Dreamboat

DREEM-boht | noun

1: a highly attractive or desirable person

Hermione met Roger during her fourth semester at Cambridge. She was in the wizarding-only building practicing her wand technique for the advanced freezing charm she was learning in her extracurricular ice sculpting class. Really, she had laughed when she had seen the class listed, but she needed an extracurricular, she supposed, and what better than something froofy to lighten her semester? So she had been in the main common area of the building waving her wand at the glass of water in front of her, when Roger had appeared in her life.

"You're going to shatter the glass, you know." The accent was Australian, she guessed before the voice paused and Hermione turned to glare at its owner. The boy – closer to a man, now – was tall and blonde. His blue eyes sparkled as he stared down at her in her seat, and really, it was a long way down from where he was standing. "Well, that or you'll flood the room."

She looked away from him quickly, an embarrassing shade of color creeping onto her face, and huffed. "Alright, then, you do it. Do you even know what I was trying to do?"

The man pulled out a chair beside her and dropped into it. "Not a clue. Were you trying to shatter the glass? Because I think you were likely to succeed."

"I was not going to shatter the glass," she sniffed. She wasn't entirely sure of what she was doing, to be honest. She might have shattered the glass.

"I'm Roger," the blonde laughed, holding out a hand to her.

"Hermione," she answered, taking the hand and shaking it before she could talk herself out of touching him. The guy was fit.

It wasn't until after their third date that she fully realized just how fit Roger was. While Hermione was no prude, she was certainly not the type to put out before society dictated that she should, which was date number three. Merlin, Jesus, Mary, and Asmodeus, the guy was fit. When his shirt came off, she nearly drooled on him. Literally drooled. The sex was amazing. It successfully kept her mind off him. The last man in her life before Roger – the one who had shredded her insides to pieces with a vicious focus on her heart. She didn't like to think about him if she could help it, and most days she kept busy enough to help it. They had been like fire and oil, but Merlin, she had loved him.

Roger was a breath of fresh air. The sex was frequent and very satisfying. He was a considerate and passionate lover. He was double-majoring in experimental charms and physics, not an easy endeavor. They had long, stimulating conversation, during which his accent often melted her into a puddle at his feet. He made her laugh. He was wonderful to look at.

Three dates turned into twelve, which turned into twenty-seven. Before Hermione even noticed that the two were going steady, they were celebrating their first anniversary and beginning to think of life after graduation. Roger began to talk of marriage – marriage to her. He wanted to marry her and have a family with her and support her through an internship at St. Mungo's. Hermione resisted – at first. When she showed hesitance, he backed off, gave her space – everything she could have asked from him. He was quietly there, supporting her.

She found the ring, predictably, in his sock drawer one morning while he was in the shower. The box was smooth black velvet, and she felt a strange draw to it. After glancing at the bathroom door, she popped open the box and stared at the ring inside. It was silver. A single square-cut diamond sat in the middle of the band. She was seized by a desire to see it on her hand. It fit perfectly – self-sizing, she assumed in the back of her mind.

"Normally the guy would propose first."

Hermione squeaked and whirled around, the ring box clattering to the floor. Roger was standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the loo, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. She swallowed and looked down at the ring again before returning her gaze to her boyfriend. Silently, she slipped the ring off her finger and handed it to him.

She bit her lip as he dropped to one knee. She could feel tears coming, and she tried to tell herself that they were happy tears only.

"This wasn't exactly how I'd planned to do this," he said, his voice cracking just a bit. He cleared his throat. "For starters, I thought I'd have clothes on." He grinned at her laugh. "Hermione, I adore you. I have from the moment I saw you shattering glass." Another laugh, this one turning watery.

She focused intently on the blonde in front of her, trying not to imagine what he would have looked like on one knee inviting her to stay with him forever.

"I want to support you and to be supported by you. I want to laugh with you and experience life with you. I want more than anything to be with you until we're old and gross. Will you marry me?" His baby blue eyes met hers through the tears. Her heart skipped a beat. Wordlessly, she nodded, throwing her arms around him – on one knee, the top of his head went straight into her boobs, which neither of them really minded.

