Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love. ~George Eliot

And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not. ~William Shakespeare

-00000000000-

As Hermione exited the Grotto, the tension and humidity of the magically still waters seemed to rise up, collecting in the dewy crevices of her palms, clutching in beads at her forehead and throat, even as her shoes tapped along the wet, mossy stepping stones, just feet ahead of Rita Skeeter. It was time.

"Off the record now Rita." Hermione tried to marshal her voice to that of the bossy know it all she was so adept at playing, but the echoes of the cavernous space around her distorted her tones, until she sounded just as alone and unsure as she felt. "You'll get a photograph of my suitor and I as we enter the shop, but then you stay outside-"

"-but"

"You need to stay outside and keep watch. When Magical Law enforcement show up, get a photo of that, then send through a signal. Even a seconds warning will be enough. You can cast a Patronus I assume?" Hermione asked with a small dig and laced her stride as they entered the main magical avenue with an air of expectation.

"Yes."

-000000000000-

Mere moment after the French photographer had dispatched his silver winged messenger, Dennis' shoulder was weighed down by his own. The slim grey owl hoisted it's leg out confidently, and on instinct, Dennis unfurled the small scroll.

Dennis,

Change of plans. I've taken Skeeter to the Enchantress Salon to stall until Luna arrives. We'll meet you outside the owl post office as soon as we can. Time to get you out from behind a camera and into the spotlight. I'll need an amorous suitor to accompany me inside Groomsbrides, Skeeter can play paparazzi. Hermione x

Dennis crumpled the note inside his pocket and swivelled away from the blue facade of Groomsbrides, slipping away from the store as camera's flashed and snapped at the arrival of a smiling young blonde on the arm of a broad shouldered older wizard.

He disappeared around the corner without drawing Luna's gaze, melting into the throng of shoppers ambling along the boulevard.

-000000000000000000-

Snape tried not to notes the flare of relief he felt as the cacophony of camera's signalled the arrival of Luna Lovegood, escorted no doubt by the as yet unknown member of the French Aurory.

His attention returned to the bustling crowd, straining to glimpse the short, slip of a witch who had him loitering here in the first place.

Oh yes, because she asked you to stalk her like a lecherous fool…

The reporters milling around slowly quieted as the odd blonde witch entered the store, only one foolish enough to try entering the visible wards erected outside the seemingly 'distinguished' establishment- no doubt placed there to keep riff-raff like tabloid rats away from prominent prospective customers.

At least Hermione had chosen her staging for this farce with a modicum of sense- not that the wards which sent the foolish photographer flying arse-end onto the pavement would stall the magical law enforcement for very long.

Eye's alert, still scanning the on-coming foot traffic of shoppers, Severus was sure he'd deen no sign of British ministry presence- at least not yet. Having taught many of the current MLE personnel, he was confident their grasp of subtlety had not changed, and, for the moment, he was certainly the only other paranoid Englishman laying in wait for Miss Granger. Hermione. The maddening know-it-all.

-0000000000-

The greenhouse was the first thing Emmanuel saw as the MLE arrived at the entrance of the french fashion avenue, and his grin had been immediate.

What else would bring Granger out of hiding and into a bustling magical centre? Merlin know she wasn't fashionably inclined; at least not if the dumpy robes she'd worn at St Mungo's were anything to go by. No, she was trying to source Caligula. Without her position at the hospital she'd be running out of options.

With a sharp nod, he lead his unit into the ornate glass facade and directed a sweep of the premises. The few herbologists manning the greenhouse denied, in affronted and irritated English, having ever seen the British celebrity; after a few minutes the small shakes of the head from his own men seemed to confirm it.

He ordered another sweep, ignoring the streams of French protestation, and drumming his fingers impatiently on the rim of a large pot, ignoring the floating tendrils of a large Morgandania. Letting his own eyes scan the green expanse of magical flora, the glint of flashing lights filtered through the thick glass walls from the street outside.

Emmanuel walked swiftly through the aisle's foliage, ignoring the complaints still issues from behind him in loud and furious tones. Nearing the windows, he watched as the flash of cameras distantly ahead all but halted the traffic of the street. This time, captured in the reflection of the still flashing class, his reflection showed the slow gradual creep of a smile slipping into place- a far less hasty expression, that never managed to reach his eyes.

-0000000000000-

Every shopper that brushed past her in the crush of bodies travelling the boulevard, urged her pulse to race faster and faster. Every curious glance, every double take and dawning of recognition from the Parisian's surrounding her urged her brisk gait faster and faster still, until the clopping of Skeeter's ridiculous heels on the cobblestones behind her echoed the beating of her heart.

She was almost at the owl office and amidst the bustling crowd with skeeter close behind her, Hermione could see neither hide nor hair of Dennis. Lingering in the open was a bad idea, and the twitching of her hand to the wand in her pocket seemed more prominent with every step towards the dull grey building. She couldn't stay out in the street, in public. She couldn't apparate away just yet, and she couldn't scan the faces in front of her quick enough to determine friend or foe amongst the blur.

