Chapter Four: In Which ‘Trouble’ Descends Upon Our Friends and Wreaks Havoc

Across the Anvil

Chapter Four: In Which 'Trouble' Descends Upon Our Friends and Wreaks Havoc

The festivities planned for the week continued apace, and Hermione was frustrated to find Snape present at each and every one of them. In contrast to the fashion-challenged professor he had been at Hogwarts, he dressed appropriately for each occasion. If his colour palette still tended toward the more sombre hues of the spectrum, his ability to dress like and blend in with the Muggles into whose territory the wedding party often strayed rivalled that of his former students.

On Thursday, Hermione attended her bridesmaids' luncheon, which also included her other girlfriends who had come to lend their support at this special time in her life. She was able to relax and enjoy the occasion because Snape could not properly attend an all-witch function.

Had she been privileged to see what trouble Snape was up to, she might not have experienced such sang froid.

Ensconced in a pub with the other men of the party, Severus continued to focus his attention on Longbottom. Laying down an obscene number of pounds and obtaining an unopened bottle of Muggle Single Malt, he lured the young man to a darkened corner, and engaged him in quiet conversation, hoping the others would respect their privacy.

Thus insulated from the interfering assistance of Potter, Lupin, and the motley assortment of Weasleys, Severus set about to further his own plans. Pouring a third finger of whisky for Longbottom, he mimed drinking from his glass, then leant confidentially toward his companion and said, 'Tell me about "Abby".'

Longbottom startled so badly that whisky splashed over his fingers. 'I ... I ...' he stuttered, flushing badly and looking wildly about, as if searching for an avenue of escape.

'You can trust me, Neville,' Severus added, trustworthiness rolling off him in calming waves. Not for nothing had he been counted amongst the Dark Lord's most essential followers; if he could hoodwink the greatest Legilimens the world had ever known, he could make Neville-Bloody-Longbottom believe he was his newest and best friend.

The expression of inebriated gratefulness on Longbottom's face would have been amusing if Severus were less desperate. In response, he managed a thin smile.

'I know I can, sir,' the boy slurred.

'Severus, Neville...you must call me Severus now.'

Longbottom nodded earnestly. 'Right, Severus.' He looked down at the scratched tabletop. 'But how did you know about Abby?' he asked his glass.

'You told me about her,' Severus responded with something akin to honesty, 'Sunday night, when we had a pint in Long Leighton.' In absolute truth, Severus had got that titbit of information by Legilimency, but why mince matters?

Neville looked up again. 'I did?' he said, surprised. 'I haven't told anyone about her ... I wouldn't want to hurt Hermione's feelings, or to make her look bad to everybody.'

Severus nodded judiciously. 'I think that's appropriate,' he said, matching his tone to Longbottom's. 'A bloke ought to always look after his lady's feelings.'

Longbottom took a long pull at his glass, and Severus immediately refilled it. Longbottom sighed. 'Abby is brilliant,' he said forlornly. 'Not in school, I mean...she did well enough...but she's smart and pretty and she thinks I'm heroic.'

A missing piece clicked into place in Severus' mind; so, the girl in question flattered Longbottom's ego, unlike Hermione, who had always bested Longbottom at everything they did, save for Herbology. 'Well, she's right about that,' Severus said. 'Look at all you did in the war,' he added for good measure.

Longbottom flushed at this faint praise. 'That's what she said,' he admitted, and then he seemed to lapse into melancholy reminiscences, his attention far away.

'They why are you marrying Hermione and not Abby?' Severus asked in a reasonable tone.

Longbottom looked back to Severus' face with bleary eyes. 'Abby said we hadn't been going out long enough to talk about marriage,' he said sadly. 'And then she took that training position in that hotel in Lausanne.' He looked sadder by the moment.

'Did you ever tell her how you feel?' Severus asked, finding himself no longer impersonating an interested friend, but suddenly quite involved in the conversation.

Longbottom seemed to notice the difference, as well. 'No,' he admitted. 'I hinted at it...I tried to show her...but she didn't seem to get it.'

'Perhaps if you told her outright that you love her, it would make a difference to her,' Severus suggested, hearing the hope in his words and feeling rather pathetic for it.

'I couldn't do that,' Longbottom objected. 'She's in Switzerland, and I'm here...and I'm marrying Hermione, anyway. That would be just wrong.' He stubbornly shook his head, ending by making himself dizzy. He lowered his head to the table.

