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And They Didn\'t Live Happily Ever After	By : ElizabethStump Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 90306 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 37
- 38
- 39
"And They Didn't Live Happily Ever After"

Chapter Thirty-Eight
“The Edge of Sanity”

Disclaimer: “Take two parts Rowling’s characters (one each of Severus and Hermione), and three parts Rowling’s world, and insert into the mind of a fanfic author. Shake vigorously. Half-bake for thirty chapters in a mind set to 350 degrees and serve. If the reader does not get ptomaine poisoning, double the batch and repeat until fic is finished. Warning: fanfic may cause bloating, cellulite, and skewed perceptions when book seven comes out.” Recipe from JK Rowling's “Guide to Cooking Up a Load of Delusional Shipping.”

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Hermione Apparated home from work. She was already running late. Ron was probably already dressed for Harry's birthday party. Once in the living room, she saw Ron stretched out on the couch, wearing cowboy boots, cowboy hat, plaid shirt and blue jeans, and reading the latest issue of Which Broom.

“'Bout time you got home,” Ron quipped snidely, not looking up from his periodical.

“Thanks,” Hermione muttered darkly in response to her husband's less than enthusiastic greeting.

Bolting off to the bedroom, Mrs. Weasley stripped quickly and rushed through her shower. Washing her mop, which reeked of rancid troll belly button lint, she was thankful that she had picked an easy costume, and that a simple chignon at the base of the neck was all she had to do with her hair. Dressed as a rancher's wife, Hermione laced up her boots and rushed back into the living room to find Ron still reading his magazine.

“Ready,” Hermione panted. “Where's Harry's gift?”

“Right here,” Ron said, lifting a box from the floor to show his wife that he had not forgotten to get it gift-wrapped. “Come on. We're running late,” Ron grumbled.

“I'm sorry, Ron! It's not my fault that Trevor, the dipshit, set the lab on fire!” Hermione yelled. “I couldn't exactly plan for it so that I could come home on time!”

“Never mind,” her husband sighed. “Let's just go over.”

Stepping through the Floo together, they emerged into the living room of the Potters’ home.

Ginny greeting them immediately. “Perfect timing! The party is just getting started!” she said, giving both of them a kiss and a hug.

Hermione shot Ron a dirty look for his earlier complaining before she walked away to find something alcoholic to drink.

Standing at the bar – made up of some rough-hewn planks placed over some sawhorses, to add to that makeshift “Wild West” look – the weary witch saw Dobby playing bartender, and sporting a ten-gallon hat, checkered vest and barman's apron

“What have you got that's strong?” Hermione asked Dobby, as the house-elf served up another shot of bourbon to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Whiskey, Kentucky bourbon, rye, Cactus Wine, and ice cold beer,” the house-elf cheerfully informed her.

Remembering what had happened the last time she had drunk beer first rather than liquor, Hermione said, “Whiskey, please.” Glancing about the living room, she commented to no one in particular, but loud enough for Kingsley to hear, “Ginny really outdid herself this time.” Hermione was amazed at all the little details, from the wagon wheel chandelier and dynamite keg chairs, to the red velvet Victorian fainting couch and sawdust on the floor. Fred and George were in the corner, both sporting Mohawks, leggings and breech cloths, and having some argument over who was the last of the Mohicans.

“Yes, Ginny certainly did,” the black Auror responded. He was eyeing a saloon painting featuring a zaftig woman in a very snug red corset with black lace trim. The portrait winked at Kingsley before flirting with the other guests in the living room.

“It's good to see you, Kingsley. Where's Amphigoria?” Hermione asked, looking about for his wife.

“We're temporarily separated,” the large wizard said with little emotion, his eyes looking a little far away.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Knowing how hard it was to have a sympathetic ear, Hermione sidled up to the Auror. “If you ever need a sympathetic ear, you know where to find me.”

Shacklebolt mutely nodded, pursing his lips appearing to be lost in his thoughts.

“Hermione!”

Spinning on her heel, the brunette witch saw Harry burst into the room. As the summer night of his party was balmy, the birthday boy was bare-chested, dressed in soft-sole moccasins and a pair of suede britches with fringe along the side, a bone choker necklace, and a couple of artfully placed eagle feathers dangling from the back of his head. Before she knew it, she was pulled into a rather rough hug.

“Hermione, so glad you and Ron could make it,” Harry said once more loudly with a slight slur.

Looking down at the beer bottle clutched in his hand, Hermione asked, “Harry, how many of those have you had?”

“Jus'za couple.” Before Hermione could comment that maybe he should eat something before drinking any more, Harry let go of her and advanced on the wizard next to her. “Kingsley!”

Unsure if she should shake her head or be glad that Harry was letting loose and having a good time, Hermione got herself another round of whiskey for sipping and took off towards the garden.

Stepping out into the garden, Hermione smiled. The place had truly been transformed. In front of a trompe l'oeil painting of snow-capped mesas and Saguaro cactus, Vladimir's Cowboy Jazz Band played Dixieland Jazz with a distinct Western Swing influence. The band members were wizards dressed in traditional American Union soldier garb. How Ginny had found a band of wizarding cowboy jazzmen in England, Hermione couldn't even imagine. A tumbleweed rolled past, followed by a gaggle of Weasleys who then ran off in the opposite direction.

The center of the garden featured a fire pit with a side of buffalo, slowly turning on a spit over red-hot coals. Winky, on temporary loan from Hogwarts, was slicing up huge chunks of roasted meat onto a floating platter. Surrounding the fire pit was a ring of tipis. Along the back of the garden was a buffet table set up, with a long line of guests helping themselves to the bountiful feast set before them.

