaking his body. A heartbeat later, he groaned and slumped…and there was a distinct waft of alcohol from his suddenly bedraggled form.

Hermione blinked as the father of the groom and the best man appeared. "Anthony blitzed again?" The best man sighed and hauled the unconscious man to his feet. "You okay, Hermione? You look flushed."

"We were talking…and then he…" She waved her hand at Anthony held up between his father and brother. "He…collapsed."

"Probably best for you. My brother's a bit of pig."

And with that they dragged him away across the dance floor, with jeers and laughter from the parting crowd following in their wake.

Hermione stared after them, her heart beating too fast. Belatedly she sank back into her chair. She had to pull herself together. Her mother was already bearing down on her…very likely in want of an explanation.

Could she give one?

She patted her hair, feeling it loosened from the swell of magic. But that hadn't been her magic, had it? Too hot, too wild. Her thumb was on her wrist again.

Chasing the pattern that wasn't there.

And nothing happened. No letter from the Ministry, no witch or wizard appearing at her home that night to drag her before the Wizengamot for the crime of performing underage wizardry…

Nothing.

The ancient spell had protected her from Anthony the Creep.

Was that it? Did its nature —that it was so very old— also prevent her from being found out?

In the dark silence of her bed, she smirked down at her wrist and gave it an affectionate rub. "Thank you. I won't ever doubt you again."

Severus appears in the next chapter... ;-)