'Any more wrong than marrying Hermione when you love Abby?' Severus asked, his tone quiet but his question pointed. 'If it were the other way around...if Hermione loved someone else...would you want her to marry you out of a sense of obligation?'

Longbottom raised his head from the table, his brow furrowed in laborious thought.

Severus moved in for the kill. 'What would it be like, married for the rest of your life to a witch who loves someone else?' he said, as if he were simply musing aloud. 'And how would it be for her, to be married for the rest of life to you, when you love someone else?'

Still frowning, Longbottom said, 'But my gran said that people who don't love each other get married all the time...and that respect and friendship are more important than love, because they last longer...and that real love grows from those things.'

Severus picked up his glass and drained it. 'When your grandmother was your age, pure-bloods often made arranged marriages...but times have changed, and people want different things from life, now.' He shook his head. 'It's tough to know any more what's the proper thing to do, Neville, but I'll tell you this: You ought to go for what you want. Making other people happy is no way to live your life.'

Longbottom nodded companionably, murmuring agreement, and Severus didn't even notice when the boy refilled his glass with Scotch.

Between the two of them, they drank the entire bottle.

'What do you mean, he's a bit under the weather?' Hermione demanded angrily, standing before the door to Neville's room, glaring at Harry and Ron, who barred her entrance.

'He had a bit too much to drink at lunch,' Harry said.

Hermione glared at him. 'You were supposed to keep an eye on him,' Hermione reminded. 'You know he can't hold his drink!'

'Snape was watching him!' Ron objected hotly.

Neither of the young wizards understood why Hermione turned on her heel and marched away from them, re-entering her own room and slamming her door resoundingly.

The wedding party continued on schedule, in spite of the groom being indisposed. Tickets had been purchased for them all to attend a Scottish reel at a local Muggle hotel that night, and Hermione was determined that her guests be entertained. She was also angry with Neville for drinking until he was ill; she had left him in the care of a house-elf.

For some reason, all of the men were subdued that evening, almost as if they had a mass headache. Well, if they had been drinking with Neville in the middle of the day, then they bloody well deserved to have terrible headaches! Hermione's main concern was that she would be holding Snape off all night long, but to her surprise...and perhaps to her indignation...he busied himself with speaking with each of the other women in their party between dances, without one glance at her.

Returning to their table from dancing the Gay Gordons, Ginny Potter took a healthy drink of champagne and smiled at Hermione's raised eyebrows. 'Snape dances a treat,' Ginny informed her frankly.

Hermione, whose first experience of dancing with Snape had occurred at the club on Monday night, shrugged indifferently, and Ginny leant in and added, 'Have you noticed how fit the man is? He's like a different person, these days...I'm trying to think of witches I know who could use a good middle-aged wizard ...'

Snape left the dance floor with Luna Lovegood, who danced surprisingly well for someone who seemed always to have her head in the clouds. The dark, hawkish head was bent close as he spoke to her, his most charming smile on his lips. The answering smile from Luna drove Hermione straight to her feet; she was damn well not going to sit about watching that bastard flirting with every witch in their party!

'It's stuffy in here,' she said abruptly to Ginny. 'I'm going out on the terrace.'

The September air was crisp, and Hermione was sorry she had left her wrap at the table...she would have been able to remain outside longer if she were wearing it. The gibbous moon flirted amongst slowly moving clouds, through which stars peeked and twinkled as well. Hermione wrapped her arms about her torso and asked herself why she cared with whom the git laughed or flirted. He was nothing but trouble on legs.

'Trying to avoid the obligatory chat with your ex?' trouble inquired from directly behind her.

Hermione whirled about, only to find herself standing much too close to him, but a step back only brought her up against the low wall. 'Stop creeping up on me!' she said querulously.

'You know, if any of our party could hear you, they would think you're daft. I haven't approached you all day long.'

Hermione raised her hands defensively, as if to ward him off. 'Good! Don't break your perfect record now!'

He took a step toward her, his glittering black eyes fastened on her face. 'Be reasonable, Parker...I told you I have some things to say to you. Now is a perfect time for you to hear them.'