Hermione spied Ron cutting in line to stand next to Charlie, obviously hoping that he would not need to go to the back of the line to wait for food. Shaking her head in disgust over her husband's lack of good manners where his stomach was concerned, Hermione moved down into the garden. She moved among the guests who were finding a nice spot on the ground – or spare powder keg, or box marked “dynamite” – on which to sit and eat their dinner. Eventually she ran into Ginny, as the redhead bustled about making sure the party was running smoothly.

“Ginny, is there anything I can do to help?” Hermione offered.

Mrs. Potter, dressed in an ornately beaded Plains Indian dress, stopped and placed her mouth close to Hermione's ear. “We need to talk later, in private.” Hermione nodded, understanding that her friend was busy, but once things settled down they needed to have a chat. “Please, help yourself to the buffet. I see you have a drink already.”

“Yes, thank you...” Hermione looked up. She saw that Ginny had disappeared into the house to take care of some other details that needed addressing at the moment.

Once Hermione had a plate heaped with fried chicken, corn on the cob, American-style biscuits, chili beans, and some Indian fry bread, she ambled off among the tipis in order to find a patch of ground to sit upon and eat. Seeing Bill, Fleur and their gaggle of urchins sitting down on a large picnic blanket eating their dinner, Hermione decided to join them.

Hermione noticed Fleur was not eating. “Did you already eat, Fleur?”

“No, I do not think eet would be wise,” her sister-in-law informed her.

“Why not?”

Leaning over, as much as her rather large and pregnant belly would allow, the half-Veela whispered, “I think I am in labor.”

“What? What are you doing here then?” Hermione asked, looking a little panic-stricken.

“I thought eet might be false labor, juz like what happened with Philippe,” Fleur said, casting a glance at her second oldest child whose face was partially obscured by a thick layer of barbecue sauce. “But since we've arrived, the contractions zeem to be getting longer, stronger, and closer together.”

“Why don't you leave then?”

“Because,” Bill informed her, “they are only fifteen minutes apart, and we have plenty of time. We can stick around until they are five minutes apart, and then leave the kids here to camp out overnight with everyone else in a tipi. Besides, we want to stick around for part of the party, since we did bother to dress up.”

“Oh.” Hermione looked at their costumes, and quietly admitted to herself that they did look rather nice. Bill was dressed as a gentleman gambler, and Fleur had donned a saloon girl costume altered to cover her swollen belly. The children were all dressed in cowboy outfits, including little toy guns with holsters.

“Then I guess you don't mind if I take the kids with me to Ron's game tomorrow, since Ginny and I sort of discussed the arrangements for watching the children,” Hermione asked.

“Not at all,” Bill said brightly. “Just don't count on being able to watch the game. You should probably have Ginny and Harry come along to help you watch them, since you'll probably be running one or more of the kids to the loo during the game.”

“That's a good idea. I'll talk with Ginny later after she's had a chance to sit, once the party has settled down,” Hermione replied.

“Ginny has really outdone herself,” the pregnant witch noted with admiration. “This ees zee most fabulous party. So original!”

Before Hermione could add her own remarks, Michael, who was Bill and Fleur's oldest child, came up to Hermione and asked plainly, “When are you and Uncle Ron going to have a baby?”

Hermione blanched before regaining her composure. “Uh, erm. Well, someday. We just haven't gotten around to it.”

Michael nodded, his expression one of deep thought, before he piped up and added, “Auntie Penelope says that maybe if you loved Uncle Ron more than your career, you'd have a baby by now.”

Hermione was gobsmacked.

“Michael!” Bill and Fleur simultaneously scolded their child. Both of them turned to look at Hermione in deep embarrassment for their child's behavior. Poor Michael had no idea what he did wrong, but he got the distinct impression that he should not have said what he had.

“I am so sorry, Hermione,” Bill began apologizing profusely. “I had no idea... Michael! You will apologize to your Aunt Hermione right now. That wasn't very polite.”

Michael look very distraught. Before he could open his mouth, the tears began rolling down his round cheeks.

Hermione put aside her plate of food and pulled the child into her lap, hugging him tightly. “Shhhhh, it's alright, Michael. You didn't know. You were only repeating what someone else said about me,” she said, casting an eye about to see if Percy's wife was about, in order to give her a rather nasty look. “I suggest in the future that you don't repeat what other people say about someone else. It's called gossip, and it's not very nice.” She tipped up her nephew's chin to have Michael look her in the eye. “All right?”

Michael nodded before hopping off his aunt's lap to go finish his fry bread.

“I am so sorry, Hermione,” Bill apologized once more.

Putting up a hand to stop her brother-in-law, the youngest Mrs. Weasley said, “Bill, it's not his fault. He didn't know it was a hurtful thing to say. He's just repeating what he overheard. Penelope is the one who should apologize, if anyone should. Unfortunately, I haven't seen her yet, and I don't want to make a scene at Harry's party. Needless to say, at some point in the future I intend to—”

Hermione was cut off in mid-sentence when Fleur took a rather sharp intake of breath and braced her hands along her back.

“Breathe,” instructed Bill, scooting over to his wife to rub her back as she sat there with her eyes shut, her breath sounding like a hiss through clenched teeth. Once the contraction was over, Bill looked at his watch. “Eleven minutes. It looks like we are going to St. Mungo's tonight.” Bill grasped Fleur's hand and gave it a squeeze, before giving her a quick kiss on her brow.

