Chapter Text
1 December 1841
“She’s … undesirable, isn’t she? And yet…” The slow drawl of her classmate’s arrogant, nasal voice made her angry, but there was no acceptable way for her to respond.
Propriety and protocol dictated that she should look down meekly, pretending to not have heard, because a girl should never question or talk back to a man. Except in class, of course. She was not about to stand in their shadow when it came to academic results. Outside the classroom was an entirely different matter.
“Most certainly,” a clipped voice said, “pretty enough for a certain kind of use, but with that dirty blood of hers… I can’t believe they allowed her to continue. A Mudblood orphan girl taking her NEWTS? Professor McGonagall must have lost her marbles, taking her under her wings like that. It’s shameful.”
The library was quiet, and the voices of the group of boys next to her were loud. She knew they were staring at her, probably looking insolently at the flush creeping up her neck, visible underneath her too-messy bun of curls.
Automatically, she straightened her cap, patting her hair down, staring blindly down in her book, not acknowledging the boys. The light was fading as the sun set, and she could always hope that the dim light of the library hid her reaction, the light from the tall stained windows disappearing between the tall stands with books and the high vaulted ceiling.
As a loud, raucous laughter broke out, she realised that she might as well give up, because there would be no more peaceful studying today, even though the librarian shushed the boys.
Gritting her teeth, Hermione calmly collected her books. The library was no longer a safe haven for her, and her special spot in the quiet corner by the Restricted Section was invaded by others with an increasing frequency.
She patted the worn oaken desk as she left, like taking leave of an old friend, the surface warm but rough underneath her palm, before checking out the new items with the librarian Mr. Pince.
More and more often, she had to study in McGonagall’s chambers, because the boys in her year wouldn’t leave her be. Apparently, some of her classmates held her in no regard at all, and nasty comments, glances of an almost indecent kind or even just plain interruptions of her studying were happening more and more often. That was, if Harry or Neville wasn’t there with her, giving her protection by their presence.
After all, a witch’s virtue was her most precious asset, or at least that’s what everyone said, and the way her classmates were talking about her was a dire threat to her reputation.
To be frank, it had become so much worse, ever since the fateful words of the Headmaster at the Welcome feast in the beginning of her seventh year.
1 September 1841
With a smile, Hermione accepted Harry’s helping hand to get seated. The long benches at Hogwarts made getting into one’s seat in the Great Hall notoriously difficult - or at least it was difficult for anyone in a dress.
Her best muslin dress was still dyed a dreary black to show that her mourning wasn’t over yet, and the skirt tangled in her legs as she took her seat. When she was finally installed on the bench, she patted the flowing fabric down demurely, making sure her ankles were properly covered.
Harry squeezed her arm reassuringly, while Neville sat down on her other side, giving her an encouraging smile. They both looked dapper in their best dress robes, their Gryffindor cravats tied expertly for the occasion.
The golden plates were laid out for the Welcome feast, the thousands of floating candles alight underneath the vaulted ceiling, the enchantment currently showing a glorious red sky from the setting sun. The students were excited, fresh-faced and happy to see each other after a long summer. All of them were waiting for the new Headmaster’s speech - or rather, they waited for the feast that would appear on the tables after the undoubtedly boring speech was finished.
“Imagine that,” Harry mumbled, casting a glance to the Head’s table, “him as the Headmaster… I can’t believe it.”
Neither could she, but after poor old Headmaster Dumbledore had taken a tumble over the edge of the Astronomy tower during summer, no one but the stern and pious Severus Snape had been elected by the board to be their Headmaster. He had been a cold, difficult teacher, brilliant in his own way, but prone to anger and favouritism, and he would frequently lash out, punishing the students severely if he saw fit.
Neville shuddered, and she gave him a sympathetic smile, knowing that he and Professor Snape had never gotten along.
“At least,” Neville whispered, “at least he won’t teach classes anymore. That’s good, isn’t it?”
Hermione shrugged, saying noncommittally: “He was a very good teacher when he wanted to.”
Harry snorted, shaking his head, his unruly black hair falling into his face again. “You mean during those few minutes every class when he wasn’t picking on someone? Even yourself, Hermione. You don’t have to defend him, we know what he did to you.”
