Time sped up, or at least that's what it felt like for Hermione. Soon she and Severus would be married. There was something peculiar about the fact and the emotions behind it. She was to be married to a man she barely knew and yet knew so much about his future. She did her best to remind herself that her future husband might become that professor one day, but he was not him now and he might never become him. He could change if he wanted to. He could become someone that Professor Snape would not even recognise, possibly even someone he would sneer at. It was not Hermione's job to fix him, nor did she think it was possible. Severus Snape was who he was, and change first came from the person desiring to do so. She put those thoughts aside and let her mind wander to other, more important things.

Neither of them liked much fanfare or had an interest in celebrating. This wedding, while of their choosing, was not something of deep and wide love. But not all were, as Eileen kept reminding her. Sometimes Hermione wished the woman would stop, but then Eileen Prince-Snape was the only one excited about this marriage. To Severus and Hermione, this act was one of the headlong notions of people who were desperate. They were trying to protect themselves and others. They were running straight into the wind or even jumping straight off a cliff. The fact was Severus and Professor Snape were different people. They were as different as night and day, yet they were also the same. They were the two parts of Severus, and with time the younger would become the older or so she kept reminding herself. It would have been easier to not think about it, but like many aspects of her life, she kept giving in to the urge to pick at it.

It felt as if she took one back for every two steps forward. Maybe this was what falling in love was, or perhaps it was just madness. Maybe this was all just a coma, and she was lying in a hospital bed in 2003. Maybe she hit her head on a pillar; wouldn't that be utterly hilarious? Maybe this was just a dream, and one day she would wake up or perhaps she wouldn't. Hermione could not fight it anymore. Her laughter started to peel out from between her lips. She brushed her fingers over the duvet that covered the bed. There were flowers on it, a bright purple, and the leaves were evergreen. White curtains covered the window. There was beige carpet under her feet. She tried to concentrate on the details in the room, the wardrobe, the dresser, She tried to concentrate on the details in the room, the wardrobe, the dresser, yet she couldn't stop laughing. Nothing was funny, and yet she still laughed from the pain and worry of it all.

Severus was in the room now, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, barefoot and dressed in a pair of denims. "What's so funny?"

Hermione opened her mouth and stopped laughing, a gulping noise escaping her. Severus reached out his hand under her chin, tilting it up, his thumb pressing into her bottom lip. His touch sent shivers over her skin and caused her stomach to twist into knots. This feeling he was bringing up inside her was why the idea of being married to him did not seem so horrible. Love might not be there, but she had no shame in admitting there was lust. She wanted him. Like long ago she had felt for Ron Weasley, but there was also a bit of the longing she had felt for Viktor Krum. The feeling of the desire of wanting something you couldn't truly have.

"Nothing," Hermione said, shutting her eyes as she did. "Well, nothing that you would understand."

"Try me," he quipped, his confidence slipping away just as quickly. His shoulders curled forward as he yanked his hand away from Hermione, shoving both of his hands into the pocket of his denims. "Or keep your secrets and don't ask me because you already know the answer."

"I was just running through all the possibilities this may be instead of real," she murmured.

"It's real, as real as you and I are." Severus sat down next to her, crossing his arms as he did so. "But instead of laughing at foolishness, I was wondering if you would like to help me in the garden? To get your mind off silly things like the what-ifs. If we are to be married, shouldn't we know each other first?"

"I… I think I would love that."

He stood up from the bed, tugging at the collar of his black shirt. Hermione had learned it was a sign he was nervous and uncomfortable. She thought, Professor Snape was never shy, at least not around me…

"Aren't you coming, Hermione?"

"Yes, I am." She stood up and walked out of the bedroom with him.

The house was quiet as they made their way downstairs, through the sitting room and into the kitchen. The two of them stepped out into the light of day. The sun hung low in the sky, though that was to be expected at half-past four. Severus didn't say anything to her. He trampled his way through the weeds to the shed in the far corner of the garden. There was a loud ringing noise; it filled Hermione's ears as he pushed open the door. She watched him as he stepped inside the shed and began pulling out the things they would need.

"Do you need my help, Severus?"

