Chapter 3 : Waltzing Hermione
Despite the lateness of the hour, Hermione found herself unable to sleep in the narrow, lumpy bed. She ignited her wand and stared up at shadows cast onto the slanted ceiling, hands clasped together as though in prayer. Ever since she had received her first letter from the Ministry of Magic she had lain awake fretting night after night, willing sleep to rescue her from the pervading gloom of her increasingly pessimistic thoughts.
When she had received that first letter her immediate reaction had been disbelief, quickly followed by outrage. Yet somewhere along the line she had conformed to the traditional Richter scale of grief and felt nothing more than tired acceptance. She wondered what the old S.P.E.W. Hermione would say now, if confronted with her present, helpless incarnation. She had tried to fight the law, at first. When it had first appeared as a short summary proposal occupying a tiny corner of the Daily Prophet she had immediately understood its impact and recoiled in horror. She had fired off rapid letters of opposition, even attended a rally, only to be pelted with eggs rewarded with hate mail for her efforts. Incredible as it seemed, popular opinion had eventually swung round in favour of the legislation, electing to view the Ministry as some sort of benevolent dating bureau. Disgusted, she had dropped her quill and renounced any further efforts; let them fight their own battles, for she was war weary enough.
She bit her lip. How could she have been so stupid? Even when the Ministry began lowering the age restrictions she had felt safe in the knowledge that her youth would afford protection long before a compulsory marriage was necessary. And when she had been proved wrong on that count she had comforted herself with the certainty that such legislation would never be applied to those working in the public sector. And now… and now she had no one else to blame but herself for the predicament in which she found herself. Well all she could say was thank God for George Weasley – an invocation that she was sure was entirely novel to the Almighty.
Everything had seemed to move so fast after their speedy declaration that the three weeks reserved for wedding preparations had flown by. Her eyes turned naturally to the white dress hanging on the back of the door. It was hard to believe that this time tomorrow everything would be over and that garment would be consigned to the back of the wardrobe, never to be worn again. If she was lucky.
A timid knock on the door broke her from her reverie. Frowning, she pulled on a dressing gown as she slipped out of bed to answer the door.
"George?" She squinted at the sudden rush of light from his wand.
"The very same," he replied, slipping in through the thin crack before deftly shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He held out a hand to steady the swaying wedding dress, catching sight of the discreet price tag still dangling from the hem. "How much!" he spluttered.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Blame your mother. Never mind a Death-Eater Revel; you don't know true violation until you've been to a wedding dress fitting with your future mother-in-law."
George turned around from his appraisal of the offending garment. "Well at least someone's getting some enjoyment out of this whole charade. I don't think I've been so in favour with the family since I accidentally trod on Percy's violin. Repeatedly."
They smiled at one another, instituting an awkward silence when neither of them could think of anything to say, before they both went to speak at the same time.
"No, go on," George insisted, colouring slightly.
"I was just going to say that I'll be glad when this is all over and we can get back to normal."
"You can say that again!" George said, hearing himself speak in an unnaturally hearty voice.
Hermione wondered why he was here, but thought better of asking outright in view of the fact that this was his parent's house, after all. "Have a seat," she said, half hoping that he would decline, citing his intention to leave shortly and leave her alone with her thoughts. He surprised her by taking a seat at the dressing table chair, forcing her to lower herself likewise onto the bed.
Truth was, he had been unable to sleep himself when he had noticed the soft light creeping out from under her door. He hadn't really thought about what he was doing until she had opened the door and peered out at him with red-rimmed eyes and a tired anxiousness that seemed to mirror his own feelings – not that a Weasley twin could ever admit to such things.
"How – how are you feeling?" he continued courageously, trying to strike out any hint of his pre-wedding nerves. Just imagine all those eyes upon him tomorrow and how idiotic he would look standing at the altar in a stupid set of dress robes!
Hermione shrugged, unwilling to open herself to the inevitable mockery by admitting to her worries that the Ministry would uncover their ruse. "Okay, I suppose," she said, hugging her knees to her chest as she regarded him cautiously.
"I just thought I'd see how you're coping contemplating your last night as Hermione Granger." George leaned back onto the back legs of the chair, fixing her with a confident grin that struck a discordant note against her jangled nerves.
"I'm getting a kiss from the groom, not a Dementor. I don't intend anything to change," she said firmly, although it didn't quite ring true in her head.
"Well, apart from your surname, of course. It'll be Hermione Weasley from now on." He smiled, contemplating how she would handle a playful poke in the side. Best to err on the side of caution, he decided, as he examined the unknown entity sitting opposite.
"George, even Muggles abandoned that sort of nonsense years ago," she snorted.
He frowned, setting the front chair legs firmly back on the floor with a loud thud.
"You didn't seriously expect me to take your name, did you?"
"Well, I had hoped-" George began.
"I'm not some chattel, passed from my father's keeping to my husband's the moment I utter 'I do,'" Hermione interrupted angrily.