Hermione smiled at the sight of husband and wife in a tender moment, enjoying the knowledge that their child was going to be born soon. A pang of envy ran through the brunette witch in the knowledge that she would probably never feel this sort of deep visceral connection with Ron, if she ever had his children.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione kept on ignoring Ron during the party. Periodically, she would swing by to see if Fleur was all right, but it was not necessary, as Bill never left her side, except to help change the nappies of their youngest child, Colette. Making the rounds, Hermione chatted with Tonks for a bit before talking with George. The slightly younger of the Weasley twins was giving Hermione an up-to-date account of their thriving business.

“Yeah, the market is only so big when you have mostly kids with a weekly allowance for clients,” George commented as he nursed his beer. “So Fred and I decided a few weeks ago to expand into the adult market.”

“But I thought you already did sell to adults with those things you make,” Hermione replied, trying not to blush as she lowered her voice in embarrassment.

George cast an eye about for young children to make sure none were near. “If you can't say vibrator or dildo, you can always say 'adult novelties' instead,” George said with a chuckle. “Besides, it's all Owl-Order right now for those items, as we can't necessarily sell a ten-inch pulsating willy next to our fake wands. People might get them confused, and neither Fred or I want to go before the Wizengamot under charges of corrupting underage wizards. No, we're going to be opening an adult-oriented shop that specializes in accoutrements for the bedroom later this year.”

“Really? And what made you decide to do that?” Hermione asked, curious to understand their reasoning behind expanding into a business that bordered on sordid.

“We have a friend who dabbles in how Muggles spend their money, and on what. She said that Muggles in England spend over five million pounds a year on all sorts of things – lube, toys,” George stopped and looked about once more to make sure none of the children could hear before adding, “kinky costumes, and erotic lingerie.”

“You can't exactly sell stuff like that in a shop that caters to children,” Hermione agreed.

“No, which is why we are looking for new digs in which to open up a new shop.”

“So you will sell your – erm – adult novelties in this new place? What else can you sell there?” Hermione asked.

“Madam Malkin has given us connections to someone who can provide the lingerie and costumes. We have a silent partner that will be providing us with sex potions and other things of a Potions-based nature. Since we have the most experience operating a retail business, we're in charge of opening the new store and running it.” George suddenly stepped back and looked Hermione up and down. “We will need someone with a good head on their shoulders to run the store, since Fred and I still need to continue experimenting with new items for the Treble W,” he said, using the family nickname for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. “Care to leave that stodgy job of yours at the Ministry and work someplace fun, that pays a hell of a lot more than your current job, and that gives you a bit more respect than slaving away in the basement?”

Hermione blinked, unable to respond. Her brother-in-law was offering her a job that offered her much more potential than her current position. As tempting as it seemed, Hermione didn't know if she could manage a business that sold the promise of interesting and better sex. It would be ironic if she did land the position and still wound up having the most pathetic sex life of anyone she knew.

“I don't know, George,” she began to politely decline. “It's a generous offer, but I really... I... I... it's not that I don't appreciate the offer, it's just...” she stuttered and shrugged her shoulders, unable to verbalize how the situation flattered her – for his faith in her ability to help run a business – and embarrassed her at the same time.
She could just imagine it now. Hermione would run into an old acquaintance from the Ministry who would ask her what she was doing lately. 'Oh, yes, I now manage a store that sells sex toys, strawberry-flavored fucking gel, and sleazy lingerie. And you?'

“We're still looking for a location in which to set up shop. Don't make your decision now,” George told her. “I assure you that it would be very tasteful, and would not be the sort of store to attract dirty old wizards who are stooped over from playing pocket pool all day. This store would cater to the housewitch who is in search of something to spice up the bedroom. Our unnamed partner says there is a huge market of unsatisfied housewitches out there who need our novelties.”

Thinking it would be prudent to sit and meditate on the matter for a while, and unwilling to close out the option, Hermione said, “Very well, I'll think on it.” Leaning close to George, she asked in a whisper, “In order to help me make my decision, I think it would be best if get a small sample of the goods you currently sell. After all, I would have to become familiar with your product line if I were to sell it.” Hermione hoped her blush was not visible by the dim firelight. It was a rather roundabout way for her to ask her brother-in-law to send her a couple of dildos and vibrators without outright asking for them.

George stood back and gave her a cheeky smile. “And you are not going to hex me this time if I send you some items?” he asked, remembering the hex Hermione had given him and Fred the last time they owled her a prehensile vibrator to sample.

“No. Just don't tell Ron. Please?” She hoped George would honor her request.

“What? You think he might be threatened by some silly little toys?”

Hermione closed her eyes and grimaced, debating how much to let slip that things were not so rosy between her and her husband.

Sensing the struggle that Hermione was having and how mortified she looked, George relented and said, “Take it easy. Fred and I won't say a thing about it to our little brother. Thank you for considering it anyway. We would prefer to keep this in the family, as we would be hesitant to trust a stranger to run a new venture we are heavily investing in.”

Feeling honored that they would trust her in a new business venture, she thanked George once more for his faith in her before wandering off to see if Ginny was ready to talk. Everyone seemed to be fed and was currently socializing, and it wasn't time for cake and presents yet, so Hermione figured that this would be a good time to see what Ginny wanted.

After grabbing an ice-cold beer for herself, Hermione found the young redheaded witch in a circle of old friends from Hogwarts. Luna, Seamus, Dean, Neville, Kevin Entwhistle, Hannah Abbott, and Ginny were sitting around a campfire, set out in front of one of the many tipis, regaling each other with old tales of their days at Hogwarts.

Hermione greeted everyone as she sat herself down next to Ginny. She listened to a few stories before leaning over, to quietly ask if Ginny wanted to find someplace more private in which to chat.