"No," he said from the shed. "It's a mess in here, and while I sort of know where things are, you don't. But I promise you there will be a ton of work for you to do in a moment."

Severus set outside a shovel, a hand trowel, pruning shears, a garden hoe, a rake and two pairs of gardening gloves for good measure.

Hermione walked over to the shed and stuck her head inside. It was rather dark and filled with Merlin only knew what. Severus stood in the left corner, his long hair hanging in his face and pale skin looking rather ghostly in the dark.

"You know we could just use magic for this, don't you?" she questioned.

"Yes, I do," Severus said, shoving a rag in a pocket of his denims. "But magic taints potion ingredients. It makes them nearly unusable, which defeats the purpose of even growing them, doesn't it?"

"No one ever told me that before and surely I would have read about it in a book."

"Books don't know everything, Hermione, though honestly, most books written on Herbology are by people who do not know much about potions. Then most of the books that are written about potions? Their writers are basically hacks who pretend they understand the subject and the world. I mean, look at the Hogwarts potions books, those things are all wrong, and Slughorn refused to change them when he taught."

"And yet you refuse to change the book," Hermione muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. "Do you want your students to fail or something?"

"No," he snapped, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at her. "The board of Governors refused the idea of switching to the one I wanted to, so I simply write the correct directions on the chalkboard. If my students refuse to read them? Well, that's on them. I can lead a horse to water, but I cannot make it drink. If they want to learn, they can, and if they don't want to, they don't have to. My job is to educate them, not hold their hands. I am not teaching bloody toddlers." He shivered at the last few words.

"Do you hate children?"

"No, I don't. I hate stupid people, whether they are children or not. Now come on, we have work to do that does not involve talking about how I feel about my students, which are, thankfully, far away at Hogwarts."

Hermione turned, bent down and grabbed one of the pairs of gardening gloves. She shoved them on her hands, expecting them to be rough, but they were smooth and comfortable.

Made with magic then, she guessed, though she did not say it.

"Where should we start?" she asked.

"You want to rake those leaves over there, and I will work on the hedges?" Severus said. "I think that will be a good place to start." He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, not waiting for her to answer. He grabbed the pruning shears and went to work on said hedges.

Hermione nodded but knew it was pointless; Severus had his back turned to her now. She started to rake the leaves for a moment before she asked, "Where am I supposed to stick them after I get them into piles?"

No answer from him. He had his back turned to Hermione now and was attacking the hedges with a bit of gusto; the evergreen leaves fell around him in piles. Hermione sighed and let the rake slip from her grasp, where it landed in the leaves. She walked over to him, tapping him on the back. He still ignored her and was staring up at the sky.

"Earth to Severus," she mused, shaking his shoulder. "Did a dementor get you or did you lose your hearing in the last few moments? Or are you just ignoring me?"

"Yes?" He asked, turning to face her. "Sorry, I was just thinking. Just leave them in the piles, and after it gets dark we can just vanish them with magic."

"I thought magic would ruin things?"

"Leaves aren't potion ingredients, so no, magic is fine on them," Severus said, rolling his eyes at her.

"Don't roll your eyes at me," she cried, shoving him playfully.

He dropped the pruning shears and grabbed both of her wrists. His touch caused sparks to dance across her skin. "I will roll my eyes at you if I want to. Anyway, you have no room to talk about eye-rolling. You do it all the bloody time."

"Do not!" She could not help but laugh.

He growled into her ear, pressing against her, "Do too."

Hermione pulled back from him, and the toe of one of her shoes caught on Severus' heel. The two of them were somewhat awkward to begin with if she was honest. She could trip over her own two feet on flat ground with bright lights. Severus, on the other hand, was all angles, long-limbed and spider-like, with his centre of balance. They tumbled down into the leaves together, him landing on top of her. His black hair covered his face, leaves sticking to it. The weight of his body pressed against her. The two of them lay there, silently, the moments passing. Hermione stared up at him and Severus looked down at her.

"Um…" She murmured. "You are quite heavy, you know, even if you don't look it."

He untangled his limbs from hers, falling on the ground next to her. "You did that on purpose, Granger, I know it."

"I didn't," Hermione said, her voice rather shrill.

