Chapter Six: In Which the Irresistible Force Meets the Immovable Object

Across the Anvil

Chapter Six: In Which the Irresistible Force Meets the Immovable Object

Sitting in the chair next to the window with the morning light streaming in, Severus Snape stared out at the busy street on which the Outlander Inn was situated, his thoughts far away from the Scottish wizarding hostelry. He had not slept, having spent the night with Hermione. A mocking sneer touched his lips. That sounded far more exciting than it had been...talking the night away with a few impassioned kisses was not what one might consider 'spending the night' with a lady. Nevertheless, the time had been precious to him. She soothed and aroused him simultaneously, and he knew now that she always had done...he had simply been too blind to see it. He wanted to enthral her delectable body, but he wanted to do the same for her mind. She lured his intellect with her own as surely as the memory of her impassioned response to his love-making drew his desire.

Why could he not move her stubborn stance by the force of his desire for her?

He rested his head against the back of the chair. He was more tired than he could recall having been in a long time. Last night, he had set in motion his hastily-made plan to get Hermione alone and make her listen to him. He had ingested Veritaserum and permitted her to question him, opening himself to anything she cared to ask. He had done everything in his power to convince her to give him a chance. Now, all he could do was bide his time and wait.

Hermione sat before the mirror in the dressing area of her hotel room and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were shadowed, relic of her sleepless night. Her hair was windblown from sitting outdoors to watch the sunrise. The dark red evening frock looked wrong by the light of day, as if she were a girl who had spent an impassioned night with her lover, only to return home the next morning, indecently attired in her party clothes. Bleakly, she began to clean last night's make-up from her face.

Why, knowing all she did about him, did she find it so hard to resist the allure of Severus Snape?

The girl in the mirror smiled sadly. It was precisely because of all she knew about him that her resolve felt like dust in the maelstrom of his determination.

Her wedding day had best come quickly, whilst she possessed the will to withstand him.

The entire wedding party gathered in the dining room for a cheerful breakfast on Saturday morning; the only quiet people present were the bride, the groom, and Severus Snape.

Severus ate little but drank coffee steadily, his attention focussed on Hermione. He wished he had had more time to plan this whole operation. Even more, he wished he had not been so determined to have everything perfect before he tried his luck with her again. She called him a 'second-rate stalker' for watching her from afar for so long, and he knew it had been a coward's way out of actually seeing her, but he had been torn between knowing she was better off without him and desperation to know how she was faring and what she was doing. Years passed, and his life had begun to change for the better, but she did not seem to change. There had been other men; there had even been times when she had stayed away from her flat for several nights in a row. But there had been no engagement, no indication of a lasting relationship...and Merlin help him, he had begun to believe that he could accomplish all he wished to do before approaching her, and that she would be free of any emotional encumbrance...free to come to him, if she so chose.

So close and yet so far.

She looked tired and distracted; Longbottom looked like a man who had endured an unpleasant encounter with too much single-malt whisky. The two exchanged little conversation, spending their time responding to the sallies of their friends, instead. Tonight, the stag and hen parties were scheduled to take place; Severus could only continue to show up to the group activities, maintaining the fiction of wishing the bridal couple well, when what he most wanted was to rip them asunder and steal the bride away.

Hermione picked at her breakfast and drank too much coffee, stringing herself out on caffeine as a replacement for sorely needed sleep. She knew Severus was watching her, and she had to exert a great deal of self-restraint to keep from looking at him. She could feel his black eyes moving over her like the rasp of his slightly calloused fingertips over her bare skin; just thinking about it sent a thrill to her jangled nerve endings, crinkling her skin from the tips of her toes to the tips of her breasts. She ought to be attending to her guests, making sure everyone had all they needed, but instead, her mind kept replaying over and again the words Severus had spoken to her, saying things she had dreamt of hearing him say...admitting he had been wrong, saying sorry, saying he loved her...and reliving again and again the desperate, tender kisses they had shared in the secret dark of the misty Irish night.

She looked over at Neville, his brow furrowed in thought, his round, open face wan. Was he regretting their agreement? The night she had found the picture of Severus and that Irish tart...Doctor my arse! she thought sourly...in the Shamrock, Ireland's wizarding paper, she had gone out drinking. Serendipity had provided Neville as her drinking partner. She had found him in the Leaky Cauldron, sitting glumly over a pint of lager, and he had been all too willing to tell her his troubles. His gran was driving him mad, he had said, and just that day she had taunted him that he would be dependent upon her as long as she lived, because his Uncle Algie's money would only come to him if he was married by his twenty-fifth birthday. Immersing herself in Neville's woes had taken Hermione's mind from her own ... such as, what Severus was doing with that utter cow in the photograph. Married by twenty-five? What an excellent notion. It was better to marry a good friend than a lover, anyway...all the Victorians had thought so! Friendship matures into love, but passion fades...how many times had she read that very sentiment?

