Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters. Making no money here, as they all still belong to their prospective owners.


Chapter Sixteen: A Really Bad Day

Were it any other day, the gardens that surrounded them would have been breath-takeningly beautiful. The flowers were in full bloom—roses of every color, lilies, tulips, petunias, and a dozen or so other varieties that Hermione could not name. She thought wistfully of Neville, and how he could probably name every single plant there. But Neville Longbottom was not here at the Parkinson home, awaiting the most dreaded wedding of the century. Instead, he was risking life and possibly limp to retrieve the Magic Quill and the Book of Admittance from Hogwarts while the vast majority of Death Eaters—and even their master himself—was distracted by the day's festivities.

Hermione was dressed in her soft red dress, seated at the very back on the last bench set up on the groom's side in this gorgeous garden. Beside her, dressed in a dark, deep green set of dress robes—so dark green they were almost black—was Snape. He sat with his back straight as a board, and in an effort to think about anything else other than the reason she was here, Hermione found herself admiring the man's posture. It made her sit a little straighter, and only after a few minutes of doing, so she wanted so badly to slump her back down into a hunch. But she didn't, wanting to show that she could do this—all of this—and come out unscathed.

A cold wind, like a macabre chorus preceding him, swept over the pair as Lord Voldemort slid by them. He paused, only for a moment, to grin at Hermione.

"Having a lovely evening, Miss Granger?" he said, the taunting tones in his voice noticeable.

She forced the most polite smile she could to her lips and merely nodded. Snape bowed to the Dark Lord before being waved back down to his seat.

"I'll see you, along with the others here, sometime into the reception, Severus. Until then, enjoy yourself," Voldemort laughed.

"Of course, my lord. Thank you," Snape mumbled at Voldemort's retreating back.

Hermione's face had transformed into a scowl without her even noticing. Her eyes followed Voldemort to the very front, sitting on the bride's side of course, glaring at him all the way until he took his seat. She held her gaze a moment longer, as if willing lasers to shoot from her very eyes into the back of his bald, ashen head. She blinked, her eyes moving to stare straight ahead, catching sight of Ron standing up at the altar. He saw her looking, and Hermione couldn't help but notice the slight sick look he had on his face. He looked apologetic as he held her gaze, but Hermione only shrugged, looking back to Snape.

This day, this moment, this wedding… it was all going to be much harder than she had let on. She felt eyes on her and glanced up to see Snape staring at her, eyes full of concern and sympathy that he rarely let loose in public. Hermione shook her head, a silent "I'll live" followed by a quick jerk of a thumb in Voldemort's direction. Snape nodded once, turning his attention back to the front of the ceremony. It was mere moments later when an unfamiliar song started to play and the guests began to stand. Hermione should have known that the Wedding March wasn't going to be played, not at a pureblood wedding. She rose to her feet, turning to see Pansy, in a dazzling white gown made of lace and satin, appear at their end of the aisle.

She took an agonizingly long time to reach the altar, and from there, the wedding proceeded in the most normal fashion Hermione could have imagined. There was the exchanges of vows and of "I dos" and then the kiss. She had tried to be strong, but right at the critical moment, she had shut her eyes to the scene. The onlookers applauded the new husband and wife as they left to make their way to the gardens at the front of the manor home, where the reception was being held. Snape blocked Hermione's exit off the bench, so she was forced to wait as he allowed everyone else to exit the ceremony area. Once they were alone, he turned to her.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked in hushed tones.

"Fine. Why?"

"You shut yours eyes and groaned during the kiss. I don't think anyone else heard you, but nonetheless…"

She had thought that the groan had been kept in her thoughts alone. She sighed.

"I'm fine. I swear."

"Well, you'd better do a better job than that, Granger. We'll be at this reception for God knows how long, and you've been struggling."

"Understandably," she snapped.

"Our lives are on the line. Keep that in mind. Now, let's go."

They rose and were in the front garden, unmissed, in moments. They stopped just past an archway made entirely out of sculpted shrubbery, Snape's eyes scanning the crowd. Hermione knew that she'd better not press any buttons here, where he would have no choice but to make an example of her, so she kept silent. Finally, he seemed to have found his target—the newly wedded couple, standing around a table that was really too tall to be sat at comfortably, laughing with Lucius Malfoy. When Malfoy began to move away, Snape found his stride again, nudging Hermione along.