It was true, because Snape had called her out on numerous occasions. He claimed that she had a very unwomanly need to prove herself as a Know-It-All. According to him, she was insufferable, too eager to show merit, but only succeeding in regurgitating the textbooks at length, without bringing insight and creativity to her work.
In short, she did not meet his clearly expressed expectations for witches to be meek and docile, and she wasn’t brilliant enough to earn his respect. Well, she was trying to fit in, to be meek, wasn’t she, only … not in the classroom. Then again, she wasn’t that much bothered by his accusations, because all her other teachers encouraged her in class, telling her that she did well.
Looking up to the Head table, she caught Professor McGonagall’s eyes, and the old witch smiled warmly at her. Almost tearing up, knowing that she was at Hogwarts only through the gracious mercy of the old witch, Hermione smiled back at her.
Just before the end of her fifth year, Hermione’s parents had died of the typhoid fever that had torn through London, leaving her an orphan. A distant cousin had inherited the property and the title, and he was not very happy to learn that he had a witch in the family. Consequently, he had cut her off from any more funds for her education, and taken the Baronet seat of Granger for himself.
But her Transfiguration Professor had stepped up, sponsoring Hermione’s further education, and she was endlessly grateful to be given this opportunity. Most girls, or boys for that matter, didn’t continue on after their OWLs. The girls tended to prepare for marriage instead, and only a few girls from very liberal families were allowed to continue on to their NEWTs. Those few girls were also wealthy, because Hogwarts’ rules required that each girl of age was to bring her own chaperone paid out of the family’s pocket, which made the price of lodgings raise significantly.
Thus, Hermione was twice lucky, because McGonagall had let her move into her own chambers, acting as her chaperone. Still, the fact that she was the only female student in the seventh year - the only one who had been allowed to continue her education in her year - spoke volumes of how society frowned upon witches’ education. She was determined to make McGonagall proud.
Xxxx
Severus stared out at the sea of students, his stomach roiling. They were all clad in proper black robes, house-coloured cravats in order, all of the boys talking excitedly, while the girls were quiet, like proper little witches.
Though he knew them to be annoying dunderheads of no importance, he still felt uneasy, knowing that he’d address them for the first time as the Headmaster. This exalted position was his now, and the school was his to do with as he pleased - but how would they react? Would they show him proper respect, accept his authority and obey, like they had with the previous Headmaster?
Well, the students were about to learn that there was a difference between the lackadaisical rule of Albus Dumbledore and the proper behaviour Severus Snape would hold them to.
Still, he missed Albus, and he couldn’t help wondering why the old man had decided that he’d take a walk on the paraphets a late summer evening after a meeting with the Minister. Severus more than suspected that copious amounts of Firewhisky was involved, but the loss of Albus had been a blow to them all.
Slowly, he rose, noting with satisfaction that all sound died down immediately as he stepped up to the owl lectern.
He straightened his cravat, setting a Sonorous to his voice, and began.
In no uncertain terms, he enforced the rules of conduct, telling them that all fraternisation between the sexes would be punished harshly, as to uphold proper behaviour. “Moreover, I expect you all to do your best, to work hard, and if you cannot do it yourself, you. will. be. taught. self-control. All frivolous pursuits, such as card games, Quidditch or chess, must come second to your duties. Your duty is your education, and your education only. And by that, I’d like to make something clear to the boys in the seventh year.”
There was a rustling on the benches, all the younger students eyeing the small group of elder boys heading their house tables. The Slytherin boys especially straightened their backs, obviously expecting to be praised and coddled, the way he usually would talk about his House.
“Gentlemen,” he said coldly, “you’ve let yourself become bested by a woman. At last year's exams, each and every one of you lost to a mere girl. This, gentlemen, is below the bar. While for sure, Miss Granger’s grades are a remarkable achievement by the fairer sex, you must all strive to be better. What kind of wizards are you to become, how will you earn the respect as man of the house in your future households, if you cannot surpass the magical power and knowledge of a woman? You must do better, to set an example for your fellow students, your families, and not to mention yourself. Gentlemen, I expect you to be better.”
The seventh year boys looked stunned, some of them reddening with mortification, while whispers and snickers raced through the room. All eyes landed on the girl in question, the only witch of age in the school. Some looked at her with alarmingly appraising eyes - and Severus vowed that he’d keep an eye on her conduct - while others looked at her with seething envy and anger.
