A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 12 – Wedding

Emma Granger watched the two somber girls decorating her daughter for her wedding. They were deft make-up artists with a real future in the fashion industry but she was in no mood to admire their artistry with true appreciation.

Somewhere along the way, her daughter had bloomed from a bushy-haired adolescent to a striking young lady. Perhaps she would never be as stunningly good looking as her two dorm mates but she had a poise and elegance the other two lacked.

She tried to step back and see her daughter as that poor man Snape must, rather than as a mother would. Her daughter had inherited Emma’s own shortness of stature but the girl’s crackling energy and drive made her seem taller than she was. The bushy hair had become a heavy mass of wavy brown that she normally had pulled back out of her face in a practical if rather unattractive ponytail. Lavender and Parvati were doing it up in a Gibson girl style – a loose bun on top of her head with delicate tendrils drifting down from it.

Parvati was tucking blue ribbons into the back of the bun that would trail down her back. Each ribbon had a charm or amulet stitched to it: charms for fidelity, charms for fertility, charms for happiness and mirth. In any other situation, Emma would be fascinated by the tiny filigree metal shapes and the tinkling noises they made as Hermione shifted in her seat.

Her daughter turned to glance at her and the huge brown eyes, the sharp sweep of the eyebrows, the stubborn chin – all the features she had studied since the child’s birth seemed unfamiliar suddenly. Hermione was a stranger to her; a plain girl with a willful disposition and a passion for justice who had spent a mere three months a year with her parents since she was eleven. A few holidays scattered into that time, each one a concerted effort to re-connect with the daughter they had felt was drifting away from them.

They should have had another child; maybe a few more, but there had never seemed to be enough time. She was loosing Hermione today, losing her to a man who could barely maintain a civil conversation, who bled pain and anguish all over, whose tortured eyes and biting wit would be difficult enough for a grown woman to handle, let alone a seventeen-year-old girl for whom this would be her first real relationship.
Hermione’s eyes seemed ancient suddenly and then she gave her mum a wry grin.

“Not how either one of us imagined it, is it?” Hermione said softly to her mother. There was trepidation there, yes, but also the boundless courage and intelligence that made her daughter so special. Emma’s fears faded. Severus Snape had promised to try and Emma could tell that he was a man of his word. Hermione wasn’t your typical teenaged girl and had gone up against worse than a surly, uncommunicative husband.

“No, but still it could be so much worse, little bird.” The childhood endearment slipped out and made Hermione grin in shared amusement with her mother. From the corner of her eye, Emma could see Lavender suppressing tears at their brave fronts and she wanted to snort. Those two girls were wholly underestimating her rather formidable daughter. After all, hadn’t she overcome her Muggle birth to become one of the best students in this school? Hadn’t she fought beside her friends against the worst danger of their age? Hermione was a force to be reckoned with.
Emma felt a surge of pity for Severus Snape well up inside her. The poor man; he would never know what hit him.

Hermione stood still as Parvati laced her into the dress. More charms were sewn into the hem, dangled from the sleeves and were stitched cleverly into the bodice until her every move made them jingle and chime. When the girls were done she finally allowed herself to look into a mirror. She stared for a long time.

She had never imagined herself as being beautiful, but in this dress, with her hair and makeup done, she came as close as she ever would. Her eyes seemed huge and dark in her face, her lips gleamed a soft pink and her hair framed a face that looked back at her with a startled expression.

“You two should go into business together. Hair, makeup and wardrobe … wow,” Hermione trailed off and her friends smiled in pleasure at the compliments.

“We were thinking about starting a fashion house, actually. Parvati designs the most amazing dresses and robes,” Lavender murmured rather wistfully. Parvati was a pureblood, which meant she could choose a husband who would allow her to continue in her dreams, but Lavender was a half-blood and there was no guarantee that anyone who bid for her would permit her to work. Hermione nodded and felt a moment of gratitude for Snape. He had assured her that he would permit her to follow her dreams and she suddenly appreciated his kindness. Who would have thought it? She wanted to laugh; she was thinking of Snape as kind. Snape, for Merlin’s sake! He was the man who had mocked her at her moment of deepest humiliation. She shook her head and heard the soft chiming of the charms that bedecked her dress. Life could take some bizarre turns. She was marrying Snape.

There was a knock on the door, five evenly spaced taps that chilled her blood. She knew most wizarding brides felt giddy or nervous when they heard that sound; she just felt too young and too frightened.

Ginny, who had sat silent and hunched in a corner until then, rose abruptly, her soft green maiden’s dress fluttering behind her as she moved. The crown of red hair above made her look like a flame-colored rose on a slender green stalk.

“Who knocks without?” Ginny called the ritual question, her voice rather more strained than joyful.