With him standing over her, he seemed to block the moon from her eyes, but his silhouette glowed about the edges, providing all she needed of lunar light. He looked superb, but the most disturbing thing for her was the intoxicating scent of bergamot and sage, with a hint of lemon; his body heat warmed the cologne and increased its potency a thousand fold, making it difficult for her to concentrate. Why did the sound of his voice make her think of nothing save the things he had said to her when they lay together in his bed, moving as one being? Why couldn't she forget the way he had made her feel?

Muzzy-headed from his dangerous proximity, she was caught off-guard when he wrapped her up in his arms. 'Hold on tightly, Parker...I won't let you go, but I would hate for you to Splinch.'

'No, Snape...don't!' she cried, but she was being squeezed through a too-tight tube and came to rest upon a hill brilliantly illuminated by the unobstructed moon.

She pushed away from him. 'What have you done?' she demanded angrily. 'What will the others think? You won't get away with kidnap!'

How she wished she had not left her wand secreted within her wrap! He bloody well deserved every hex she knew for his high-handed treatment of her.

As if reading her mind, Snape pulled a tiny swatch of fabric from his pocket, and with a flick of his wrist, caused her evening wrap to materialise. 'I picked up your things when I stopped at the table and told Mrs Potter that you had the headache, and that I would take you for a walk before escorting you back to our hotel.'

'Give me that!' she said imperiously, holding out her hand to receive the deceptively light stole from him.

Snape flicked his wrist again and returned her shrunken garment to his pocket. 'Not just yet,' he said. 'After you've listened to me.'

Although she was far too angry to feel the cool air, Hermione faked a shiver. 'But I'm cold! Give it to me!'

He stepped up and turned her, pulling her back against him, his arms enfolding her from behind. Deftly, he captured both of her hands in his and crossed them over her tummy. Hermione struggled against him, but he just chuckled.

'Stop fighting me and look down the hill,' he said, inhaling deeply.

'Stop sniffing me and let me go!' she responded.

'But you smell so edible, Parker ... I have very much missed the scent of you upon my pillows.'

That totally unfair pronouncement, uttered as it was in his silkiest, deepest voice, was followed by the touch of his lips upon her temple. For an insane moment, Hermione considered turning in his arms and giving in to her base desire to feel his hands upon her again. Her body hummed with the memory of the magic they had made when they touched, and it had been so very long since anyone had made love to her ...

'Do you see it?' he asked, his lips now ghosting over the shell of her ear.

Shaking her head to dislodge his mouth from her skin, she stared down the hill into a hollow. 'There's a cottage down there,' she answered.

'My cottage,' he corrected her.

She threw his arms away from her and moved away from him. 'Are we in Ireland?'

'Yes, Parker, my cottage is in Ireland,' he agreed. 'Come with me...let me show it to you.'

Hermione balked.

'I'll light the fire,' he promised, 'and brew tea. And I will behave.'

She snorted her disbelief at his last statement, but the lure of the fire and the hot tea was irresistible, and she could not Disapparate back to Gretna Green without her wand.

'Take me back to the hotel,' she countered. She didn't think he would take her back...after all, a man unscrupulous enough to kidnap a bride from a pre-wedding party would have no qualms about denying such a request...but she felt there was no harm in asking.

'After you hear me out, Parker...not before.' He stepped up to her and gestured to the cottage. 'Keep to the path and you'll be fine.'

As they descended the path, Hermione noted the odd shape of the cottage. There was a central portion with two odd-looking wings on either end. Closer, she could see that the central part of the house was quite old, while the two wings were modern. Snape directed her to the modern portion on the right and took down the wards, opening the door and allowing her to enter.

Snape switched on electric lights as Hermione stepped directly into a modern kitchen, complete with Muggle amenities. A stark table occupied the far end of the room; two matching chairs were pushed up to the table, and two more chairs ranged along the wall. The counters and sink were spotlessly clean and the open shelving ruthlessly organised, reminding Hermione strongly of Snape's Potions storeroom at Hogwarts. The dresser to her left was cluttered with books and newspapers. She saw a stack of Daily Prophets next to a stack of Irish Muggle newspapers, with the detritus from a man's pockets littered amongst the rest of them; receipts jumbled with chewing gum wrappers and stray coins, both Muggle and wizarding.

'Do you need the loo?' Snape inquired, lifting a copper kettle from the top of the Aga and filling it at the sink.