'Are you all right, Neville?' she asked, her conscience pricked. He was such a dear! How could she be sitting beside him, wearing his ring, and thinking of another man?

He turned a quick, shy smile to her. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Thanks, Hermione. Are you all right?'

Hermione smiled back, impulsively reaching a hand to him. They had shared only a few kisses, nervously agreeing the rest could wait until they were married...there was no spark between them, in Hermione's opinion...but Neville was sweet and brave, and he had trusted her since they were eleven years old. How could she be so untrue?

Neville gave her a crooked smile as he took her hand, and he raised it to his lips, just as his Uncle Algie had taught him to do. An exclamation of annoyance echoed from across the room, and they looked up to see Severus Snape standing, spelling spilt coffee from his trousers whilst Bill Weasley Vanished some from the formerly white expanse of tablecloth between himself and the erstwhile Potions master.

Hermione's lips thinned in displeasure as Neville excused himself and rushed over to make sure Severus had not burnt himself. She did not know if Severus had accidentally or deliberately doused himself and the tablecloth with hot liquid, but she was positive he had done it out of jealousy. With a huff of annoyance, she threw her napkin on the table and headed for her room to prepare for the day.

Severus trailed the group through the thronging crowd, glowering, feeling in a foul mood. The wedding party were in attendance at the Glasgow Highland Games, a simple Floo trip through to a wizarding pub on the premises. His companions, the dunderheads, were excited to be rubbing elbows with the Muggles and preparing to watch the preposterous Muggle games.

Severus, on the other hand, dearly wanted to hex something...or someone...into ashes. Seeing Longbottom kissing Hermione's hand had got right up his nose. He was sorely tempted to give up and go back to Ireland. He had given it his best shot...shown her the cottage, apologized, answered questions under Veritaserum, professed his love...and through it all, she had steadfastly insisted that she would honour her promise to Longbottom. Oh, she was hot for a quick shag...when he had been unable to resist kissing her, she had asked him repeatedly...but she obviously didn't want him the way he wanted her. He was just rubbing salt in the wound by hanging about here, waiting for her to complete the job of ripping his heart out.

Serves you right, his inner Hermione remarked. You ripped her heart out, didn't you? His shoulders sagged. He had, indeed, hurt her terribly. Every owl she had sent when he had left without saying good-bye had proclaimed her injury...not in words, for she was not one to whinge, his Parker...no, it was only in tone, and in the things not said that she revealed her devastation. I don't deserve her, and I never shall, he thought. Best to clear out now, and leave her to enjoy her wedding.

Ambling along, unmindful of his surroundings, he stumbled into someone stopped in his path. Reaching out blindly to prevent his victim from falling, his hands closed about the shoulders of the subject of his cogitations.

'Severus!' she scolded softly. 'Let me go!'

He released her and glared down his nose at her. 'Gladly,' he snapped. 'If you don't wish to be man-handled, don't pose as a road block in the middle of a garden path!'

Her hands went immediately to her hips, in a heartrendingly familiar gesture. 'If you were watching where you were going ...'

He closed his eyes against the sight of her and cut across her complaint. 'Leave it, Parker,' he ground out. Her huff of annoyance brought his gaze back to her indignant face. 'Never fear,' he added icily. 'I shall soon relieve you of my unwelcome presence.'

The large numbers of spectators flowed past them, parting like water about obstacles when they reached Severus and Hermione, only to rejoin on the other side of them, continuing with their happy chatter. The Irresistible Force and the Immovable Object stood with gazes locked, unaware of the presence of others in their universe.

'What do you mean?' she said in a tiny voice, looking and sounding stricken.

'I mean that I will leave here and let you get on with your wedding,' he sneered, speaking the last bit as if it were a filthy swearword.

'But Neville is counting on you for the stag party,' she objected in a tone he might have interpreted as pleading if he had not been very well aware that she wanted nothing more than to see the back of him.

'I am aware,' he replied. 'I shall leave tomorrow.' His eyes bore into hers. 'That is what you wish, is it not?'

'I ...' she began, but faltered, averting her eyes from his. She wore the arms of a lightweight jacket tied about her waist for later use in case of cool weather, and now she fidgeted with the dangling fabric.

'Well?' he demanded aggressively. Dear God, was he wrong? Did she want him to stay? Why could she not just say what she wished for him to do? How was he supposed to know?

She dragged unhappy eyes back to his face, where she focussed on his nose, avoiding his eyes. 'Of course,' she said, her voice thready.