Ginny rose and excused herself, proclaiming that she needed to check on the party while asking Hermione to assist her on a few things. Making a circuit of the grounds and inquiring of a few people to see if they were having a good time, Ginny then steered Hermione into a tipi in the back corner of the garden, away from the light and bustle of revelers.

Sitting down on the soft furry pile of sheepskins, Hermione asked grimly, “What is up?”

Plopping down on another pile of plush hides, Ginny looked like she was torn between crying and laughing hysterically. “Ha, ha, ha! Where to begin.” She cast a Silencing Charm to make sure no one would overhear through the thin tent-like structure. “I suppose I'll start out with the good news: I'm not pregnant.” Before Hermione could ask any questions, Ginny plodded on. “I was late. I took a test earlier today to confirm that I'm not pregnant, and then right after I got my result, the old crone decided to come visit me then. She would have to wait and give me a scare like that. I think it was stress. Thank God I'm not, though.” Mrs. Potter flopped onto her back and let out a huge sigh of relief, while staring blankly up at the top of the tipi.

“What would happen if you were pregnant?” the older witch asked.

“Then I'd be sweating bullets wondering if it was Harry's or Draco's.”

“What if it was Harry's? Would that be so bad?” Hermione knew she could have phrased it differently, but the alcohol in her system short-circuited the portion of her brain associated with tact and word selection.

“Would it be bad? That would mean I could never divorce Harry!” Ginny exclaimed, sitting up and looking agitated.

“And what would happen if you did try to divorce him after you had a child?” Now Hermione wished she had gone back to Flourish & Blotts to finish reading that book on marriage and family she had briefly browsed.

“You mean you don't know?” Ginny asked, looking astounded at the prospect of Hermione being ignorant on the matter. The brunette just shook her head. “Haven't you ever wondered why Tom Riddle's mother died in childbirth?”

Hermione had to admit the thought had never crossed her mind. She shook her head dumbly.

“Tom Riddle's father found out his wife was a witch while she was pregnant and dissolved the marriage,” Ginny explained. “Because Tom Riddle's father was a Muggle, the divorce did not affect him, but it did affect Tom Riddle's mother. It killed her.”

Unaware her mouth was hanging open in shock, Hermione found it hard to blink. After a moment, she snapped her mouth shut and asked, “But she stayed alive long enough to bear Tom Riddle.”

“That was the only thing keeping her alive. The life force of Tom Riddle overrode the breaking of the marriage, letting her live just long enough to give birth. I mean, when was the last time you ever heard of a witch dying in childbirth? It's practically unheard of!”

Hermione shook her head back and forth, shocked at this revelation. “WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THIS BEFORE!”

“I would have thought that when you learned about the inability to divorce once you had children, it would have made you pick up a book and read the rest!” Ginny yelled back at her friend. “Besides, I thought you would have understood the implications of being unable to break marriage vows and magical bonds once children are born! This is why I am so pissed at my mother for not informing you of everything involved with a wizard's marriage!”

“I haven't had time to read, much less contemplate the repercussions of leaving Ron if I were to have his children!” the older witch screeched frantically.

“Well, now you know! I can't believe my mother at times,” Ginny seethed. “My mum assured me that she had briefed you on everything before the wedding, but I don't consider the topic of death upon divorce after childbearing a topic that should have been skipped. It's just like her. I should have known,” the redheaded witch continued to fume. “She doesn't open her mouth when it suits her, and THEN she assumes things that aren't true and opens her mouth when it ISN'T REQUIRED!”

“You can calm down, Ginny. At least YOU told me, even if your mum hasn't,” Hermione bit out, trying to regain a sense of calm.

“That's just it! I just found out what else she's been doing to royally fuck up my life!” Ginny stopped speaking and continued to shake with uncontrollable rage. As her face started to change from red to purple, Mrs. Potter opened her mouth and let out a scream of bitter frustration and anguish. Heaving a huge gulping breath as she started to sob, Ginny wailed, “I just found out from Harry what my mother told him when we were still dating. I can't believe the lies she has told!”

Hermione inched over to Ginny and pulled her crying friend into her arms, rocking her gently. “Tell me what happened,” Hermione coaxed her.

Once Ginny stopped crying long enough to form coherent words, she sat back up and began to describe the course of events. “When Harry and I first started dating, my mum took Harry aside and told him, besides keeping me a virgin until we were married, to 'be gentle with me.'. Basically, she fed Harry a sack of lies that Tom Riddle did sexual things to me against my will while under his influence. 'Deviant things,' as she called them.”

“No!” Hermione interjected in a scandalized whisper. She knew that Tom Riddle's diary had manipulated Ginny's mind and emotions, but nothing of a physical nature had transpired according to what the redheaded witch told Hermione over the years – besides trying to drain her of her life force in the Chamber of Secrets.

“Oh, yes,” Ginny refuted. “She made Harry think that I was sexually molested, and told him not to do anything to me that might seem traumatic or bring back 'horrific memories while under the dark influence of that inhuman creature.' She never even asked me if anything like that happened, she merely assumed it. No wonder Harry thought I was sick when I wanted to be a little creative in the bedroom.”

“When did you find this out?” Hermione asked, still stunned by this additional revelation.

“Last night. Harry and I had quite a bit to drink in celebration of his birthday, and he finally confessed what my mother told him. My mum instructed him not to say anything out of fear of dragging up old memories that she hoped I would keep repressed. SHE NEVER EVEN ASKED ME WHAT HAPPENED!” The younger witch shook her head. “It still wouldn't have changed the fact that I think of Harry more like a friend and brother than a husband and lover, but at least we would not have had the abysmal sex life we've had for the past three years. I'm so furious with my mum, I couldn't even look her in the eye when she arrived tonight for fear of making a scene. I've been avoiding her all night.”