She wanted to groan again, to beg him to stop. She did not want to talk to Ron right now, but mostly, she didn't even want to see Pansy. The girl was insufferable, despite that descriptor being most often given to Hermione from Snape. But Pansy was something else that Hermione was not—a braggart. She wouldn't hesitate to rub the fact that she had married Ron Weasley, the boy Hermione had knowingly at least had a crush on for the last several years.

But now there they were, standing in front of the happy couple. Snape forced the tiniest of smiles on his face, taking Pansy's hand in his and giving it a light kiss on the back.

"Our sincerest congratulations to the couple," he said.

Pansy's eyes found Hermione almost instantly. There was a gleam there that she couldn't quite put a name to, but it was a nasty look on her smug face. Ron looked to Hermione as well, just a bit slower than Pansy had. Pansy crossed her arms in front of the lacy corset of her dress.

"Well, mudblood? Do you offer congratulations as well?" she goaded.

Snape stared at her. Hermione kept that groan internalized as best she could. After all, Snape had said "our." But that little bitc… she took a deep breath.

"Yes. Congratulations, Ron," she said, throwing in her friend's name just to spite the little wench standing before her.

It didn't go unnoticed, ruffling Pansy's proverbial feathers. Snape cleared his throat, made excuses, and the two began to move away. But not before Hermione had a chance to catch Ron and Pansy's next exchange.

"You don't have to be so harsh on her, Pansy. I mean, she's practically a slave, you know," Ron chided.

"Fine," Pansy huffed. "My gift to my new husband. But, I do wonder… what do you think your little ex-mudblood would think about the two of us having already slept together? I mean, I'm sure she expected it after this, but do you think it would just absolutely destroy her to know how you've been sneaking into my room these past several nights?"

Hermione swallowed hard. She dared a glance over her shoulder, and Pansy's gaze was only half on Ron. The other half was planted squarely on Hermione. Ron scratched at the back of his head nervously, oblivious to the fact that Pansy was deliberately saying these things within earshot of Hermione.

"That… doesn't matter anymore. You're my wife," he murmured.

Hermione felt like her heart had stopped. She just stood there for a moment, stricken by the information. And she noticed it, for the first time, really noticed how Snape had been right. Ron was different with Pansy now. He spoke to her differently… like… like someone he'd grown accustomed to or something. It wasn't love. It was tolerance. And tolerance could become anything.

Hermione turned her attention straight ahead and noticed that Snape had kept moving. She jogged a bit to catch up, knowing that he must have been well out of earshot for all of that. They came to a stop at another of one of the too-tall tables—apparently they were there to encourage socialization; the actual tabletop came to right below Hermione's breasts. She shook her head, willing the tears that had yet to form to stop before they could. Snape arched a brow.

"What's wrong?"

She shook her head, not trusting herself to voice the whole thing over again. She waved her hand a bit, and stepped away—not too far—to collect herself. Snape's attention left her. She would tell him later, back at Spinner's End, where she could have a good cry over it. It was odd, to think that she felt safer crying in front of Snape rather than anywhere else at the moment, but it was the truth. He had seen her cry now, several times, and had even saved her when it came to dealing with the aftermath of killing Crabbe.

"You!" a voice growled, somehow reaching them over the small din of the gathered party-goers.

Both Snape's and Hermione's heads swiveled, watching as the speaker approached them, flanked by two other figures. Crabbe Sr., tailed closely by Draco Malfoy, and he by Ginny. Hermione blinked and stepped a bit closer. This was the first time she had spotted Ginny, and she was happy to see that her friend remained unmarked by her husband-to-be's angry hands.

"I would think twice before addressing me as such, Crabbe," Snape snapped. He seemed to take a moment to compose himself before adding, "What is that I can assist you with?"

"You know damn well what you can assist me with! You're a treacherous son of a bitch, Snape!" Crabbe Sr. continued to growl.

A stone was settling in Hermione's stomach. Meanwhile, Snape seemed the picture of ease. He forced a look of mild concern on his face, frowning just ever so.

"No news on Crabbe the younger, I see?"

"No, you bastard! My son is missing, and the last place his friend says he saw him was with you! But still, no justice! Vincent is gone, my son is gone, and yet you sit here, pretty as you please!"

"What have you done with him, Professor?" Draco asked, the fury in his voice kept to the edges.