He moderated his tone a bit, speaking more calmly. '"Of course" what, Parker?' he said, infusing a bit of amusement into his words.

She took a step back from him. 'Of course you must go,' she said mechanically, assuming the mantle of hostess as she turned away from him, speaking her last words over her shoulder. 'We have kept you too long...we mustn't be so selfish.'

She hurried away into the crowd to look for their party, leaving him standing alone in the rush of people, wishing to be the Force, but feeling like the Object.

Hermione spent the afternoon amongst her friends, forcing herself to behave normally, remembering every lesson her mother had ever taught her about how to be a good hostess, smiling, laughing, returning remarks. But all the while, she watched for Severus and felt ill. He was going! In spite of his protestations...that he would be unmoved by her disinterest; that he would fight for her and win!...in direct contradiction of his own fierce avowals, he was going to quit! He was going to chuck her and go back to Ireland! He was going to take her at her word and withdraw, as a gentleman would do.

How could he?

Couldn't he see how conflicted she was? Didn't he understand her dilemma? How in the name of Nimüe was she supposed to think coherently when she was assaulted from every side by insanity? Marrying Neville when she loved Severus...oh, yes, she did love him, and had done pathetically and unceasingly since she was nineteen years old...well, marrying poor Neville when she wanted Severus with every fibre of her being was surely the wrong thing to do. It was unfair to Neville, for how could she ever come to allow friendship to grow into love when she would be forever comparing him to Severus Snape? And no matter how good and kind and brave and loyal Neville was, he would never be the equal of Severus Snape in Hermione's eyes.

She was a horrible person.

But, on the other hand, how could she run away with Severus, leaving Neville in the lurch with a hotel full of guests and a wedding planned in two days' time? She couldn't expose Neville to the pity...or the ridicule...of their friends that way! And what would he do about inheriting Uncle Algie's fortune if she didn't marry him? He would be left at his grandmother's mercy!

He could get a job, couldn't he? her inner Snape demanded.

Well, no, he couldn't. He was diligently working on his greenhouse, trying to get things up to speed to open his own business. If he had to stop that to get a paying job, he would likely never get his own business off the ground...or so he had told Hermione.

And besides...she had promised. It had been as much for her own rescue as for Neville's, truth to tell. She had been unable to face the notion of continuing on as she had done if Severus was going to take up with some buxom Irish witch...and just how was Shalvah Shadaim supposed to be an Irish name? ...no, if Severus was going to take away her last hope that she might one day be reconciled to him, then she might as well marry Neville. At least Neville would be kind and gentle with her, and they could work together to build a life and a home together. Only Severus had come waltzing into her hotel room...catching her in her saucy red knickers!...and dismantled her entire world. How many times had she dreamt of him walking back into her life? But not when it was too late! Not when she was about to be married to a nice, decent man! Damn his Slytherin hide!

'Knut for your thoughts,' a silky voice murmured into her ear, and Hermione started violently, feeling every nerve ending prickle and her heart begin to pound at the sound of his dangerous baritone. She looked about desperately, but half her party had wandered off to watch the caber toss, and the others had gone for a drink.

'Are you still here?' she said, striving for a light, dismissive tone, turning to face him. He loomed over her, dark and predatory, smelling of bergamot and sage...with a touch of lemon. Damn him to hell! Nervously, she wiped her palms upon her jeans and tried to force her eyes away from the buttons of the broadcloth shirt he wore, beneath which his lightly toned chest begged for her fingertips and lips to trace the contours of his pectoral muscle, down across his ribs, hearing the hitch in his breathing as she paused to nuzzle his navel ...

'Don't let your husband-to-be catch you eyeing my belt, Parker,' he murmured outrageously. 'He might get the idea ...'

She forced herself to swallow and took a precautionary step back. 'Get what idea?' she said, stupidly echoing him, opening the door for whatever he might say next.

'The right idea,' he replied, advancing upon her and wrapping a hand about her wrist. 'Don't be a fool, Parker. Come away with me now, to the cottage. Give me a chance to make it up to you. Longbottom will get over it.'

'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that,' a sharp, disapproving voice interrupted. Severus released Hermione and looked around, obviously annoyed, but Hermione inwardly hailed the arrival of Ginny Potter as her saviour. 'Come on, Hermione,' Ginny continued. 'The caber toss is about to begin, and Ron says you have to see it.' Ginny took Hermione's hand and began to pull her along. 'See you later, Severus,' she added civilly.

Hermione dared a look up into his face, the intensity of his glittering black eyes moving her to mouth, 'I'm sorry!' as Ginny dragged her inexorably away.

Try as he might, Severus had been unable to get close to her again for the rest of their afternoon at the Highland Games.