The girl, however, looked frankly shocked.
Xxxx
Her head bowed, Hermione followed Professor McGonagall to the Headmaster’s office, still reeling after the Headmaster’s unexpected praise of her results and the resulting ire of the boys.
She almost had to run to follow the older woman’s brisk tempo, and she was breathing hard by the time they reached the gargoyle, knowing that she could rest as the spiralling staircase took them upstairs to his office.
Upon entering, they found the Headmaster staring out the window, his hands resting behind his back, cutting an imposing, dark figure against the light in the room.
McGonagall said snippily: “Dear Severus, why did you feel it necessary to antagonise the peers of poor Miss Granger like that? She has done no harm, and now all the boys are angry with her.”
The Headmaster turned around, one dark eyebrow cocked, and shrugged: “I merely wanted them to work harder. It’s motivational.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is competitive,” McGonagall snorted.
Hermione looked wide-eyed between them, and though she kept silent, she agreed with her Transfiguration Professor. The anger and hatred she had seen in the eyes of her classmates - all barring Harry and Neville, of course - had been frightening. Effectively, the Headmaster had set her up as an enemy by doling out such a blow to the seventh year boys’ pride in front of their schoolmates. And knowing her classmates, she feared that some of them were already plotting revenge.
“I called this meeting because I want to impose that your conduct must be impeccable, Miss Granger,” the Headmaster said, his cold black eyes sliding over her, like she was nothing to him, a mere nuisance he had to suffer in his school.
“Yes, Sir,” she said meekly, “I will try my best.”
“Or else I’ll be forced to expel you,” he continued sternly.
Professor McGonagall sighed. “Severus, the girl has been nothing but a good girl all her life. She’s not about to start …”
“Must I remind you,” he said bitingly, “that Miss Granger is the only female student of age in the school. That might give some of the boys … ideas. It is Miss Granger’s duty to avoid all such things. No entanglements, you hear me? Such things must wait until you’ve finished Hogwarts.”
“Yes, Headmaster,” she said, raising her eyes to glance at him. Those black eyes seemed like bottomless pools of blankness, of nothingness, as if he was dead inside, as if all he cared for was the reputation of his school. With a small shiver, she added: “I’ll be a good girl, Sir.”
Xxxx
Severus cleared his throat, his eyes snapping away from the girl. It wasn’t her fault that she used the same expression as he preferred to hear on … other … occasions. It wasn’t her fault that she’d turned pretty either.
She was perhaps less … decked out with frippery and jewels than the women of stature in his circle, but her face was attractive enough, with big, brown doe eyes, belying the intelligence lurking behind her meek facade, and her body had grown into that of an adult woman.
Glancing furtively at her, he found that he quite liked the sombre black of her dress, very fitting for a young woman in mourning, and for sure, the fashion of the day displayed her bosom to its advantage. The cinched waist and the flared skirt accentuated her curves, her skin milky pale against the black fabric, and the wide skirts flowing around her legs would hinder her movements, rendering her weak and vulnerable to a man’s advances. In his opinion, the fashion nowadays was nothing short of improper, leading any man’s thoughts down the path of sin and vile debauchery.
Hiding his sudden confusion, he sat down behind his desk, steepling his hands underneath his chin, affecting a stern expression.
To his satisfaction, the girl started to fidget, slowly wringing her hands, like she was nervous under the gaze of her superior, and for a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy for her.
Her boorish behaviour in the classroom notwithstanding, so unbecoming for a girl, she had quite an impressive academic record. It was a shame that she wasn’t born a boy, because with her lack of pedigree, familial support and money, it was virtually impossible for her to qualify as a Professor. Or for that matter, she’d never attain any position that would actually require a mind such as hers.
As Headmaster, he knew very well that Minerva couldn’t hope to put the girl through an Apprenticeship after the girl had taken her NEWTs, what with paying for a full time chaperone and all that. As it was, even Minerva had to stretch her funds to help the girl. The small salary rise he would administer for his Transfiguration Professor had absolutely nothing to do with that, of course. It was merely his acknowledgment of Minerva’s continuous scholarly contributions.
