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Severus sighs as he sits his tumbler of Firewhisky down with a heavy thud. “You know, for someone so intelligent, you make remarkably poor decisions. Particularly when it comes to men.”
Hermione arches an eyebrow, silently entreating him to continue. Or maybe it’s a silent warning? Nevertheless, Severus presses on with a singularity of mind that perhaps only he finds impressive. “Take Krum, for example. He was an awful choice. Far too brutish for you.”
“I’m a delicate flower now, am I?” she says with a short laugh.
He nods, absentmindedly watching the fire in the hearth flicker about. It’s almost Christmas and the House Elves have been decorating every inch of the castle, or so it seems to Severus. Even in his own rooms, he can’t escape the wreaths of holly or the gilded baubles or the glittery bows.
“And don’t even get me started on Weasley,” he continues, sneering at a particularly bright and cheerful wreath hanging on the wall. “He may be decent at Wizard’s Chess, but his mental acumen fails when it comes to any other application. It’s no wonder he couldn’t keep up with you.”
“I suppose there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” she mumbles, returning her focus to the parchment in front of her.
“And the bloke that came after—”
“That was a poor decision, I’ll admit,” she interjects, recalling the rather good-looking Ministry worker who she dated, very briefly, before accepting a teaching position at Hogwarts. His looks were really the only thing going for him, which is, perhaps, why he had been entirely preoccupied with them. “But the one after him wasn’t so bad, was he?”
“Warwick?”
She scoffs. “I wasn’t talking about him. We had barely one date. And I left early if you recall. And anyway, what does this matter? Whatever my previous choices in men, I dare say I’ve found the most suitable partner now when all is said and done. Better late than never and all that.”
It's his turn to scoff. “Don’t even get me started on him. He’s awful for you.”
With a huff, she abandons the parchment and turns her full attention to Severus. “What are you talking about? He’s lovely. The nicest man I’ve ever known.”
“Nice? Surely the first time anyone has used that word to describe him.”
“Well, I think he’s nice. And isn’t that enough?”
He shrugs, taking another sip of Firewhisky. “He’s too old for you, you know.”
She brushes this away and returns her focus to the parchment. “He’s not even middle aged by wizarding standards.”
“He has grey hair.”
She grabs a quill and makes a few notes in the margins. “Just at the temples.” She looks up at him. “And, anyway, I like it. It makes him look distinguished.”
“His nose—”
“Your nose is absolutely perfect, Severus. Stop fishing for compliments and get ready for the wedding or we’re going to be late.”
With a sigh, he downs the rest of his Firewhisky in one gulp and then pushes himself up out of his chair. He drops a kiss to Hermione’s head as he passes by, making his way to their room, where she’s laid out his best dress robes on the bed.
The wedding ceremony takes place on the sprawling emerald expanse of grass beside the Lovegood house just outside of Ottery St Catchpole. Much like the last wedding Severus attended, extensive warming charms have been intricately woven into a heated bubble of space that encompasses the entire party. Not that it’s a particularly large party. Severus was initially surprised to hear of Draco’s willingness to forgo Malfoy tradition and keep the ceremony as small as possible, but watching his godson smile at his new wife, Severus feels a sharp pang of pride that Draco managed to wrestle himself free of his father’s shadow in the end.
“Isn’t it so lovely?” Hermione asks, smiling warmly at Draco and Luna dancing together in the middle of the crowd.
Luna’s dress is dotted with radishes made of glitter and sunlight sparks off them in ethereal streams of reds and pinks. This, coupled with the bright blue sky and the crisp winter air, has Severus feeling rather grumpy, though he does admit—very quietly and only to himself—that the dress is rather captivating in its eccentricity. He’s always envied Lovegood for her ability to be so open about herself.
Hermione is the same way—fiercely protective of her boundaries. She knows exactly who she is or who she wants to be. There is no indecision in her, no wavering of commitments. He supposes they have that in common—the ability to make a decision and stick with it to the end.
She’s the complete opposite of a delicate flower, he knows, but that doesn’t stop the protectiveness that rises when he thinks of her. As she once said to him, “I’d hate to think of anyone else having you, anyway,” and the sentiment holds true for him. He spies Weasley in the crowd and the thought that…well, he won’t think about that.
He glances at her as he sips his drink and thinks, not for the first time, that this is all a dream. Surely, he can’t be so lucky. Perhaps he’ll wake up soon. Better savour the moments while he still can. She glances at him then, her smile wide and eyes watery with happiness. She squeezes his knee before turning back to the dancefloor, laughing lightly at Luna’s unconventional dance moves. Draco wears typical dress robes, though he’s added a few pink details here and there. He seems perfectly at ease dancing next to Luna, even with his own more conventional moves. A red-headed child weaves in and out of the crowd, followed by Potter’s voice saying, “No running!”
“Doesn’t everyone just look so lovely?” asks Hermione.
You look lovely , he thinks, even as he makes a noncommittal grunt and finishes his Firewhisky in one smooth motion. He looks around for a floating tray of drinks.
“Draco and Luna are surprisingly well-suited for each other. Who knew?” she says, undaunted by his lack of engagement. “I’m not particularly a fan of weddings, of course. Not anymore, at least. I can’t see myself ever getting married again, but it’s nice to see people falling in love.”
Finding no trays in the vicinity, he considers his empty glass with a frown. “You are against marriage?” he asks distractedly.
“Not against,” she says with a shrug. “I think I’ve outgrown it, in a way. The institution of it, at least.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Then, perhaps you shouldn't open your Christmas present this year.”
She turns, mouth falling open just slightly. “Are you—?”
The eyebrow goes higher. “Am I—?”
“ Severus .”
“ Hermione .”
“Don’t…” She shakes her head, the corner of her mouth twitching into something quite like amusement. Or curiosity. He can see the gears turning behind her eyes. He loves that look.
“Has the inimitable Hermione Granger lost her words? That’s a shame. You knew so many.”
“Indeed. They will be mourned. Perhaps we should have a funeral for them?” she replies. They share a smirk before she turns back to the dance floor. But the gears are still turning. He can almost hear them. She turns back with a quick intake of breath. “Have you really bought me an engagement ring?”
Finally, a tray floats by, and he grabs two tumblers of Firewhisky. “Only one way to find out.”
She crosses her arms and looks out at the dance floor, now filled with dancing couples. After a moment of silence, she takes a sip of her champagne. “Yes, by the way. But I’d like a long engagement—”
“Naturally.”
“And I’m not changing my name again.” She smirks and gives him a sideways glance that makes his stomach clench with arousal just as much as he braces for some ridiculous request or comment designed specifically to irk him. “Severus Granger has quite the ring to it, don’t you think?”
He grimaces, but his lack of immediate objection does not go unnoticed by either of them.