'No,' Hermione answered, riveted now by the copy of the Daily Prophet on the top of the stack. It was folded open to the society section, and her smiling face looked out at her. She lifted it, a singing sensation beginning in her blood.

Wielding his wand, Snape brought the kettle to an instant boil and poured the water into an old-fashioned brown teapot. Turning, he opened the refrigerator and frowned. 'I'm afraid there's no milk,' he apologised. 'I went away unexpectedly.'

Hermione replaced the newspaper on the dresser and turned to him combatively. 'Do you mean to tell me you opened the paper on Sunday morning, found my wedding announcement, and promptly decided to spend the week in Scotland?'

Snape turned away from her, reaching to the open cupboard and taking down teacups and saucers, which he arranged on a plain wooden tray. 'I didn't see the announcement until after lunch on Sunday, and I spent Sunday night in Grimmauld Place...but essentially, yes, you are correct.'

Taking a packet of biscuits from another cupboard, full of such homey items as tins of baked beans and green peas, he levitated the tray and directed it to the table. 'Sit, Parker,' he said with gentle exasperation. 'A cup of tea will do you good.'

Hermione sat at the table, watching with fascination as his long-fingered hands efficiently prepared their tea, no movement wasted. How many times had she watched him do it at Grimmauld Place? But the Snape she had known then had possessed no soft edges; he had been a mass of prickly sensibilities, jagged nerves, and rapier tongue ... which had occasionally been put to other uses. She gave her head a shake, dislodging that traitorous notion.

'Still two sugars?' he asked her, disrupting her train of thought.

She nodded, surprised that he would remember such a small detail. He placed her cup and saucer before her, nudging the matching plate of biscuits toward her, as well. Automatically, she took one and took a bite, meditatively stirring the tea Snape had already stirred.

'Sorry about the milk,' he murmured, and she looked up to see him smirking at her.

Hermione made a face at him. 'All right, Snape, you have me captive in your Irish cottage. Now, say your piece so I can leave here and never see you again.' She saw with a vicious stab of satisfaction the shadow which crossed his face at her nasty words; if she could get just a portion of her own back for the innumerable times he had wounded her with his cruel words, she would be a very happy woman.

He drank his tea, eyeing her speculatively over the rim of his cup. 'I don't recall you having such a petty streak in you, Parker,' he murmured.

She flinched. 'Oh, it's all right for you to spend years of your life terrorising everyone who crossed your path, but if I show any backbone, I'm petty.'

He did not respond to that, but finished drinking his cup of tea. 'More?' he asked politely, lifting the teapot.

'No,' she responded shortly. 'Just get on with it.'

Snape removed a phial from his coat pocket and passed it to her. 'I would like for you to ascertain to your satisfaction that this is Veritaserum.'

With a sigh of disgust, Hermione accepted the phial, but her expression quickly changed. 'This is commercially brewed,' she said. 'The seal is unbroken. But this is a Class A Restricted Substance...did you steal it?'

He waited for her to look up from the Veritaserum before responding. 'I thought there might be some question in your mind as to its efficacy if I brewed it,' he said evenly. 'Let us say that I have connexions from whom I was able to obtain it.'

She frowned and pushed it across the table to him. 'Why all this drama?' she demanded peevishly. 'I don't care if you swallow it. It's nothing to me if you tell the truth or tell lies; nothing you say is going to change anything.'

He held the phial between them, in the palm of his hand. 'I know you're very angry with me, Parker,' he said, his voice calm and disturbingly warm. 'I know I mucked up things between us so badly that you may never forgive me. But I've been working for four years to get to a place where I felt I had the right to ask you to listen to me...and that's why we're here now.'

Hermione laughed unkindly. 'Don't make me laugh, Snape. You just saw that article in the paper, and you came to see how much havoc you could wreak.'

He pulled the stopper from the phial and upended it over his mouth; Hermione watched as three measured drops fell onto his tongue. He then passed a pocket watch to her, settling back in his seat and pouring another cup of tea for himself. He lifted the pot, offering some to her, but she mutely shook her head. He smiled mirthlessly and said, 'Now, we wait.'

A/N: A Scottish reel is a ball where the participants dance traditional dances in groups. The Gay Gordons is one of those traditional dances.

This story was betaed by DeeMichelle and Brit-picked by LettyBird, and it is Sshg316's birthday present. Love you, Shug!