The girl, however, seemed to believe that she was Merlin’s gift to the scholarly society of Wizarding Britain, and he was sure she’d aim for a life of academic pursuits if given the opportunity, and not a humble life as a supporting wife and doting mother, as she should by rights.
Clearing his throat, irritation spiking at the girl’s unrealistic ambitions, he asked: “Minerva, are you sure the girl can handle all those subjects? Potions, Arithmancy, Astronomy, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms and History of Magic is a rather heavy workload.”
The girl’s head snapped up, and for a moment, he saw a glimpse of the overconfident snotty student persona she had always acted out in his classes. The moment passed, and she was again hiding behind her meek mask, but he had her pegged. This reckless Gryffindor girl had absolutely no respect for the rules restraining her sex. He shouldn’t be lenient with her, no matter his sympathies, because she needed to learn her place. Her only way forward would be that of becoming a wife, in all probability wed to someone of low status or even a Muggle, or possibly as a governess. That was, if any of the families would be willing to overlook her blood status.
“What about Care of Magical Creatures, Sir?” she asked, and by her side, Professor McGonagall tried - and failed - to hide a smile.
Belatedly, Severus remembered that Albus had allowed her to continue with that subject too last year. Leaning forward, annoyance boiling inside, he gave her a thin smile. “Not this year, Miss Granger.”
McGonagall’s smile was wiped off her face like the magical swiping of a blackboard, but Severus held up his hand, stalling the two women: “It isn’t suitable. Much like Defence, this is too dangerous for a woman. In the last year of their NEWT, the students are expected to handle very dangerous beasts, like Manticores, Acromantulas, Erklings and Werewolves. Nothing for a witch, I can assure you that. It’s … unacceptable … to put a defenceless woman in the path of such creatures.”
Taking a step forward, Minerva said belligerently: “Albus thought it was acceptable.”
There was a brief stalemate, blue eyes glinting against black, before Severus said haughtily, using his authority: “If the girl wants to stay on, she’ll take the subjects I see fit.”
McGonagall’s lips thinned, but she bowed her head, acquiescing, but the anger in his eyes told him he hadn’t heard the last of it. The simmering anger in his gut seemed to spread, knowing that his subordinate didn’t quite heed his words.
The girl looked equally furious, but she managed to temper her voice if not her words as she responded, her voice very flat: “Thank you for taking an interest in my education, Headmaster. I feel so much safer now.”
That did it for Severus: His fists balled, he rose slowly from his chair, his eyes trained on her before he said very quietly: “Out. Now, you insolent little chit!”
Xxxx
Still angry after the altercation with the two harridans - how dared they to question his authority like that! - he glared into the tall mirror adorning his office. The candles glinted behind him, framing his silhouette.
No wonder they didn’t respect him, because he looked like a fright, not like a proper Pure-blood gentleman. The dour countenance and the too-long, greasy hair proved that Severus Snape had his portion of dirty blood too, and he was never going to be of real interest to the society, or for that matter any woman - not that he had ever been.
With a sigh, he noted that he should make a House-elf cut his hair again. But there wasn’t much to be done about his overly large nose, the crooked teeth and the sallow skin. Still, the worst thing wasn’t how he looked, it was how he felt. He’d never be a respectable gentleman. Not him, never him, because…
… Severus Snape was a sinner, a reprobate and a hypocrite of the worst kind, he knew that very well. He preached chastity and prudence to his students, showing a facade of proper and pious conduct, similar to what had been beaten into his flesh during his upbringing, while being a regular at the Knockturn Alley establishment of Madam Glerfandel, partaking in heinous sins with harlots of the worst kind.
His friend Lucius had told him time and time again that he should get married, that a marriage would take the edge off, but as Lucius himself was a regular at more than one brothel, Severus wasn’t so sure about that.
He tried to console himself that a man had needs - everyone said so - but after every visit he felt sick and ashamed for giving in to his baser lusts in this way, like he had too little control over his body, giving in to the urges of his cock. In the bleak aftermaths, the words of his religious father’s sermons ran like poison through his veins: Devilry, evil, sins of the flesh, the lure of temptation, hellspawns in sexual congress, deserving the eternal flames and torment…
Still, after a while, he’d be back at Madam Glerfandel’s with a raging erection, a need for a girl on all fours with a tight wet hole to sheathe himself in, listening to the satisfying sounds of a moaning, obedient little whore, telling him that his cock was too large for her to handle. Well, he knew that the lubrication was magically induced and the moans were fake, but then again, it wasn’t as if the lack of lust would be much different with a wife.
