There was a sound coming from the door, someone trying to open it. She glided over to it, and unlocked it. Harry stood there, grinning at her, and kissed her delightedly on the cheek. You look incredible, he whispered, slyly pinching her on the bum, she slapped his hand away, and laughed. His own appearance had matured, and it took her long enough to realise the pain of unrequited love. All was well now, and he himself had settled down with an American witch. I hate this dress, she grimaced, tugging at the hem of her skirt for emphasis. He rolled his eyes, As long it looks good. I've no idea about you women, you're always torturing yourselves for beauty. I deserve it. I went shopping with Ginny Weasley and Lavender, she answered truthfully. His eyes caught sight of the Silk Cut, as well as the half finished stub.

Hermione, you didn't, he protested, grabbing the pack before she could reach them, it's such a disgusting habit. And, you're getting your dress ashy, look. He brushed off her skirt, and heels of her boots with great care and pride. She rolled her eyes at his fatherly concern, Harry, giving orders to me is superflous. He laughed, and suddenly gave her a very knaveish wink. He gestured for her to lean in, and she did so, wondering what in the hell he was concealing in his suit.

A very fine bottle of Firewhiskey, it turned out. Her eyes widened, and before she could admonish him, she found herself liberally taking swigs from the bottle. The stuff went down about as easily as botuber puss, and she choked for a good five minutes before she could squeeze in another sip. He gave her an impressed stare.I never would have guessed, Mrs. Plath, he teased. She made a face, If there's one thing I regret, it's the name. Hermione Plath. Ugh. Could it become any more repulsive? I swear, I sound like a bloody spinster. He nearly spit out his own spit in mirth, You become merrier every time I see you, Granger. It's good to see you in excellent spirits. What, this?, she asked, tapping the bottle. He smiled, bemused by her.

His friend certainly had grown, but there seemed something amiss. Before she had met Damien, smoking and drinking were about as appealing as hopping into the sack with Crabbe and Goyle. Damien, as likeable as he was, seemed so insufficient for her. At least he pictured Hermione marrying someone of equal or close intelligence, not a notoriously block-headed Quidditch player. But, she seemed happy, except for a dull ache in her eyes that seemed to intensify everytime she looked at him. He loathed to tell her that she was a friend,a sister at that, and the possibilities of a romantic continuation were nil, but he had to. It was eating at her, even Ron said so.

So. Who d'you think is coming?, he asked, discreetly swiping the bottle from her. I haven't a clue. Dumbledore, Minerva. Sirius, Remus perhaps, Flitwick, Sprout even. You could knock me over with a feather if Snape decided to show, she mused, counting on her fingers. Harry gaped at her, You didn't invite Snape, did you? Oh, Hermione, what the hell were you thinking?.

Obviously nothing, a voice drawled from behind them, a gaunt man wearing an extremely disdainful expression. Harry paled, and Hermione began to cough to disguise her laughter. Leave it to him to say the wrong things at the wrong time.

I need a word with Mrs. Plath. Take your leave, Potter, or I'll forcibly extract you, he said calmly, but with a glint of malice behind his veiled intonations. Harry immediately rose, the lividity of his face slowly reddening. Decided to show, did you?, he spat, raising himself to his considerable height, and ruin the best day of her life? Just to see what you can never have?.

In an instant, Snape's composure had vanished, and he had Harry pinioned against the wall, a feral violence wildly brewing in his ruthless eyes. I told you to leave. Do not misunderstand my orders, he said quietly, not even bothering to snarl. The look upon his face was enough. He let his grip slowly loosen, and Hermione watched, utterly fascinated, and oddly excited by this show of clashing mascunline egoes. Harry wiped off his neck more than was necessary, and his green eyes looked blood thirsty. He gave Hermione a curt nod, and quickly whisperd, If he tries anything, scream. I'll be at the door.

I hardly think that's necessary, Potter. I highly doubt I would rape or kill a Quidditch player of considerable proportions two hours before the wedding, he replied, ever quick on his feet. Harry looked somewhat less confident, not knowing how to respond to Snape's perceptively damaging insults.