“The seasons change; the Maiden becomes the Mother and we have come to bring her to her new estate.” Albus Dumbledore’s voice rang sonorous and pure, no trace of the doddering eccentric in his tone now.

Hermione’s mother rose, her own black robes with their artful tatters and silver beadwork flowing like a starry night sky behind her as she moved to unbar the door.

“The seasons change and the Mother becomes the Crone, giving way as the wheel turns. Enter and bring the new Mother forth.” Hermione was proud of how naturally her mother said it, no faltering or tears. She opened the door and admitted Albus in robes of pristine white, holly embroidered across the hem. He as the Winter King was come to give her away.

Behind him stood the DADA teacher, Professor Tamarind, his usually mild brown eyes filled with the solemnity of his role. He was Snape’s best man, dressed in the gold robes of the Summer King. Dumbledore stepped aside; holding the door open with her mum while Professor Tamarind entered and reached out his hand to Hermione. Behind him, Harry in the pale green robes of the Reborn King watched quietly, his silence indicating that he relinquished her to summer.

“I call upon you to leave behind the young springtime and step into summer, Hermione Granger.” With a hand only barely shaking, Hermione reached out and clasped the DADA teacher’s hand. It was warm, dry and comforting. She clung perhaps harder than absolutely necessary and he tucked her arm into his.

“I walk into summer with a willing heart,” she replied, not quite lying, as she would far rather marry Snape than Malfoy.

Professor Tamarind supported her as they processed from her room through the empty corridors of the school to the Great Hall. Dumbledore and her mother led the way, the next stage of her life ahead of her, Ginny and Harry behind her as her past.

Molly had spoken of her own wedding, how they had been less solemn and full of more giggles than the occasion demanded. There were no giggles here, just a sad sort of compassion that enveloped her.

Hermione had thought little of Professor Tamarind beyond his general competence and teaching ability and she discovered now that he was a solid person, strong and easy to lean on. She was frightened and he was comforting. She wondered if someday they could be friends; after all, she would be living at Hogwarts for a very long time.

Her feet faltered and Professor Tamarind covered it for her with a deft movement of his own, making it seem as though he had stumbled. She shot him a grateful look and they continued on their way. She was determined to be brave. She would not shame her parents or Gryffindor House by crying where others could see it.

Severus stood in the Great Hall, dressed in the formal robes that Minerva had fussed over to such good effect, with the four directions around him. He fingered the silver braid at his wrists and felt some pleasure in the heavy green silks, velvets and brocades.

Minerva had taken fire, as he had asked her to; her flame-red robe was right at his shoulder and in her hands was the sword that her Scottish war wizard ancestor had forged five hundred years ago. Hooch had taken air, which he thought was rather appropriate; the yellow matched her eyes and she swung the censor with a rhythmic precision that caused the smoke to eddy about her. Sprout had taken earth, of course, all in loamy browns, with a bowl of salt held in her pudgy hands. Flitwick had chosen water, which had some irony in Severus’ mind since the blue robes pooled around his ankles making it hard for him to walk and the great cup was huge and heavy to carry.

The Great Hall was decorated in the colors of summer: golds, emerald greens, and warm earth tones. Severus was crowned with a wreath of laurel, which he thought made him look ridiculous, and the students were all huddled on the benches with his family and Miss Granger’s father. His own father hadn’t bothered to attend, of course. The bitter thought was acid on his already taut nerves.

The Ministry priest completed the preparations, casting the circle and calling down the god and goddess for the ceremony. Severus had requested that he call the Shekinah and Elohim as the divinities chosen, in honor of his own beliefs and Miss Granger had not objected so it had been agreed.

Grandmother Sarit had been pleased by his choice, he noted, though Grandmother Sabine had pursed her lips and looked sour. Severus had sighed internally; there was no way to balance the two families, as they were too diametrically opposed. A bone tossed to one was a mortal insult to the other.

Albus and Dr. Granger, dressed as the Winter King and the Crone, pushed the doors to the Hall open. Dr. Granger, he thought, was too pretty to make a really good crone. He saw in her Miss Granger in twenty years and he was relieved by the sight. Sensible and strong-minded with a sense of humor and a quick mind, Dr. Granger gave him hope that his … wife might be less of a burden and more of a companion than he had thought possible.

His bride walked in behind them, her eyes lifted to meet his and he tried to look reassuring, something with which he had little experience. He must have succeeded some small amount, because she didn’t shrink back, scream or run away. Georgian Tamarind was supporting her with a grave expression, but he met Severus’ eyes and the lack of mistrust or condemnation was steadying.