As cameras flashed distantly ahead, Hermione tried not to focus on the closing in feeling that grew in her throat. The crowd lulled and stalled as bodies hemmed her in on all sides, straining to see the source of the commotion ahead. Her pace crawled to almost a halt, Skeeter bumping up behind her. She couldn't move, couldn't push through the now curious crowd.

She was stuck. In the open. A sitting duck.

Were the MLE already here, searching for her face in the throng? The press of bodies slowly stemmed to the sides as she tried to take in a deep breath and focus on the smoothed cobblestones beneath her feet. The murmurs around her seemed like a deafening drone and in the midst of her panic, an arm reached out and grasped her shoulder.

Her gaze was wrenched to the man now pulling her body towards him, and a shudder ran through her frame as it was enveloped in a strong embrace.

It was Dennis, it was only Dennis. Slowly, as her throat struggled to gulp down the humid summer air, she realised he was talking down at her-

"Luna's just arrived, and all the press have turned out-"

"Dennis, give Rita your camera-"

"There's still film in it- I got a shot of Harry and Emmanuel raiding the flat-"

"The Camera, Dennis." Her voice was shrill, too raised and sharp and a few of the witches and wizards around them threw curious looks. She lowered her tone and lead Dennis and Skeeter away from the main thoroughfare, against the dark grey bricks of the owl office.

"Rita, take Dennis' camera and go ahead of us, get yourself into position and get a photo as we arrive. Remember, send your Patronus when the MLE arrive."

Dennis handed over his camera too reluctantly, and too slowly, while all the while Rita sized him up, grinning lewdly. Taking the camera in hand, she left a parting dig. "A pleasure to meet you, Dennis."

With that, Skeeter cut a path smartly into the boulevards bustle, her lusciously curled locks bobbing as she strutted off. Hermione eyed her as she disappeared, wondering how much further the small respite of Groomsbrides lay ahead. Dimly, she registered Dennis' hushed voice and concerned looks, noting mentally it was the second time the younger wizard had seen her so ill-composed.

"I'm okay." She assured him, attempting to pull herself together. "Ready to play the ardent suitor?"

As Dennis' arm loped securely around her shoulders once more, steering her into the crowd and buffering her from the press of bodies, she wondered how much of this was playing a part to him, and did her best to ignore the sting of her conscious as she leaned into his assuring embrace.

-00000000000000-

There was a wave of recognition amongst the assembled reporters as Rita Skeeter strutted up to the waiting assembly before Groomsbrides. Severus could only suppose that there was apparently a level of professional infamy so distasteful that even other paparazzi and gossip mongers took affront. Perhaps, even without knowing what he knew, they recognised the smug self satisfaction she exuded, crimson talons clutching a seemingly muggle camera, staring out expectantly to the oncoming crowd. Like the other figure's milling outside the shop, Severus found himself following her gaze, bracing for Hermione's arrival.

Surely enough, Skeeter's camera was the first to erupt, sparking the frenzy of flashes around him- camera's held aloft, reporters rushing forward, and in the middle of the fray, Severus found his gaze was treacherously slipping from the glimpses he could see of Hermione, and his focus found itself straying to the gangly youth draped around her person. His concerned efforts to shield Hermione from the onslaught kept his face largely obscured - all Severus could identify was brown hair- rather than the ginger or worse yet black that he'd half expected.

It was only as Hermione pulled at the young man to slow his progress, leaning even closer to him to brush her lips against his ear, that Severus caught sight of the suitor's face. If he watched as the witches' foolish baeu caught those lips with his own, it was only as recognition slowly faltered to life and floored him. The couple had disappeared behind the establishment's wards, and then it's aged navy door, before recognition saw fit to furnish him with a name. Creevey. Dennis Creevey. Gryffindor, middling adequacy with potions, passably capable talent for defence. He had to be sixteen at most, if that.

Severus did his best to curb the scowl taking over his features. Close to twenty years as a teacher had made it abundantly clear that no sixteen year old Gryffindor boy was capable of putting on the show he just had. Perhaps the manhandling, without a doubt the proximity and clutching. But the concern and protective stance? While Severus was no expert with signals of affection, that little public display indicated a sincere dedication on the young dunderheads part.

Not that it mattered to him in the slightest which fool had got himself embroiled in Granger's ridiculous ploy. He should leave her to it. The reporters had calmed once more and a swift look at the crowd around him showed no magical law enforcement ready to pounce just yet. Gripping the transfigured cane tightly, Severus stepped down from the gutter and let the pain of his neck fester as he hobbled past the still milling reporters. Granger had a younger, more able fool to pander to her now, and he would leave them to it.

-000000000000000000000000-