It was common knowledge that a decent woman would never enjoy intercourse, and most wellbred goodwives would not deign to even pretend to a smidgen of desire. Still, that didn’t stop him from wanting to see desire burning in the eyes of a girl.
In the brothel, it was all too easy to forget that everything was fake when he could demand a girl to go down on her knees for him, to thrust his thick cock deep into her mouth, making her gag and choke around his swollen head as he came down her throat. Or even insist that he could breach her forbidden hole at the back, pumping into her arse as the girl tried to mask her whimpers as moans of pleasure, her legs shaking as she tried to accommodate him. Those things were not on offer from a wife, that much was sure.
Acquiring a wife had never been something he’d seriously entertained so far, not since his life fell apart all those years ago. Besides, his Half-blood pedigree would limit his choices severely, no matter his future inheritance and influential friends. He’d better wait until his grandfather’s title would pass on to him, and then he could offer for a meek, sweet girl from one of the lesser families. Preferably someone without any intellectual ambitions who wouldn’t bother him with foolish questions.
Shaking his head, he wondered where all those thoughts had come from. Surely, a discussion with one of his subordinates and a student shouldn’t set him off in the direction of self-flagellation like this. He had turned out good, hadn’t he? Climbed back up the ladder of society, trying to make amends for the shambles his mother had made of their bloodline, and now he had reached the prestigious position as Headmaster of Hogwarts. Not bad at all for a Half-blood without a title.
Notes:
Snape and his visits to Knockturn Alley: So many men from that period would do the exact same thing, without feeling any guilt. But rest assured, there are only brief mentions of prostitution.
Chapter 2: A future as a governess
Summary:
Somehow, Severus got the impression that she was trying to stop her hands from shaking, and he smiled grimly, pleased that he was able to induce fear into the insubordinate little chit.
“I wasn’t aware I had gained another teacher on my payroll,” he spat. “An unqualified one at that. Who told you to do this?”
Notes:
Thank you for receiving my Victorian angst fic so well! 🖤
In chapter two, we're back at the outset, in December 1841.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
1 December 1841
“You’re back early,” Professor McGonagall said to her with a smile. The old witch was sitting by the fireplace, a large woollen shawl around her bony shoulders, grading essays. The light from the fireplace flickered over her face, leaving her face in half-shadows, while her work was lit up by a small bobbing witchlight.
“Yes,” Hermione said with a sigh, not wanting to bother her mentor with the rudeness of her fellow students that had caused her to flee the library. “I … It was too noisy. I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”
“Oh shush, nevermind,” McGonagall scoffed. “It isn’t a bother having you in here, you know that. Come over, it’s freezing cold in that room of yours. I swear, this castle never gets warm unless you’re practically baking yourself in the fire.”
Moving a chair over to the fire, Hermione sat down, opening her bag to pull out her books.
“Ah, Arithmancy today,” McGonagall said with a small laugh. “I heard Septimus Vector is very pleased with your last essay. More so than usual, I should say.”
Hermione couldn’t help beaming, because Arithmancy was her favourite subject, and praise from her Arithmancy teacher was hard to come by. Still, even Vector was positively gushing, when compared to the Headmaster back when he still taught Potions. Snape had been an absolute nightmare of a teacher in that respect, never praising anyone. Professor Vector seemed like a kind and doting old wizard in comparison.
They worked in silence for a while, the only sounds were the crackling of the flames in the fireplace and the scratching of McGonagall’s quill, as she undoubtedly wrote a few scathing remarks on the papers of the fourth year Transfiguration class.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” McGonagall said slowly, laying her work to rest.
There was something in her voice that made Hermione look up, and to her surprise, there was a sad expression on her teacher’s face.
“My dear, you know I would want all the best for you,” McGonagall said, smoothing the folds of the tartan blanket laying over her lap. “You would deserve to go on as an Apprentice, expanding your knowledge. I’m sure you’d be a fine Master, in whatever subject you’d choose.”