"Yes. You. Did." Severus muttered, taking hold of her left hand, adding softly. "Or maybe I just tripped; that could be the case."

"You're a horrible gardener, you know that?" She leaned into his side, trying to change the subject. "So why did you want to do this, and be honest with me."

"I…" He turned away from her before continuing, "I like being outside. I rarely ever get to do that between work, potions and Dumbledore. It's something that takes a backseat to everything else."

Hermione tried to think of something to say and how she might even go about saying it. It was rather shocking to hear this from him. It did not fit the man she had painted in her mind. It did not fit within the frame of reference she had. Something so foolish as him saying that he liked to be outside was far more crushing to her than just about anything else. This life might feel like it could stretch on forever, but it would one day end in a crash of horror and pain. Long ago, during the war, she had told Harry and Ron, "Forever is for fools." She disagreed with herself, looking back. Forever was something that everyone wanted, everyone desired, but none could ever have.

'Do I want a forever with him?' Hermione thought, 'or do I just not want to be alone anymore?'

Would it be so horrible just not to want to be alone? Would it be such a wretched thing to give in to this, to the future she had proof would already happen? Would it be so insane to let herself start to fall in love with him? Was it even possible to stop yourself from doing such a thing? Hermione Jean Granger was not a light switch that could be turned on and off, but then neither was love. She decided at that moment that she did, in fact, love him. It was something that just came about like a seed beginning to grow or a flower starting to bloom. It just was, and there was nothing that she could do to change that, but then neither did she want to.

This feeling had come upon her like a sweet melody that filled her ears. She did not know when it had started, but Hermione clung to it. She dug her nails into it and was unwilling to let it go. She did not voice it, though, terrified that Severus might laugh at her if she did.

"Do I never leave the castle where you come from, Hermione? Because it's quite odd that you haven't made one of your comments, and you always seem to have those for me."'

Their hands were still clasped together, but neither of them seemed to want to let go. If anything, Hermione wanted to touch more of Severus. No, that wasn't it. She tried to get as close as she possibly could. She wanted to be so close that she felt each breath he took. She wanted to latch onto him, his mind, body, and soul. She fought the urge to lean over and kiss him, not knowing he would want her to. Hermione's nervousness, shyness, and worry held her back.

"I don't actually know whether or not he does, to be honest," she said. "He's very distant from the rest of us. He's depressed, I think when I look back. But I also could be wrong for all I know. Since I am a student, and he's a professor, perhaps he frolics in the Forbidden Forest on his days off."

Severus laughed, this strangled and odd sound, something rather unexpected coming from him. "I can assure you he does not frolic anywhere." He rolled over onto his side, facing her and let go of her hand. He watched her as if he were taking in every detail of her face. As if she were something rather remarkable. "Can I kiss you?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Because it's the right thing to do, that's why."

Instead of answering, Hermione kissed Severus. She pulled him closer to her and then encouraged him to lay back down on the grass. She pulled herself on top of him, kneeling as she leaned over. She clasped their hands together. This thing felt right to her. This thing was something that was supposed to be. Hermione shivered at the thought as Severus let go of one of her hands to hold onto her hip. His hair was spread out across the ground like ribbons. His lips tasted like honey and the cigarettes he always seemed to be smoking, much to her dismay.

She pulled away after a moment, her cheeks heating up as she did, and tried to catch her breath. He reached up, slipping a long-fingered hand under her jumper.

"Maybe you aren't like some sort of dark fairy godmother," Severus sighed softly. "But still very much like a fairytale or maybe even a dream. One I don't know I want to wake up from."

'Men,' she thought. Always thinking with the wrong bloody head. No matter what time or place. Not that she actually was much better.' Hermione shivered under Severus' dark-eyed gaze as he looked her over quite interested. Though she could be just as bad as him, wasn't she? She wanted him, inside of her, touching her, fucking her, but that will have to wait, she reminded herself.