The Ministry’s priest beamed genially down on Hermione and Severus had the sudden urge to smash the man’s face in. How dare he look pleased at this travesty of a wedding? Miss Granger was being married off to him without so much as a by your leave and he was grinning like a fool over it. His rage at the shortsighted Ministry official carried him through the quarters being called. Distantly he heard Minerva’s brisk voice sending the flames leaping high, Hooch barking the words with her usual abruptness, Sprout’s warm sweet warble and Flitwick’s piping birdlike voice.

Miss Granger was led to stand beside him, relinquished by the Summer King to his Earthly counterpart, and he took her small, rather cold hand into his and tried to maintain his reassuring manner. His anger at the official and his disgust at the whole charade of the Marriage Law made it hard, but he had promised to be as kind as possible to her and he doubted that it would be kind to growl and glare through the ceremony as he would have preferred. So he maintained a stony dignity instead.

Hermione held onto Snape’s hand with something akin to desperation. There was a tiny part of her mind that was waiting for someone to walk into the room and laugh, tell her it was all a joke and she didn’t have to do this after all. The rest of her was standing horrified as her mother and Albus flanked the round little priest who had the sheer gall to be smiling cheerfully at her. She wanted to slap him and the rage that flared in her steadied her nerves. It also helped that Snape had reverted to type and stood silent, remote and rather disdainful beside her.

It was comforting, in a way, to know that while the world tilted crazily beneath her, he was unchanged. He was as he had ever been since her childhood, unaffected, unmovable, a defensive fortress that would now encompass her as well. He had always protected her – she had taken far too long to figure that out – but his sense of honor was a shaft of steel through his soul and that honor had allowed no harm to come to children in his care, regardless of how he felt about them. Now that honor was being set to guard her for the rest of her life and there was some part of her, the bit that wasn’t gibbering in terror, which was deeply grateful for that protection. Malfoy would be no match for her husband, she knew that much; she would be safe from him as long as Snape lived.

“The Spring gives way to Summer and the daughter becomes a bride, the wheel turns ever on,” intoned the fat little priest and Hermione wanted to snort in derision at his self-satisfied manner. He pulled out the long red ribbon that would bind their hands and looped it around his pudgy neck. The rings were produced by Harry and Ginny who handed them from Spring to Summer and thence to the wedded couple. It was full of symbolism. Hermione could see the beauty in the ceremony even as the heavy silver and gold bands came towards her. Her heart, though, watched those rings as though they were vipers coming to bite her.

“The rings that symbolize the ties between you, made of gold and silver, the union of the Sun and the Moon, the masculine and feminine principles united in joy and love.” Snape stirred next to her and she could feel herself stuffing her own protest back down as well. Joy and love indeed; it was a wonder the man didn’t choke on his own words. “These rings symbolize the union of your souls and the fidelity of your hearts, each to the other. Are you prepared to undertake the solemn journey of life together?” Hermione suppressed the urge to shout at the little man, ‘What choice do we have?’ Instead she murmured her assent along with Snape’s.

Snape took one of the rings and brought his wand out to touch it. The ancient words, words that predated Latin by a thousand years, rolled off of his tongue as though he meant them and the ring flared with a dazzling silver light, like a quick glimpse of a full moon on an otherwise cloudy night and then subsided. Hermione was startled by the light; either Snape was a rather more powerful wizard than she had suspected or there was some real divine grace being granted to them in this moment. He slipped the ring onto her hand with only the slightest trace of hesitation and it settled onto her finger with a warm comforting weight.

Shaken by the burst of light, she took out her own wand and grasping his ring, she tried to replicate his calm as she recited the words. Professor Dumbledore had made her practice them until she got them down perfectly – cadence and tone were critical. He had told her that they translated roughly to “Lord and Lady, give us your grace for this moment in time when we stand before you seeking union.” Knowing the meaning was important, he had insisted and she recited the words with some fervor, hoping for a better ending than beginning to this marriage.

Once more light came from the ring but it was a warm glow like the summer sun rising to touch them both. She slipped the ring onto Snape’s hand with trembling fingers and did not dare to meet his gaze.

They turned back to the priest and he then wrapped their hands with the red ribbon. It changed to a mingled gold and silver pattern as it was charmed to do, showing passion subsumed by eternal bonding and Hermione felt the irony as a physical pain. She was bound to Snape forever and yet the only passion he aroused in her was anger. She sighed as the ribbon tightened around her hand and then absorbed into her skin leaving a pattern of markings that would vanish after the consummation of the marriage. She swallowed a sudden burst of terror and felt Snape lightly touch her hand in reassurance before they turned to face their family and friends.

Molly had talked of the great cheer that had gone up when she and Arthur had turned, but Hermione turned to face a room full of silent, grave faces, many hostile and others just pitying. She was now officially Mrs. Snape and she followed Albus and her mother to the reception room, her husband at her side.

Now she just had to get through the feast and then it would be time for the real test of courage. She hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself too badly tonight.