“But that is not to be,” Hermione said tonelessly. Oh, she knew that. She knew that this last year at Hogwarts, taking her NEWTs, was as far as she could go. In six months, she’d be looking for a job or a husband, and neither would be easy to come by.
There was a long, ragged sigh from her teacher. “Oh lass, I wish I could help you, but paying for an Apprenticeship outside of Hogwarts, with a chaperone to boot, is all but impossible for me. I’m so sorry about that, lass.”
“Oh, don’t be,” Hermione said more lightly than she felt. “I couldn’t… You’ve helped me so much.”
“Well,” McGonagall said, giving her a brittle smile, “as I can’t see any beaus in your life, at least not yet, there’s one path open for you.”
“As a governess,” Hermione said, almost sourly. It wasn’t what she wanted, not by far, but at least it was safe and respectable. And maybe she’d find time to study more on her own.
“Yes,” McGonagall replied, the quick look she gave her proving that her teacher knew exactly how Hermione felt about that. “Even such positions might be hard to come by, but I think it would help if you had some training. I’d like to propose that you function as a teacher’s assistant for the younger students, that is, when your timetable allows it. I believe you should be able to help me and Professor Vector with grading, and perhaps to oversee the students’ homework. That is, if you’re interested?”
Hermione nodded, straining to give her teacher a happy smile. It was a clever idea, and it might work wonders for getting a position after her NEWTs, but oh, she really didn’t want to cut down on her study time. And truly, she wasn’t looking forward to a lifetime of preparing Pureblood brats for Hogwarts.
Xxxx
“Everyone will be outraged, Severus, even you cannot contemplate banishing the Yule ball,” Lord Malfoy drawled, leaning back on the comfortable, stuffed rococo sofa in Severus’ office.
The pair of sofas were, truth to be told, everything that Severus detested: A luxury, a fashion fad, but still, they were oh so comfortable, compared to what else Hogwarts could offer. Well, after being installed as Headmaster, he had taken care of it by Transfiguring the sofa into a drab brown, making sure that Albus’ colourful patterns of pastel peacocks had faded into the background. This way, he could at least pretend that his decision to keep the sofas in the Head’s office wasn’t of a decorative nature.
Severus grunted, swilling his tumbler of Firewhisky, admiring how the amber liquid reflected the lights. It was pitch dark outside, and most of the castle was freezing cold, but the permanent Warming Charms in the Head’s office made the stone chamber warm and cosy.
Lucius poured himself another fingerwidth of the whisky, toasting Severus. As usual, he was dressed like the flamboyant fop, having never moved on from the colourful frocks and trousers of the last century. Tonight, he was wearing a silver-embroidered coat, a ruffled white shirt half-hidden by his green vest, the colour matching the green knee-length breeches. Well, not that Severus cared that much about fashion, but he had fully and quickly embraced the new sombre and understated fashion, with full-length trousers and dark fabrics. In his opinion, Lucius should do the same.
“Come on, I know you’re very much attached to the idea of propriety, but there is no harm at all in the Yule Ball,” Lucius told him, wagging a finger in admonishment. “The boys will be happy to meet their fiancees again or to find a girl they might start courting during summer season, and the girls will be thrilled to revisit Hogwarts. It’s perfectly safe, and all they’ll do is dancing and conversing. Trust me, it’s … safe enough, while your safety might be compromised if you cancel the ball.”
The raised eyebrow of his friend irked Severus, but he knew he was right. Cancelling the Yule Ball would certainly result in Hogwarts being pelted with owls, carrying angry messages and hexes from mothers and fathers alike, all of them impressing the vital importance of the Hogwarts Yule Ball for the courtships and future marriages of the Wizarding world.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, but he couldn’t resist a last jab. “I’m inviting all the parents this year. They may keep the trouble of chaperoning their precious little girls all by themselves. There’s no need for staff to be involved in this. And there will be absolutely no indecent waltzing!”
Lucius grinned. “Oh, we’ll be delighted to attend, even without the waltz. I’m sure there are pretty little girls for us to look at, and I know Narcissa will want to see how young Miss Greengrass holds herself up at a ball. You know, to see if she can meet Narcissa’s exacting standards.”
Severus couldn’t help grinning at this, almost feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl. Young Draco’s betrothed had been a good student, a quiet, pretty and meek girl, doing her work without bothering anyone. But the formidable Narcissa Malfoy might expect much more from her future daughter in law.