George's face creased in puzzlement. "It doesn't mean that at all." He sat up straight, regarding Hermione intently – it was a bit rich accusing the child of that eternal matriarch and battleaxe, Molly Weasley, of disrespecting and underestimating the fairer sex. "It's a way of showing commitment."
"No, true commitment involves equality and compromise. True commitment would dictate a marriage of surnames as well as of souls." Despite recognising the unwelcome reversion back to their old Gryffindor Common Room roles, she seemed unable to stop herself as she warmed up to the theme.
George snorted. "I don't think Weasley-Granger's Wizard Wheezes has quite the same ring to it."
"Well then, you can't complain, can you?" Hermione shot back.
"Hermione, with all respect, I don't think you quite understand how it works in the wizarding world." Merlin's beard, if he couldn't even persuade his own wife to take his name, how on earth did he expect to get taken seriously by Fred, much less his business contacts?
"What, because I'm just some silly Muggle-born who needs to be married off to a wise old pure-blood as soon as possible in order to decontaminate my M-mudblood." She cursed the wobble in her voice as all the pent-up anxiety threatened to pour forth in front of George.
"Hermione! I would never – ever – think such a thing!"
Hermione looked up to regard the hurt expression in George's eyes and felt her anger dissipate. "I'm sorry, I know you're not the one I should be angry with." She sighed wearily, suddenly tired of it all.
"It's alright." He shrugged. "I guess we've all got pretty wound up with this idiot Marriage Law. You know, it wouldn't surprise me to hear that Umbridge had a podgy hand in it."
This led to several fruitful minutes spent slagging off Dolores Umbridge and recounting their experiences during her Hogwarts reign. Hermione particularly valued the first-hand account of the Weasley twin's infamous exit from Hogwarts, having been subjected to so many vying testimonies in the intervening years. She had a twinge as she felt for the briefest of moments what it must have been like to have been part of the Weasley twins' popular circle at school, before reverting back to her usual sensibilities.
"But weren't you worried about leaving school like that, without any qualifications?"
George shrugged. "Sometimes you've got to take a chance and go with your instincts. Let's face it, I was never going to follow my father along the conventional path and get a nice safe job in the Ministry."
Hermione turned her head toward the wedding dress. "Shame that you can't always choose which path you want to take," she said sadly.
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Snape glared at the dancing couples, arms folded oppressively across his chest and a scowl fixed firmly on his face – an unconventional mating ritual, to say the least. His lip curled in disdain as he took in the entwined form of Hermione Granger and whichever Weasley it was that she had recently bound herself to – they all looked the same to him. He stifled a yawn. Yes, it had all been very well presented and lavish – what, with the gross of white doves and Mermish choir - but he couldn't help thinking that it reeked terribly of new money. He looked dismissively around the giant marquee, trying to calculate how out of pocket Weasley junior would find himself in the cold reality of morning.
The song finished abruptly, and he watched Hermione peel herself away from her new husband and glide over to the side of the dance floor. Left to his own devices, George immediately embarked on an impromptu and energetic jive with Professor McGonagall. Zounds! He shuddered as he averted his eyes from the messy results of a particularly misjudged throw. Well that sight ought to put a dampner on Weasley's marital relations tonight, he thought wryly to himself. Not that he needed an additional dampner; Hermione Granger's relentless enthusiasm should prove trying enough. Still, even he wouldn't be so churlish as to deny the certain degree of charm she had managed to conjure up for the occasion. He supposed that was the point of expensive clothing. Well, at least that was one less unmarriageable and unmanageable Muggle-born removed from the gene pool. He scowled and returned to the constructive business of tearing his paper napkin into shreds.
"Hermione, have I told you how beautiful you look today?" Snape lowered his eyes as Dumbledore greeted Hermione enthusiastically to his left, rolling his eyes at the old man's sentimentality.
"Many times," she laughed - a high, tinkling sound which seemed so carefree that he had difficulty connecting it with the class bore he remembered.
"No dancing partner? Oh dear, this will not do, no indeed!" Snape noted the slurred edge to his words and cringed as he observed the wineglass clutched in his hand. Some people simply didn't know when to stop.
"No, really, I think I'll sit this one out."
"Nonsense, I won't hear of it! I'd do the honours myself if it weren't for the old injury." He tapped his knee knowingly and winked. "Look, Severus would be delighted to give you a twirl, wouldn't you, my dear boy?" He slapped Snape heartily on the back and was rewarded with a surly scowl.
"No, really, Dumbledore-"
Snape smiled wryly at the note of rising panic in the girl's voice, and almost felt tempted enough to take the wrench for a spin just for the entertainment value of watching her squirm at their close proximity. He snorted as he imagined her reaction to a bit of the old groin-grinding routine. But before he could dwell any further on his sadistic impulses he found himself being pulled up out of his chair and forced into the very real and unpleasant reality of dancing with his former pupil.