“Oh, Ginny,” Hermione sighed sympathetically. “I had no idea. I'm so sorry.” Pulling her friend back into a hug to share their commiseration over Molly Weasley's actions and inactions, Hermione observed, “At least you know now.”

“Yeah, always too late. And this isn't the only time she has drastically interfered in my life,” Ginny growled with restrained rancor.

“You mean she's done this before?” Hermione was aghast; it seemed that Molly had purposefully done something appalling that was of equal or greater magnitude.

Ginny rolled her eyes to look up at the pinnacle of the tent and replied, “If I go into it now, it will be like reliving it all over again. I will feel compelled to go poison that woman's drink and hope there is no antidote at St. Mungo's.” Dropping her gaze to meet Hermione's, she ground out, “Let's just say that if she hadn't interfered like she did, things might have turned out quite different.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked warily, wondering what else happened.

Mrs. Potter sighed and dropped her head in defeat. In an anguished voice, she answered, “I'll tell you at some point in the future, but not now. It's too painful to go into at this moment.”

“Malfoy?”

Keeping her head down, Ginny nodded, looking like a woman whose spirit was on the verge of breaking.

Hermione let the matter rest, knowing what it was like, not wanting to talk about painful memories at times. She did figure this was a good time to bring up a question she had wanted to ask Ginny without sounding too suspicious. “Ginny?” Her friend raised her head to regard her curiously grave tone. “When did you know you were in love with Malfoy? How was it that you knew it was more than love, that you were in love with him? Was it some great revelation that came out of the blue, or was it something slow?”

Ginny scrutinized Hermione with a penetrating eye, and Hermione felt once more that she was being laid bare with the knowledge that her heart belonged to someone other than Ron.

“When? I guess you could say I never stopped loving him from the time we were first separated.” The younger witch's gaze softened. “I didn't realize I was already in love with him at the time the Death Eater Decree came out, but when I saw him again that first time a year and a half ago, I just knew then that I loved him just as much.”

“Yes, but how did you know?” Hermione asked, desperate for some answer to help solve her own questions regarding the state of her heart.

Ginny had a distracted look about her, as if she was recalling some dearly fond memory from childhood. “You just do. It can't be measured by quantity or by any value. It's something you know in your bones. When you are deeply in love with someone, you can't wait to be with them; and when you are together, time flies. Time can't go fast enough when you're apart. And when it is time to leave each other's company, you don't want to go. Each time you part, it seems like you'll be cast into a gray world until you can be together again. It's like a part of your soul remains with him when you leave, and you'll only feel whole when you're with him again. When you're with the one you love, it feels like you've never been happier in your life, and you wondered how you went through life before not knowing this sort of joy.”

Hermione sat there absorbing Ginny's summary of love. If this was what being in love was like, then Hermione could suppose she was in love with Calleo. It was true she felt things she never had before when in his presence, but she questioned if this was love or just an infatuation taken to the extreme, fueled by her sexual frustration and loneliness.

Sensing Hermione lost in thought, Ginny rose and announced, “I need to take care of a few things before the cake is served.” Placing a hand on Hermione's shoulder, Mrs. Potter said, “Thanks for listening. I really needed to get that off my chest. I think I can survive the rest of the party without hexing my mother now... possibly.”

Hermione chuckled lightly with Ginny.

“I think I'll stay here for a bit before going back to the party, if you don't mind,” Hermione stated, although it came out more like a request.

“Take as long as you want. Cake will be served in about thirty minutes. You want me to come get you when it's time, so you don't miss it?”

“No, I'll be there. I just need a few minutes to collect my thoughts.”

“All right, then.” Ginny ended the Silencing Charm, and the noise of the party flooded back into the tent. Just before she pulled back the flap and exited, she said once more, “Thanks.”

Hermione nodded, and was quickly lost in thought once more.

'Could I really be in love?' She giggled nervously, though part of it was the fact that Hermione did tend to feel dreamily blithe when thinking about Calleo. 'If being truly in love is as Ginny described it, then I guess I am in love with him.' A physical sensation bordering on euphoria suddenly filled her senses with this realization. For so long she had silently envied those that had found love and experienced the excitement of romance. 'I'm in love.'

A smile that spoke of rapturous elation was plastered on Hermione's face as she fell on her back amid the plush fur pelts that padded the tipi floor. Closing her eyes, she imagined Calleo there with her in the tipi alone. Remembering the night of her first dance lesson, she conjured the mental image of Calleo lying next to her, propped up on one elbow while hovering over her. 'I'm in love with a man I've never kissed.' Hermione imagined Calleo kissing her deeply while recalling her dream from earlier that week. Rubbing her thighs together, she remembered what it felt like to have Calleo's legs rub against hers as they danced. Thinking about the way he felt when he ground himself against her, Hermione brought her hand up under her skirt and started rubbing herself through her knickers.

As the rhythm of her hand picked up, and she found herself having to bite down on her lip in order to keep quiet, Hermione's self-pleasuring fantasy was cut short when a couple of voices approached the tipi in which she still lay.

“I don't think it would be appropriate to talk about such matters here at Harry's party,” a deep voice said, as the two approaching shadows became more distinct against the side of the tipi.

“Come now,” said a gruff voice that Hermione recognized as Alastor Moody's. “No one can overhear us.”