Hermione untangled their bodies and sat cross-legged next to him. She did not know what to say to his comment. She did not know if there was anything that could be said. Without her heart running wild on her as it had just a few moments ago, Hermione did not know that she would not choose something else if she could. To fix the past, she did not think that she would return to her present if given a chance. However, there was no promise of what she might face here and now. She could end up dying at the hands of Merlin only knew whom. There was no record of a Hermione Snape where she came from, but maybe there was another reason for that. It was better to just not think of it, safer for her sanity and good sense. A person was not supposed to know exactly how their life was to end… Her mind wandered to Severus, and she fought the urge to grit her teeth at the information she had given him in one of their arguments. It was her fault he knew that, but he was the type of person who would want to know, wasn't he?

Hermione shut her eyes and turned her face towards the sky, and the sun gently warmed her. She heard Severus shuffle around and sit up, she felt his cold fingers tracing along her skin, leaving a pleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach. She opened her eyes and turned to look at him.

"You don't want to be here, do you?" he questioned, taking in a deep breath through his nose. He narrowed his eyes at her. "If this isn't real to you. If you do not like me? Do not toy with me. I ask you not to play games with me, or is that too much to ask someone like you? Someone who had the pleasure of knowing a Potter, even if it was his son." He sneered the last bit.

This man did look like the Professor, snapping and snarling like a crazed beast. He might as well have been burying a dagger into her chest, or at least that is what it felt like to her. As if the very idea that they had grown closer meant that he had to push her away. He stood up and loomed over her. He looked down at her as if he were studying her.

"Just stop it! Just stop, okay!" Hermione snapped, standing up, and she shoved him, her fists slamming into his chest. "Stop acting as if you don't care or I don't have feelings. Don't act as if you don't know exactly what you are doing. Merlin, you wear it on your face. The best spy who ever lived, my arse. I can read you like a bloody book, and it's not even a good one." Angry laughter spilled out from her lips as tears streamed down her cheeks. Everything was wrong. Everything was broken. This situation was not how her life was supposed to be. This wretched man somehow had twisted his way into her heart. He, however, pushed every single button she had with the precision of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Says the woman who cares so little for herself that she sent herself back in time and couldn't be bothered to figure what she was doing!" He wrapped his hands around her wrists. "And do your best to keep your hands to yourself, woman! Or my mother and her stupid ideas can be damned." His black eyes narrowed, and he scowled down at her. He added, hissing softly, "And you can do whatever you please, you can take the bloody compass with ya." His anger caused him to slip at the last moment into a rougher and less formal pattern of speech. It was something that belonged far more in this place than in the Wizarding World. He tightened his jaw and let out a grimace. Then he cracked his neck and sighed softly.

Hermione took a deep breath, her body shaking as she tried to settle her nerves and avoid punching him. One moment the two of them had been drawing closer only to pull away. Maybe it was for the best, even if she did stay here and with him. A brutal reminder that Snape was still Snape, and nothing was ever going to change that. She might now know that he liked to be outside, that he lived in worn-out denims at least when he wasn't at Hogwarts, that he talked in his sleep. Her mind slipped back to a few days before when she had found him napping on the sofa with his mother's cat sleeping on his chest.

'No,' she thought sarcastically. 'Severus was not made of stone whether he wanted that to be the case or not.'

Severus scowled, staring down at his boots, his nostrils flaring as he growled through gritted teeth. Hermione could nearly feel the tension that came off of him. A few moments passed in silence, hacking away at Hermione's anger. The two of them did not have to love one another, but they did need to get along. They did need to understand one another. Or history would repeat itself, and there might be another family in this house playing out the story of abuse—the same patterns, storylines, and all the guilt that came along with it.

Hermione reached out for Severus, taking hold of his hand and yet he was the one who spoke, but he only whispered under his breath so softly she could barely hear him, "I am not my father, I will not be my father." His hand clenched tightly on her hand. "I am sorry, Hermione, I don't know what got to me. I am okay. I just sometimes feel like I am a cauldron simply waiting for the right moment to explode." He laughed slightly, but the sound was odd and flat.

She could not figure out what to say to that, but she forced herself to smile at him softly, and while doing so, she rubbed her palms against her forearms.

Severus nodded, turning silently back to the house, and Hermione followed after him. The silence between them was a gentle comfort, and for once she did not feel the urge to speak.