It was like he was trying to keep it in check, as if he was aware that this was Voldemort's right hand man and the headmaster of his school that he was addressing—accusing. But the anger was still there, in the back of his eyes, like a growing flame.

"I assure you, I haven't the slightest idea where young Mr. Crabbe could be."

"Liar!" yelled Crabbe Sr., slamming his fist down on the table before them, causing both Hermione and Ginny to jump.

Why oh why had Hermione never thought that this would come up? She had been so wrapped up in the idea of Ron getting married, she had never once stopped to think that most of the Death Eaters would be there and what that would mean. The father of the man she had murdered in cold blood would be there, but she had never realized. Why hadn't she considered it?

"I would tread lightly, Crabbe. I don't take well to being slandered," Snape spoke, just as calmly and coolly as ever.

But there was an edge there too, something implied that was dark and deep and dangerous. Draco's eyes narrowed.

"Who are you to say that you're not a liar? You've been a double agent for years! Lying probably comes as naturally as breathing. Crabbe had said something about you, about your loyalties. It's enough to make you wonder, what with him missing and all," Draco said.

"My loyalty has never been in question by the Dark Lord, Mr. Malfoy. Your father's, on the other hand…"

"You leave my father out of this!"

Draco was moving closer, as if he wanted to strike at Snape. Ginny gripped his arm, just barely like she didn't dare grip him any harder.

"Draco… please," she begged.

Snape smirked. "Yes, Draco. You wouldn't want to agitate your bride-to-be, not in her fragile condition."

Now Hermione knew that her heart had stopped, and she was one-hundred percent certain that her gasp had been audible. She felt eyes on her, both Ginny's and Snape's. Ginny's eyes were nearly doubled their normal size, while Snape's were narrowed, as if hadn't realized that Hermione was still standing there…. Like he had wanted her not to be standing there.

"Drinks," she muttered. "I'll get us drinks, sir."

She bustled off as quickly as possible, heading blindly toward the refreshment table. She was stopped short by a pair of soft hands gripping her wrist. She turned to see Ginny, her hair flying in her face, staring at her like she'd seen something horrible.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," she said. "I never, ever, wanted you to find out like that! I mean, where does Snape get off—"

"This isn't Snape problem! Ginny!"

"I'm sorry!" she apologized again. But Hermione was having none of it.

"How could you? How could Ron? How could you… betray Harry, betray all of us, like that?"

Ginny hugged herself tightly. "You don't understand."

"Then make me. Please."

She glared fiercely back at her. "You're lucky, you know. Being stuck with Snape. Snape, who doesn't beat you. Snape, who doesn't feel the need to lord over you day and night, in public or in private. Some of us… we didn't get to be so lucky."

Was that resentment in her voice? Resentment that Hermione was a slave, versus her arranged marriage? What situation was worse? What was better? Hermione shook these thoughts off, knowing that it all depended on the variables. And she needed to know one of those variables right now.

"Ginny, was it… was it consensual? Did you consent to being with him, with no doubt in your mind?"

There was a beat of silence, of hesitation. Then: "Yes."

Just when Hermione thought that sickening feeling was finally gone forever, she was hit with another wave of it. She contorted her face, allowing all the grief and anger shape it.

"How could you betray Harry like that?" she snapped.

"Like I said, you don't understand. I did what I had to do to survive. And now… and now I have my child to think of."

Without another word, Ginny whirled on her heel, disappearing back into the crowd. Hermione finished her walk over to refreshment table, pouring herself a glass of punch and downing it in one gulp. Merlin, how she wished it was alcoholic! She had not yet tasted much alcohol, just a sip of wine her mother had allowed her, and she had never understood the need to "drown your sorrows." Then, she supposed, she had just not had enough sorrows to drown. Now, she had just enough. And not a drop of drink in sight.

She looked up from her cup just in time to see a mass of people, led by Voldemort, into a tent that had been set up off to the left of the reception area. It was the meeting! The weapon…!

Hermione poured herself another glass and downed this one just as quick. She knew the risks. She was at a reception full of people unequivocally loyal to Voldemort. Spying, especially done by a "mudblood" like herself, was unsafe. It could cost her her life, not to mention what it would cost Snape. Hermione shook her head.

Screw being safe. She made her way to the tent, now full of Death Eaters, and began to search for the best vantage point for eavesdropping.