“You forget who invented Extendable Ears, and how many pairs could be floating about at this party,” commented the other voice, that Hermione finally recognized as Kingsley Shacklebolt’s.

“Fine, if you're going to be that way,” Moody growled.

Hermione heard the elder Auror cast the Silencing Charm, and was surprised when she heard the figures continue speaking. 'I must be inside the spell's bubble,' she surmised, figuring by the fact that the two figures were right next to the tipi, and she was included in the charm by accident. 'Moody and Kingsley don't know I'm here.' Sitting quietly, Hermione listened through the canvas that divided her from the two wizards.

“This can wait until Monday when we're both at work, Alastor,” Kingsley said with some impatience. “This is a party; it's time to relax a little.”

Moody's skeptical snort was unmistakable. “You never know when some dark wizard will come along, and then I won't be around to tell you what was on my mind at the time. You know just as well as I do how you can be here one day and gone the next.”

“Fine,” Kingsley replied with resignation. “We'll talk shop, but I'm here to enjoy myself, not spend all night talking about work.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Malfoy and Snape.”

At the mention of the two ex-Death Eaters' names, Hermione perked up, hoping to learn something that she might find useful in the future, when she got around to working on clearing their names.

“What about them?” Shacklebolt sounded a bit aloof, yet he couldn't seem to help but sound a bit defensive in his quick reply.

“It not only concerns them, but all the parolees you oversee. I want you, and the other Aurors who oversee Death Eaters, to start making surprise visits to their places of work. I think we've been too lax, and that's why Dolohov went off like he did,” Alastor explained.

“Dolohov went off because of the restrictive nature of the Death Eater Decree, just as Snape said someone would,” the junior Auror countered. “He was right in that we should have shipped them off to Azkaban, and for those that we could not convict, placed an informant in their midst in order to keep tabs on them.”

“And Snape would be so willing to go to Azkaban?” the grizzled wizard scoffed. “I find that hard to believe considering how cowardly he went, going to beg for Albus' forgiveness in order to keep his manipulative arse out of there years ago. He just saw the writing on the wall and could sense that Voldemort's first downfall was inevitable.”

“No one could have guessed that Harry would have been Voldemort's downfall, not even Snape. You know as well as I do that Snape was true to the Order, as well as young Malfoy,” Kingsley insisted.

“You don't know if those two let the rest of the Death Eaters into the castle or not. I do find it convenient that they were both on a so-called mission when the Death Eaters slipped into Hogwarts.” Hermione heard Alastor cough and spit some phlegm onto the ground.

“Albus kept the dissemination of information down to a minimum, justly concerned that someone, if caught, could be brought before Voldemort and have their mind invaded. If Albus did tell anyone else about their mission, it was most probably Minerva, but she died in the attack. And by the time the attack was over and the dust settled, Albus was so far gone, he never properly regained consciousness again,” Shacklebolt summarized. “That doesn't definitively prove that they let the Death Eaters into the castle, or that Snape poisoned Albus.”
“Yes, but it doesn't prove that they didn't either,” Moody retorted. “Still, come Monday, I want you to look at your schedule and check into some unplanned visits to your parolees’ places of work; possibly their homes. And,” Moody added with emphasis, “no warning Malfoy and Snape beforehand. These are to be surprise visits. Understood?”

“Yes,” answered the black Auror reluctantly.

“Perhaps a surprise visit by Miss Brown's office would not be out of order either,” Alastor commented.

“Why would that be necessary?”

“Because anyone who would want to employ Malfoy and Snape is not above my suspicions,” Moody tartly replied.

Hermione's mind reeled at Moody's last comment. She was so busy processing this startling information that Snape worked for Lavender too that she missed the rest of what the two Aurors said. Still, she did not miss much, as the men ended the conversation quickly and rejoined the rest of the guests.

'Snape works for Lavender? If that's so, then he probably works as a...' She couldn't breathe. 'No...no...no, no, no, no, No, No, No, No, NO, NO, NO, NO!' Hermione's mind screamed as she placed her hands on either side of her head, hoping to squeeze the terrible realization from taking root in her mind. Desperately wishing it wasn't true, she began hyperventilating as she realized that Calleo was most probably Snape.

“It can't be,” she whispered to herself. “Oh, God, no.” She felt awash with nausea and numbness. “It can't be true,” the witch whimpered, clutching her arms to her stomach. Unable to feel her limbs due to emotional shock, Hermione squeezed her arms about her midsection tighter and began rocking back and forth, her eyes darting about, scanning the interior of the tipi without noticing a single detail of her surroundings.

No matter how hard she tried to deny it, facts and bits of information came floating to the top of her mind, piecing the whole unsavory puzzle together into a whole. Hermione began remembering snippets of conversation she had with Calleo: how he experimented with Potions until about four years ago, which would be about the same time as when the Death Eater Decree came out; Calleo's now obviously blatant hints about his Potions knowledge, knowledge that only a Potions master would have. 'All those comments about how a Potions master told him once, my arse!' Now she knew why Calleo, or should she think of him as Snape, had asked her that if she knew his identity, would she still remain friends with him.

Had she her senses, she would have cried. A physical feeling like a gaping hole burned in her chest, making her clutch her hand to her sternum. 'He lied to me,' Hermione thought. Before her mind could wander down that thought, she remembered how Calleo-Snape had said he had never outright lied to her, but downplayed his knowledge to hide his identity. Knowing he said that still didn't take away the numb tingling in her body, or the sensation that she was detached from reality.

Memories of the previous night flashed before her eyes. Hermione buried her face in her hands in mortified shame and guilt. “Oh, God,” she moaned pitifully. She had told him about her erotic dream of him, and then wound up dry humping him twice. She choked on the bile as it began to creep up her throat at the recollection of it, and she wished she could burn the image from her mind.