Earlier in the morning, Eileen had asked Hermione if she wanted flowers, but all she had said was, 'A cut flower is a dead one, but it has yet to begin to wither.'

'That's a silly thing to think,' Eileen murmured, pinning her hair up as she did.

'Well, it's how I feel,' she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest, and with that, the conversation was over.

Part of her hoped the other woman wouldn't take it personally. But in this life, Hermione had very few things that she could control and not having half-dead roses in her hands was one of them.

She set those thoughts aside, letting herself get lulled into thoughts of her past. All little girls dreamed of their weddings, or at least that's what Hermione's mum always insisted to her. She did not believe her now or then. It did not matter that her mother had a good profession, had gone to a good university, and was everything an independent woman should be; when it all came to an end, her mother was still a woman of her generation. She was still someone who thought happiness was a wedding ring, a lovely home and a baby in a cradle. Hermione, on the other hand, before that photo? She had not thought much of children, husbands, or a "traditional" life, a wizarding or a Muggle one when she was honest with herself, which she always tried to be. But the photo had planted the seed, leaving it to dig into her brain and a desire to make a life with Severus. No matter how long or short it might be. But that was a theory more than anything else, as hard as it might be, even with his wounds and hers as well. There were whispers and whims in her mind. It was haunted by a war that had yet to even happen in this time and place.

The act of standing before a mirror in a yellowed charity shop wedding dress was a whole different story. Magic could fix it, whiten it, make it look new once more. But something held her back. Something froze her in place as she stared at her reflection. Sometimes it was okay for things to be a bit battered and bruised. It was okay to come out of a situation with a few scars. She fought the urge to laugh at herself. It was just a bloody dress, not a person. She held out her wand, muttering a spell under her breath and the fabric whitened before her eyes.

'Better, she thought.

But part of her missed the lace that looked as if it had a history. Like it had been here long before her and would be here long after she was gone. That was rather silly, though. Women were supposed to look beautiful on their wedding day. They were supposed to have the best dress money could buy, or at least her mother told her so long ago. Bloody hell, it felt strange to think about her mother. To think of the woman who should have been here and her father who should be waiting outside of those doors. They were young now in this time and space, raising the younger version of herself. Eileen came into the room, bustling around. Hermione watched the older woman through the mirror but did not say anything to her. Her soon to be mother-in-law grabbed a brand new blue ribbon and the veil she had worn to her wedding day.

She was behind Hermione now, combing out Hermione's still wet curls, holding pins between her teeth. Her black eyes narrowed as if she were studying each detail in Hermione like her son might study a potion. Eileen Prince-Snape was a strange creature, even a bit cantankerous. She set aside the comb and began to braid Hermione's hair, tugging and twisting at it. Her nails pressed against the younger witch's scalp.

Hermione hissed at one of the harshest twists.

"Sorry, Hermione," Eileen murmured, but continued, now adding the navy blue ribbon to her twists. "You have such lovely hair, you know. I wished when I was your age that I had curls like yours. But even with all the product galleons could buy my hair was still and is as bloody limp as a paintbrush."

Hermione opened and shut her mouth, not knowing what to say. Unlike her son, Eileen felt the need to fill the silence with words and take up space. To remind you, she was, in fact, there, but she could not seem to notice how much it did grind on Hermione's nerves. She just did not have the heart to tell the old witch to shut it. Silence helped her, eased her, and allowed her to think, but sometimes she enjoyed the woman's soft ramblings that meant very little but still always had an air of humour or understanding. Hermione had despised her curls growing up, barely bothering to run a comb through them most days while it was still wet, which only made it worse, looking back. It was just hair and stupid hair at that. But it seemed the grass wasn't greener on the other side either. Hermione's mother had told her once that her hair was her crowning glory, but she even now didn't know if she agreed with the woman.

Severus' mother only left her heart aching for her own, even if Eileen was beginning to take her place in Hermione's heart. She was not a replacement but someone to care for in her own right.