"Miss Granger," he said curtly as he placed a hand stiffly around her waist and took her hand in his own. She bristled as she felt the rough, callused skin of his fingertips brush against her own. His grip was surprisingly strong. "Oh, I beg your pardon - Mrs. Weasley I should say," he sneered, sounding anything but apologetic.
"Ms. Granger, actually," she corrected primly, colouring slightly.
They continued in silence, Hermione's heart thumping madly in her ribcage. His graceful movements, rather then enhancing her own, only succeeded in increasing her sense of nervousness lest she commit some error of footwork. Flustered, she accidentally trod on his left foot.
"No wonder you were left on the sidelines," he snapped, fixing his black eyes on her flushed face.
"Sorry si – Severus." She stopped herself from using his formal teacher's title just in time and blushed a deeper shade of red. Snape smirked to himself, gripping her tighter around the waist and pulling her closer as he noted the incensed eyes of The-Boy-Who-Lived and his red-haired flunkey watching from their table. His hand migrated down from her waist, long fingers spreading towards the curve of her behind and stopping just short of indecency. He grinned wolfishly at Harry and Ron over Hermione's shoulder, the smooth fabric deliciously cool against his skin.
"So, Hermione," he whispered silkily in her ear, feeling her hair tickle his cheek and savouring the very differing responses his actions seemed to be effecting on the golden trio. "Weasley's money good enough for you but not his name?"
"Wh – what?" She couldn't believe that anyone could be this rude - but then this was the same man of 'I see no difference' fame. "Not all of us are locked in some Neanderthal past masquerading as tradition," she answered tartly.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Really? I would have thought that sentiment precisely describes the family you're marrying into."
"And how would you know?" Hermione spat back, trying to pull her hand free from Snape's crushing grip. He pulled her closer roughly, causing her to stumble into him.
"You'd be surprised what you can observe if you choose dignified silence over clumsy chatter," he drawled slowly, before loosening his grip around her waist and taking a small step back as he looked her directly in the eye. She shivered as the cold black eyes penetrated her own, goose pimples breaking out on her bare shoulders. "You think you've married into some caring, sharing, big happy family? Think again, Mrs. Weasley. Unorthodox their opinions may be, but their veins still run with that old pure blood, however much they try to fight it. You'd be surprised how corrupting even the merest hint of pure blood can prove."
"I suppose you'd know," Hermione shot back, looking over her shoulder for someone to cut in and rescue her.
"Yes, I most certainly would," Snape replied silkily, causing Hermione to turn back round at the surprising tone of civility in his voice. "I've seen enough of their type to know exactly how they think. And," he raised his voice to block Hermione's interruption, "I've seen enough of this particular family to know exactly how they act. Look at the way Molly Weasley treated her first daughter-in-law – that is, until her beloved son suffered such a severe maiming that she realised no one else would have him."
"How dare you!" Hermione fought against his grip, no longer caring if she made a scene.
"No, you will listen to me." The low, menacing tone of his voice instantly quelled her struggles. "You can make all the pointless political gestures you like, but nothing – nothing – will change the fact that henceforth Hermione Granger has been scratched from existence. Welcome to the wizarding world." And with that he stalked off, Robes billowing behind him to the dying strains of the song.
"Nice dance, Severus?"
"No it most certainly was not!" Snape shouted irritably behind him at a swaying Dumbledore.
"Jolly good! Jolly good! Ah, Kingsley…"
He exited the marquee angrily, kicking a tent peg for good measure. To think, in less than a month's time that would be him taking to the dance floor with his new spouse. Not that he intended on having a dance floor at his wedding – there was little enough to celebrate and he had no intention of publicising the fact. He lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag, his stiff posture relaxing slightly as he exhaled. Merlin's beard, but this was a mess to find himself in! Not one of the hideous Gorgons here deserved the title of Mrs. Snape.
"Hermione, are you okay?" Harry asked, noting the red flush in her cheeks as she sat down at his table, carefully arranging the folds of her dress.
"Horrible man!" she spat, and no one needed to ask to whom she was referring.
"Scum bag," Ron muttered, his recent coldness toward his friend apparently forgotten in light of their common enemy. "You know what I think? I think that-"
"Hermione?" George interrupted, pulling her up gently by the hand. "Shall we?"
Ron scowled as he watched the pair waltz back onto the dance floor.
"Having fun?" George asked, looking down into Hermione's face. His eyes were gentle, readable, and there was none of the searing heat and tension in his loose hold that had been so evident with Snape. She was safe, comfortable. She nodded dumbly. "Welcome to my world," he said, unintentionally echoing Snape's parting remark.
She bit her lip, hoping that she had made the right decision.
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A/N:
1) Protestant pastor Martin Niemöller's famous poem about moral failure in the context of Nazi Germany:
First they cam for the communists, and I did not speak out because I was not a communist;
Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out because I was not a socialist;
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist;
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew;
Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.