'I cannot be attracted to Snape! It's just not humanly possible!' But the more she analyzed it, the more it made sense that Calleo was actually Snape. The lengthy talk about Potions, his questions about logistics concerning brewing large quantities of Potion while freeing up other cauldrons, the body paint potion, and loaning her Potions journals. Then there was the time he commented on her use of the phrase, “Close only counts in Divination and Dementor's Kisses.” It was a phrase Snape used to use when a student claimed their Potions work was close to perfect.

Her emotions were trying to override the logical part of her mind. 'This can't be. I cannot be in love with... with... SNAPE! He put a love potion in my tea. That's the only answer!' But she knew that it wasn't true, as she knew the effects of a love potion and she exhibited none of the symptoms. Besides, he drank from the same teapot as she did, so he couldn't have slipped it in that way. And most of the dishes during dinner were served from a communal serving dish, so Snape would have had the love potion too, if that's what it was. Hermione doubted that Snape would willingly imbibe a love potion under any circumstances. Still, no amount of logic could explain how she had fallen for a man such as Snape.

“How could I have been so stupid as not to have seen it right in front of my face all this time?” the harried witch berated herself in a whisper.

'Malfoy lives on the third floor, Snape on the fourth.' “I'm an idiot.” It was plain as day that Snape would be the one living right upstairs from Malfoy. Then it struck her that if Snape had told Malfoy of her visits, then that would mean that Ginny would know of her visits to see Calleo-Snape as well. Remembering how Ginny would look at her at times made a shiver run up Hermione's spine, certain that Ginny knew of her Thursday night trips to the Red Ginseng.

“Oh, God,” she cried softly once more, falling over and burying her face into the soft pelts. 'How can I face Ginny now, knowing that she knows. This can't get any worse,' the distraught Mrs. Weasley concluded. It made Hermione cringe to think about it.

Hermione continued to deny that Snape could fuel all the masturbation fantasies she had spun within her mind for the past several weeks. Though all the evidence weighed in favor of that fact, Hermione could not reconcile the two images in her mind. One image was a well-built man with a voice like warm silk who had a spirit of compassion, wit, intelligence, courtesy and patience; and smelled of all things sensual and seductive. The other image was a bitter, cruel, impatient, scrawny man who used every chance to make disparaging remarks to her and about her, whose mere voice instilled fear or wariness in most. Snape did not have a kind bone in his body, whereas Calleo had been kind to her in a time of need.

She was confused by images of the man who lived on the fourth floor of the Red Ginseng – whoever he might be – sitting across from her and sharing long dinners, dancing for hours with her, the way his body felt so good pressed up against hers, and how his presence drove her to near madness with desire. The physical remembrance of a rather impressive erection pressed against her bottom not twenty-four hours prior didn't help the matter either.

'It can't be him. Snape hates me, and Calleo definitely likes me and wants to pursue a more intimate relationship.'

Then Hermione recalled one snippet of conversation from a few weeks back where she had mentioned to “Calleo” how much her old Potions professor hated her, and would probably not let her apprentice under him. 'Maybe if he got to know you as something other than a student, perhaps with a few years apart, he might have reconsidered.'

Hermione's mind went back to their conversation the night before and Calleo-Snape's mention of an apprenticeship. Was Snape offering her an apprenticeship? 'You're just imagining things,' she told herself. Maybe this crazy idea that Snape has been working as a gigolo and cooking her dinner on Thursday nights was nothing but an elaborate delusion in itself. Still, she could not ignore all those evenings filled with interesting conversations on a variety of subjects, and her arousal from his simple act of kissing her hand. Whoever the man was that she had fallen in love with, her body hummed with desire for him.

Denial once again reared itself in Hermione's conscience and seated itself firmly in her mind. The way Calleo kissed her palm, and pulled her on top of him in order to caress her breasts, and begged her so sweetly; no, he could not be Snape. Snape could not make her body feel tingly, aroused, and enthralled all at the same time. Snape could not make her fantasize about being lost amid soft bed sheets and tangled limbs panting, grunting and rutting away until she was deliciously raw in all the right places. Snape had not made her consider having an affair, essentially cheating on her husband.

Wondering what time it was, in order to get her mind off the fact that she was earlier considering becoming Snape's lover, or Calleo's, or whomever it was who she was attracted to, Hermione left the sanctuary of the tipi. She wandered off into the house just in time to sing happy birthday to Harry, watch him blow out the candles, and observe the little icing cowboys and Indians scatter when Ginny started cutting the cake.

Hermione felt a tug on her calico skirt. Looking down, she saw Michael (Bill and Fleur's oldest) standing next to her with a coy smile.

“Can I have your cowboy?” the small child asked.

“What?” Hermione looked at him in confusion, unable to understand what he was asking about.

“Your cowboy,” Michael said, pointing to her square of cake, where the little icing cowboy had set up a tiny rampart of frosting from which to defend himself with his miniature icing rifle from intruders. “Can I have him? I have an Indian on my piece of cake, and I want to see what happens when they fight,” her nephew explained.

Hermione didn't even know how the piece of cake wound up in her hand to begin with. She figured she must have been so lost in thought, she didn't notice when the plate with the piece of cake had been placed into her hand.

Once she nodded, Michael plucked off the little icing figure and happily ran off to plop the tiny sugar-charmed cowboy into his own piece of cake next to an Indian.