That evening, he packed his things away, leaving out only what he would need the next morning. He was going to go back to the cottage. She knew where to find him, if she wanted him.

Eschewing the more elaborate goings-on offered at some stag and hen parties, the Granger/Longbottom group parted company in the entrance hall, with the men going to the right and the women to the left. They would remain in the hotel with relatively quiet activities; drunkenness seemed to be the most desirable objective.

Neville was an avid card player, if not a very good one, and the men's party room boasted a huge round table stocked with card-playing paraphernalia, in addition to a lavishly stocked bar tended by a house-elf, and a box of very expensive cigars.

Hermione had toyed with the idea of providing the materials for pottery painting, but in the end, she had decided what she most wanted was a girls' night out of drinking and talking and laughing. The room was equipped with party foods, party drinks, and party music, all to Hermione's taste.

It was a shame that she had no desire to be here, or to drink, or to share her thoughts and feelings with her friends. She sat with an untouched glass of icy cold champagne and watched the girls downing the sparkling wine and telling funny stories from their own weddings and wedding nights. During the year she and Severus had been lovers, only Ginny had been a frequent visitor in Grimmauld Place. But the heady recklessness which had filled them all in the immediate aftermath of the downfall of Voldemort had served to centre all of Ginny's attention on Harry. Ginny had remained oblivious to any clues there may have been of a relationship between Hermione and their former Potions teacher, and Hermione had never felt any urge to confide in Ginny or anyone else about it. In truth, she had not been willing to invite the opinions of her friends into her choice of sexual partner...and she still felt that way. Not about Neville, whose relationship with her the girls were welcome to discuss and speculate about...but about Severus. If she were aberrant enough to run away from her own wedding to be with Severus Snape, she would confide in no one...invite no one's assessment of her decision or acknowledgment of her choice. The magic of her interactions with him sufficed her completely; she did not need the validation of other people to know her love for him was momentous and life-changing.

Dear God...how could she possibly carry on with this charade?

She sat forward and carefully placed the goblet of wine on the table before her, taking care not to draw the eyes of her friends. She had to put a stop to this. It would be embarrassing for Neville and inconvenient for all their guests, but what were embarrassment and inconvenience in comparison to marrying one man when you loved another? How could she have imagined for an instant that keeping her promise was more important than the whole rest of her life?

Her heart was now racing irregularly in her chest, making her feel elated and giddy. Her hands trembled with excitement, and she clasped them together to still them. She would not do anything now, with the eyes of the others upon her, but she would wait until after the party, when she was alone, to find Severus and let him know of her change of heart.

She just had to reach him before he left Gretna Green.

Severus accepted the tumbler of Firewhisky offered by the house-elf and stared moodily at his cards. Longbottom's inane responses as the brothers Weasley, Potter, and Lupin wound him up about becoming an 'old married man' irritated Severus almost beyond bearing. If it were his wedding, he would not tolerate this type of vulgar speculation about his relationship with Hermione; he could not stomach listening to the conjectures of the ever more intoxicated wizards on either side of him regarding the number of children Longbottom and Hermione would have. Good God! Children? He had never got that far in his imaginings. He knew the goading was good-natured as well as traditional, but it scraped him on the raw. This was his witch of whom they spoke. If she were going to be a mother, should it not be to his children?

Ah, Merlin...this was more difficult than he had thought it would be. It was harder than keeping his countenance whilst sitting amongst Death Eaters gleefully planning the downfall of wizarding Britain. And why was he still in Gretna Green? She had turned him down, and the owl he had sent off to the continent earlier in the week had borne no fruit...and it had been his last hope.

'Severus?'

He looked up into the disquietingly kind eyes of Remus Lupin.

'I raised you two Galleons,' Lupin advised, nodding toward the pile of coins in the centre of the table.

Severus tossed his cards face-down onto the baize table-covering. 'I'm out,' he informed them, then stood and gathered up his pile of gold.

Longbottom looked up, his idiotically friendly face clouded by disappointment. 'You're not going?' he said, sounding only a touch intoxicated.

Severus flicked his eyes over wizards at the table before he said to the groom, 'You have to know when to fold them, Neville.' He turned and walked to the door, thinking, It's past time, for me.

He closed the door to the party room behind him and crossed the entrance hall to the stairway. He had only to fetch his things from his room, and then he could Apparate home.

A/N: This chapter was beta read by Keladry Lupin and Brit-picked by LettyBird.

The caber toss is a traditional event at the Highland Games, wherein a burly, kilted fellow hurls a tree trunk as far as he can. I thought Ron, in particular, would find that infinitely amusing.

Thanks again to the darling machshefa for the loan of Dr. Shadaim, Severus' therapist, whom Hermione rather unjustly maligns!