Eileen continued after a moment as she pinned the ribbon in the intricate updo she was creating. "There, we have something old, that would be the dress, something borrowed, that would be my veil, and something new and blue, that would be the ribbon. I am sorry your mum can't be here for this, but my own wasn't at mine either. The daft witch blasted me straight off the bloody family tree when I became a midwife. No daughter of hers would do such a dirty job for Muggles who lived in those wretched slums. Or so she claimed. I didn't care one bit, you know, not one stinking bit. Maybe that was why I ended up marrying Tobias and was quite old for a witch when I did. I wanted to piss her off. I wanted her to blow her top, which was why I paid for the announcement in the Daily Prophet. You should have heard the howler she sent me that morning. Thankfully, Toby had been at work when it came. Magic is beautiful and wonderful, but sometimes when it's in the wrong hands? I can't help but wonder if we all would be better without it, don't you think? You are a Muggleborn after all and grew up without it, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, I am a Muggleborn," Hermione said softly. "But I don't know what it's like to live without magic any more than you do… It has been part of my life for as long as I can remember, but I didn't know it was magic. My mother once told me when I was about three or maybe four, she and my father were arguing, and then the kettle ended up thrown out of the kitchen window. I don't remember it, but they were both rather, well, horrified from what I was told. Looking back, I don't blame them. I even understand it. So no, Eileen, I did grow up with it, but I just didn't have the world or the people around me to explain it."

The other woman didn't speak; she just stood there stock-straight and rang out her hands. Her eyes were unyielding as she stared at Hermione or maybe at herself in the mirror. Eileen hissed through gritted teeth and finally spoke, "You sound like my son, you know, or maybe you do know, don't you? You're not one of those, are you, the anti-Muggle Muggleborns? They are a rather strange lot, disavowing a part of who they are in the desperation to pretend to be something they are not."

"No, I am not, and you have gotten to know me as well; I have thought to have gotten to know you? You would know that. Your son also decided to leave part of himself behind. To try to bury a part of himself. Did you see anything wrong with that?"

Eileen stalked over to the window in the corner of the room, gripped the white windowsill, and stared out across the church lawn outside. She looked like someone had kicked her dog or taken the very life from the room. Her black and silver hair hung around her, though it did not hide her grim expression. "Ms Granger, which you still are for now, I know more about what caused this war and the players behind it than you and my son will ever get the pleasure to know. I will take those memories to my grave because I know they will not do the light side any good. I know what my son has done, better than you or anyone else, besides maybe him. And I know I am partly to blame for that. But you are a newcomer to this time and the wizarding world, do not begin to judge me for things you can barely understand. My son is all I have left, at least all that matters, and I will do anything to protect him. One day you will understand that after you have become a mother yourself. I asked you that because I was worried that maybe he had fallen in with the wrong kind again. I grew up in that world. I know those types of people well and unlike the Longbottoms I understand most of the Lestranges are just like any other man or woman you would meet on the street. The scariest types of monsters, however, are those who can pass as human until you get too close."

Hermione walked over, joining the other woman by the window, changing the subject and asked, "Why did you become a midwife?"

"Because I wanted to make a difference… A real one, and I couldn't do that in the wizarding world. I am from a different place and station than you are. Nor was as I was as smart as you or my son, but even as a Slytherin back then, they rarely let their daughters be anything more than decorations, dolls to be kept on shelves, things to be fucked, and to produce a heir and a spare." Her voice was crude and harsh as she continued, "My family, soon to be your family, the Princes are even worse, to be honest. We Romani folk are strange ones, but I am allowed to say that, and you aren't, you hear me? Traditional people would be a kind way to put it but stick in the mud is closer to the truth. It wasn't much better in the Muggle world, but their war changed some things and opened some doors that had been shut. I could be something in this world, I could make a difference and help people. And I didn't need magic to do it."

"I know I shouldn't ask this, but, Eileen, when were you born?"

The older witch cracked the window slightly and lit a cigarette. "You know you should never ask a lady her age, don't you?"

She felt her face heat up, and she turned away.