Forcing herself for politeness sake to eat her cake, still deep in thought and wishing she could stop thinking of additional parallels between Snape and Calleo, Hermione did not notice Ginny sit down next to her with her own piece of cake, now that all the guests had been served.

“You all right, Hermione?” Mrs. Potter asked, looking at her friend with a concerned expression.

“Yeah,” Hermione replied absentmindedly. Her mind still whirring, another question came to the forefront. 'If Ginny doesn't know where Severus is, then does Malfoy?'

This was neither the time or place to ask such a dangerous question, especially when half of the Ministry's Auror division was standing in the living room shoveling bite after bite of chocolate cake down their throats.

“I was just thinking,” Hermione added at the last minute.

“I thought I smelled wood burning,” Ron quipped, as he sidled up to his wife and baby sister.

Hermione looked up at her husband and glowered at him. Normally, Hermione would have laughed at such a witty retort, but considering Ron's recent history of being verbally cruel to her, she was in no mood for his deprecating jibes tonight. If she wasn't a guest at Harry's party, she would have chucked the rest of her cake at her insensitive clod of a husband. But in order to keep the peace and not make a scene, she quickly left and headed straight for the loo.

Once inside the door, she locked the door and cast a Silencing Charm before screaming her lungs out. Hermione was at the end of her mental and emotional ropes. Between dealing with Ron, finally learning about the mortal binding of bearing children with Ron, and suddenly realizing that she had been a blind dolt and had fallen for her old professor – and she was suddenly aware of how much older he was than her – she had a conniption fit in the tiny room. Nothing was safe from her wrath. The vanity cabinet was repeatedly kicked to the point where the door started coming off the hinges, and several deep boot heel marks dented the wood and chipped the varnish. The mirror, which Hermione could not recall being charmed or not, was smashed by a hastily thrown soap dish. If the room had had a bath or shower, she would have run the water and stood fully-clothed underneath its scalding spray in order to shriek some more. Nothing made sense anymore, and neither did Hermione's hysteria.

A forgotten tube of lipstick quickly turned into a pen in order to scrawl angry scribbles and squiggles on the wall; jars of potions were smashed against walls. Hermione ignored the tiny shards of glass that assaulted her upon their impact on a nearby wall. When no object remained untouched by her fury, Hermione sank down to the floor in order to start sobbing pitifully. Realizing after a few moments that if she didn't emerge soon, someone would force the door open to see if she was all right, Hermione told herself to stop crying. When that didn't work, she soundly slapped herself across the face in order to try and regain some control over herself, especially since she felt she had now lost all control over her life.

The stinging burn of her hand making repeated contact with her face brought her around. She assessed the room and was disappointed that she didn’t feel any satisfaction from the destruction she had caused. She began casting Reparo spells to restore the toilet to its former undemolished state. Hermione looked at the assortment of repaired jars of potions and creams. Locating the jar of Lovely Lavender's Puffy Poof Eye Crème, Hermione dabbed it around her eyes while giving the mirror one last look over to make sure it was seamlessly repaired. She cast a quick Glamour Charm to hide the red hand print on her cheek. One last glance about confirmed that she had fully restored the room, before she ended the Silencing Charm and went back to the party pretending that everything was all right.

Hermione was wrapped up in that now familiar blanket of cold numbness. Turning off her emotions for the moment helped her to keep up that false facade that she was all right, while inside she felt as if she had been irreparably shredded into a thousand pieces.
============

A/N: I want to thank Siren for all her help with my story up to this point. Her beta input has been invaluable to this story. Thank you for all the help, Siren! A round of applause to her, ladies and gents.
At this point, I would like to welcome GinnyW to my team of betas, Horserider and JuneW. Let's give a huge round of applause to my betas for all their hard work in beating my chapters into shape.
If you have a problem with the usage of “dipshit” being British enough, my official Brit-picker, Piggie, has told me it is indeed a phrase that is used in England. Kindest thanks to Piggie for being my emergency Brit-picker these many chapters with my many emails.

For some interesting history on saloons of the Old West, I recommend going to: http://www.legendsofamerica.com/WE-Saloons.html Cactus Wine is made from peyote tea and tequila. Whiskey is spelled the American way for this chapter.
Amphegoria is a variation on the word amphigorey, which means a nonsense verse or composition. It's also my tip of the hat to Edward Gorey.
My inspiration behind Vladimir's Cowboy Jazz Band is based on Igor's Cowboy Jazz Band, which I have seen on many occasions at the Sacramento Dixieland Jazz Jubilee over the years: http://www.igorsjazzcowboys.com/
Here is a video of them playing I have on my Tumblr page from a jazz festival:
http://atdlhea-betz.tumblr.com/post/131333282995/and-they-didnt-live-happily-ever-after-chapter
Thanks to okonchristy (cocoachristy) for a little help with this chapter when I got stuck in a couple places.
I have no idea if George is the younger Weasley twin, despite scouring all of hp-lexicon for a clue, but it seems only logical considering “G” comes after “F”, and George is usually the second one to speak when both the twins are talking.
Since HBP has come out, it is now known exactly when Tom Riddle's mother died. I laughed (not in amusement over the tragedy, but for the coincidence of it) when I read that part of HBP, because it was exactly as I planned it for my story. Now if I was willing to incorporate any part of HBP canon, it would be making marriage vows the same as an Unbreakable Vow, the contract sealed when the wife has children. But since it is far easier for me to ignore HBP and all the new canon that came with it, I won't use it. But it is nice to know that Rowling and I had the same idea in mind.
Great chapter! I can’t wait for more…concerned about our girl here, and wondering what will happen when next she and Snape meet! ~Horserider
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And They Didn\'t Live Happily Ever After