After Harry had closed the door angrily behind him, Snape turned to her. She gazed at him with drunken surprise, as well as a sickening sense of longing. He had changed little, though he seemed far leaner than before. His aristocratic nose, thin lips and all encompassing eyes were a very sharp thorn in her side. His voice, she had just discovered, still had the power to hypnotise her, to do his bidding and to wound her more viciously than any other she had encountered. His jetty robes swirled impressively around him, and his hair still had a blue-black sheen. He looked suddenly, comparitively god-like to Damien, and she was ashamed to wish that it was he who would accompany her at the altar.

She must have been staring, for nothing was said in the course at least two minutes. Something interesting, Mrs. Plath?, he asked, knowing how awful the name sounded, and especially so on his gifted tongue. She cringed, Stop calling me that. Call me anything else, but I hate the fucking name. A sharp curve at the corners of his mouth told her that he was smiling in a cruelly amused manner. Fine, Miss Granger. I have a simple question before I take my leave, why?, the tone of his voice suddenly became hushed, and just as the weather had suddenly darkened, so had his expression. His eyes became opaque, and nothing could be read of his body expression, except that he was mightily uncomfortable.

Why what, you prat, she burbled, thanking God that at least she had the Firewhiskey to blame. He chose to ignore the name calling, This marriage, or rather, this sham of a marriage. I know perfectly well you are not happy. Any idiot with the most basal of perceptions could tell what a miserable wretch you are. She tried to make a face by pouting, but only found her mouth tugging that signalled tears were close. You're also quite inebriated. Something which is both unbecoming and very telling. Nothing good has come of a marriage in when either spouse was mentally compromised, he said sharply. She suddenly caught a whiff of the same stuff which he accused her of consuming.

So're you, bloody hypocrite, she accused weakly. She noticed his gaze slip momentarily to the dress, as well as her face. He almost looked appreciative before he looked irritated, Hardly, Granger. I've had a few drinks, but unlike yourself, I've learned to hold my liquor. Like the dress?, she hiccuped, girlishly tugging on the material. He nodded, almost langorously, But I prefer you in robes.

Her eyes shot open, and a giggle escaped before she could stop up her laughter. His annoyance increased, In the simple fact that an academic wardrobe suits you better. But corsets do wonders for your figure, he thought, and immediately chided himself. He couldn't shake the deadened, stupified look her face held, nor the painfully incoherent bubbling. He knew that she was slowly wasting away, and that her unhapiness was affecting her physcially. He had seen her a few times since her graduation, and was shocked the the news of her marriage and her choice. Actually, disgusted was a more appropriate word. She looked ravishing now, even if she was drunk, her face very skilfully made up and her delightful figure in the dress. But, nothing can disguise lachrymosia, and he was expert at detecting it. All he wanted to do now, and he found this disturbingly out of character, was to slap her into reality, dress her in her Head Girl robes, and kiss her roughly until the whole world was bathed in snow. He pulled a face. Such a stupidly romantic, maudlin train of thought. Honestly, he thought, I'm going soft.

Again, I reiterate, why?, he asked again, his tone sharp enough to drive tacks into her skull. She flinched, and held her hands up unsteadily, as if he was going to strike her. She at him desolately, drunken haze seeming to have evaporated. Because I love him, her answer sounded mechanic, even to her own ears, and she covered them. Privately, she was glad he was here. He was the only one brutish, arrogant and stupid enough to tell her the truth she wanted to hear. He laughed, coldly, mercilessly, Don't be foolish, girl. I would hardly call this faltering relationship love. I wouldn't even qualify it as lust.

She was completely sobered now, and she rose up in anger, ignoring that her veil had tumbled to the floor. How dare you come to my wedding and telll me what you think I feel. You couldn't tell a woman's heart if you could read it in a book, she knew she had slammed a nerve by the way his face contorted.
Granted. As long as you don't assume to know my past either, his voice was so cold and so final, she found herself clutching his robe, even though he made no attempt to leave. Please don't go, she begged, humiliated by the fact her tears found the most inopportune times to well up. He looked mildly put off and stepped away from her like she was a puddling potion.