The engagement announcement ran in The Prophet just two weeks later. She wondered if he saw it. She wondered if he cared. Probably not. She tried not to care whether he cared.

Wedding planning was a whirlwind. She thanked god that it was summer break, because just the thought of trying to get this all done during the semester made her want to burst into tears. She was walking through Diagon Alley toward the bakery to confirm the specifications of the cake for the wedding that was just a month away – the though nearly sent her into hysterics at everything she still had left to do – when she saw him. Her feet, against her will, quit moving, stopping her cold in the middle of the street.

Despite the fact that it was July for Christ's sake, he was clothed head to toe in his characteristic black, a cloak swirling around his shoulders. She noticed when his eyes landed on her, but they did not remain on her, instead skipping back to the front of him. He intended to walk past her without even acknowledging her. That son-of-a-bitch. He had left her. The least he could do was acknowledge her on the street. She willed her feet to get going, crossing the street to interrupt his path.

He continued until he was bodily forced to stop, less than half a meter from her. "Granger, you are in my way," he snarled.

His tone set a fire in her that she was too disturbed to acknowledge. She focused on her anger. "Three years, and you aren't even going to admit that I exist when you see me on the street?"

He growled in annoyance. "Those three years are long over. I heard you have a new man to bother now." He paused only briefly. "I suppose I ought to congratulate you."

She tried desperately to find even a hint of jealousy. Anything besides irritation at having his path blocked and his day interrupted. She didn't find it. Not in his voice nor his face. "Thank you," she said stiffly. She noticed his gaze flick to her hand for just a moment. In that very brief moment, his eyes hardened only just so slightly. Had they not had the history that they had, she doubted that she would have seen it. A spark sprang to life in her chest. "Severus…" She bit her lip and stared into his eyes. He knew what she was going to say, she saw it. "Are you still-"

"Yes," he snapped. "I am still certain. Now if you will excuse me." He pushed past her and strode down the street, his steps jerky and agitated.

Hermione tried very hard not to cry in the street. She had to duck into an alleyway.

oOo

Yes, he was still very certain. She was all wrong for him, he had snarled at her on that last day. He could not put up with her any longer.

It was a lie, of course. She was an angel for the things that she did for him. He worshipped her. He was all wrong for her. She shouldn't have to put up with him any longer. He was setting her free, letting her go to find someone better for her. He wanted her to have better, to be treated better. She would never have left if he had told her so.

Roger Clements was better. Severus had done his research after the announcement had arrived in the paper. It had been a rough day. The paper arrived at breakfast, thankfully during the summer with no students around to see the way his face dropped and then hardened as he gained control of himself. He was certain that none of his colleagues had noticed. He'd attempted to finish his meal as usual but had been largely unsuccessful. After an acceptable amount of time, he excused himself and locked himself in his chambers. He disconnected the floo. He broke things, but none of the things that she had loved. He drank a lot of whisky, but not the kind that she had hated the taste of on his tongue. He allowed himself to experience the heartbreak all over again. He had done this, he reminded himself. If he hadn't made her leave, she might still be with him. It might be their announcement. He did this. For her.

After his day and night of wallowing in sorrow and self-pity, he dug up everything he could find on the boy that had replaced him. Half-blood from a nice, middle-class family. Educated at a small, private academy in Australia and sheltered from the war. The boy had never seen Hermione in battle, seen her covered in her own blood, and those of others. He'd likely never had nightmares of finding her dead in a forest. The boy was intelligent and studious. Severus could admit to feeling a pang of jealousy when he'd managed to get his hands on a picture of the boy – he was much more physically attractive than the older man had ever been. He was a better match for her.

Severus Snape knew this. And yet, after his confrontation with her on the street, he wanted nothing more than to turn back around, march after her, and tell her how much he needed her. He wouldn't, of course, but his entire body begged him to do it. He ignored it. He'd had a lifetime of practice. He would pretend that he didn't want her. He would allow her to marry the boy who was better for her than he could ever be.

He would let her go. He would be miserable – again – so that she would be happy.

Because he loved her.