"I was just kidding with you, Hermione. No need to look so sour. I was born in 1930 and had Severus when I was thirty. He wasn't planned, but I wouldn't change what happened for the world. Well, maybe who his father was, but then my boy wouldn't be himself, now, would he? Toby was different then. He had his own experience with magic, you see, before I met him, and it turned him off to the whole idea of it. I don't blame him, but I wish he could have gotten past it and seen his son for what he was, just his son. But I am making excuses for him, aren't I? I should just be quiet now, shouldn't I? It's your wedding, and I am laying my weight upon your shoulders. I am sorry for that." Eileen continued to puff on her cigarette and then threw it out the window when she was finished with it. She crossed the tiny room. It was honestly no bigger than a bloody broom closet, and she took a seat in a chair in the opposite corner. She tugged on her faded evergreen dress, trying and failing to get it to cover her pale skinny knees and the scars that covered them. It looked a bit like someone had ashed a cigarette out on her. Hermione did her best not to stare at them. Eileen, like her son, was long-limbed and tall beautiful in her own way. Like a flower or better yet a storm.

The cold breeze that came through the open window caused Hermione to shiver and cross her arms over her chest.

"You must have gone to school with him, Tom Riddle, I mean," Hermione said abruptly, the words slipping from her mouth. "Sorry, and I do understand if you don't want to talk about it."

"I did, and not only that, but the bloody bastard was my prefect. I went to school with all of them. Abraxas Malfoy, who died of dragon pox far too young, his future wife who died in childbirth bringing their heir into the world, the Black brother married his second cousin, the other who did a small bit better, and both of the future wives as well. I was one of them, but also, I was not. Not unlike my son was, but in my case, it had to do with where my family came from and who they were more than my blood status. Not really that different in the end, though, is it? Not really.'' Eileen began to cry, but she continued, her voice echoey and painful. Filled with intense bristling anger, "I can tell you what Tom liked for breakfast, that he ate more at the beginning of the year than the end. Looking back, I know what that meant but ignored it at the time. I can tell you what Myrtle's laugh sounded like and the way her tears looked when they tracked down her cheeks. I can tell you what it was like to watch a future Dark Lord play Quidditch. He was a rather good seeker, you know. I can tell you how Slughorn hung on his every word and how he treated a mere half-blood like he was higher than a king. I can tell you what house Hagrid was in. I can tell you things I wish I could rip from my mind and things I would like to clutch onto for dear life. I lived it, and yet they ignored me, but I wanted it that way, just like my parents before me. Surely as the Parkinson daughter was in your time. I am telling you this, Hermione because I didn't tell my son. Because I thought burying this, keeping it clutched tightly within my heart, mind, body, and maybe even in my soul, would keep him safe. He's not innocent, nor will I ever claim such a thing, but then neither is anyone. When I told you the worst type of monsters are human? I speak from experience. Because I once called one of them my friend. My son is trying to drag himself back from the mistakes he's made. You can't make it happen, but you know what? You can drag him down; you can toss him off the edge back into the abyss. I hope what I see inside you means you won't, but I have been wrong once before. However, this is your wedding, and I should not be speaking about such things."

The woman ran her fingers over her arms and stared past Hermione out the window. She wiped her tears on her sleeve and let out a soft sigh.

"It's fine, you know," Hermione murmured, "to tell me those things. Just because I am carrying my own weight doesn't mean I can't take some of your burdens too, and maybe one day you will take some of mine. We are going to be family after all, aren't we?"

"We are," Eileen sighed and stood up. She reached for Hermione's veil and added as she led her back in front of the mirror, "I think it's time we put this on you, and then we should be going, shouldn't we?"

"We should."

She slipped the veil clips into Hermione's updo; the metal was cold against her scalp, sending shivers up her back. Hermione got one last glimpse of herself in the mirror before she pulled the veil over her face: she barely recognised herself in this woman with wide brown eyes, a bit of makeup here and there. Most of all, this person was beautiful, downright regal, she was someone who looked like a witch, and for once in a long time Hermione was happy about the reflection that stared back her. This choice was the right thing to do, and it felt right in a way nothing else had in a very long time.

Hermione Jean Granger knew she was supposed to be here. In this time and space, doing precisely what she was doing. Together the two women walked into the chapel, and Hermione hoped that Severus would feel the same when he faced her at the altar. Love didn't have to be like a fire burning brightly, consuming everything it touched, sometimes it was like a cauldron left to simmer, and that was okay.