I wasn't attempting to. In fact, I'd rather stay to watch this horrifyingly false ceremony, he replied. She put her hands over her face, and wiped the tears away brusquely. Wordlessly, he handed her a hankerchief. Black, of course. She glanced up thankfully, but saw him purposely looking elsewhere. Again, she was glad for his tactful evasion of her fragile emotions. This was the one time, she supposed, that he had held his tongue.

Why, Granger? You haven't answered my question. If you're not going to, I'm wasting my time, and in fact, shall leave, he snapped, literally as soon as she had stopped crying. She gave him a watery glare, Because I love him. He's handsome, charming, thoughtful. Stupid, crass, lecherous, a skirt chaser and probably couldn't read a first year Potions lesson to save his bloody life, he finished impatiently. She had no argument, for his words held stinging truths behind each remark. He's faithful to me now, and I find it quite satisfying that I can use my talents to tutor another, she answered smoothly. He looked quite entertained, Tutor? To even bring him to a mere speck of your intelligence, he'd have to know how to use magic first.

She shrugged, tiring of trying to hold ground with him. He was always right, and both of the knew it. Snape was a man of few words, but they were always the most targeted. Today was no exception. Why do you even care, anyway?, she asked wearily, resting her chin upon an open palm. He looked at her with guarded admiration,Because you shouldn't waste yourself on him. His voice suddenly become a growl, and he avoided her damnably acute stare.

Truth be told, Severus Snape had a long standing affection for the woman who sat in front of him. He had persistently decieved himself into believing it was only circumstantial esteem, that she was worthy of respect if she could solve his Flamel puzzle in minutes, as well as survive two of the most dullwitted boys he could think of. But to marry herself off to someone stupider than Viktor Krum brought her reputation down a few notches. There were more than several raised eyebrows, and it was he who had come to defend her dignity when no one else would.

Hermione's head was reeling. If nothing else was dependable in this world, at least Snape's tireless hatred of her was. And, to top it off, he was beginning to sound concerned, though awfully indifferent expression and biting tone would have told otherwise. So leave, if you're so unhappy, she shrugged, leaning towards the wastebasket to pick up her cigarettes. He gave her a positively poisonous glare, Trying to hasten our demise, are we?. She rolled her eyes and flicked her ash dangerously close to his groin. He looked affronted, then amused.

Are you going to stand up and ruin my wedding?, she asked, her reddish eyes thoughtfully observing his guarded face. He laughed, Good gods no, just trying to bring you back to your sensibilities. Believe you me, Granger, only out of the most childish inclinations of my heart did I come to gloat. Do not mistake this as a kind of waxing love. She gave him a small smile, but he instantly saw he had wounded her, and felt infintely hypocritical.

She threw the stub onto the floor, and instinctively he ground it out. She gave him a questioning glance, and he shrugged, . She nodded assentively, and suddenly reached behind her head, and removed the mess of pins holding it all together. Her smooth mane fell almost to her back, and she was pleased with its straightness. But, considering her idea of marriage was becoming rapidly unravelled, she decided her uncomfortable hairstyle might as well also. She missed his hungry glance as she whipped extraneous strands from her eyes. Come to think of it, he thought dryly, there seemed a lot that Hermione Granger missed.
Severus thought little of the pain he would suffer at her hands if she would go through with this stupid sham of a wedding.

And knowing her Gryfindor stubborness and refusal of admitting error, she probably would.














A/N: Thanks for the reviews, I'm happy I got so quick a response. I know I jumped into the scenes, I tend to do that with my writing. I'm impatient and hate having to wait for an anti climatic ending. Anyway, there's more about Damian in here, and will certainly be more in the future. Also, with the smoking and drinking, I'm simply trying to convey more of Hermione's muggle side, rather than her witchy one.