Then Lucius continued, a predatory smirk coming to light on his face: “What about you, Severus? You should marry, you know. You aren’t getting any younger, and I’m sure there are a few fresh-faced young women that might overlook your sour disposition in favour of being Mistress of Hogwarts and the future Lady Prince.”
“I’m not looking to marry yet,” Severus said stiffly, but Lucius shook his head.
Suddenly serious, he told him: “Severus, no matter what you want, you’ll soon inherit the title. Your grandfather is what - a hundred and twenty or more? This is expected of you. This is duty, remember? It’s up to you to continue your line.”
“I know,” Severus said with a heartfelt sigh, “and you know why … why I haven’t married, so far.”
“It’s a long time ago,” Lucius said carefully.
For a while, Severus stared out in the darkness beyond the tall, arched windows. What happened back in his youth was horrifying at the best. Besides, would he ever find a woman to compete with his Lily? She had been unique, with a quick-witted, keen intelligence paired with an unsurpassed angelic beauty. In a world where women were supposed to be meek, weak-minded little things, she had stood out like a beacon, but that was also why she had attracted the wrong kind of people too. It would have been better for her if she hadn’t been such a shining star at Hogwarts. Maybe it would have turned out better for Severus as well.
Lucius cleared his voice, and Severus roused himself from his distraction.
“Would it be so hard to find a wife?” Lucius said, his voice far more kind than his reputation hinted at. “If she should prove to not be to your liking, you could even send her away from Hogwarts, let her stay at Prince Hall instead of letting her be Mistress of Hogwarts. Though Merlin knows, that position has been vacant long enough.”
Both of them smiled a little, thinking of Albus’ preferences, and the way the man steadfastly and adamantly had refused to marry, claiming that it wouldn’t be right to mislead a woman like that. Thus, the Head House-elf had, much to her chagrin and frequent complaints, held the position as Mistress of Hogwarts for years on end.
“Well, I must get going, Narcissa is expecting my presence for calling on the Lestranges. You know, her sister is in a …delicate state.”
Lucius looked half-amused, but Severus shook his head in disapproval. “That’s a scandal if there ever was one,” he remarked, a small sneer crawling over his face as he stood to bid farewell to his friend. “I suppose … he … isn’t all that pleased? I never pegged him for someone that wanted an heir, much less a bastard.”
“You’re damn right about that,” Lucius chuckled, “and since he can’t do anything about Bella at the moment, it’s Rodolphus who’s taking the brunt of it.”
“Ow.” The wince that left Severus was quick and heartfelt, making Lucius nod in agreement.
“I daresay Rodolphus isn’t happy about all this mess, but his Lordship does what his Lordship pleases.” The expression on Lucius’ face was resigned, matching Severus’ own feelings on the matter. They had both supported someone who had proven to be a brilliant politician, an efficient and powerful ruler, but a tyrant nonetheless. A tyrant who took what he wanted, no matter if it was power - or his follower’s all too willing wife.
“Right,” Severus mumbled. “There’s no point in opposing the Minister, is there?”
Xxxx
The afternoon sun was low on the horizon, the speckled dust motes in the Great Hall shining like gold. As Severus entered, looking for Septimus Vector, he was pleasantly surprised at the quiet, studious atmosphere. The students were sitting quietly around the Ravenclaw table, apparently listening with rapt attention, their quills poised to take notes. Of course, at this hour, there were only a group of younger Arithmancy students present, but Severus couldn’t help being impressed by the discipline Septimus had enforced on the young rascals. Only… Septimus wasn’t present - not at all.
Instead, young Miss Granger seemed to be overseeing the students, and at the moment, she was explaining a finer point to a group of third years. A point that Severus was quite sure wasn’t covered by the curriculum until the OWL year.
“You see,” the girl said, her snooty demeanour as annoying as ever, “this will help you understand why you can’t just predict the outcome of a certain event by only loading two factors into the equation. There need to be at the very least four to get any certainty from your prediction. I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re not supposed to learn this yet, because this will make it so much easier for you. To understand the problem is the key to setting up our equations, isn’t it?”
The students around her nodded, a few of them looking like they had just had an epiphany, while half of them looked as confused as one should expect from the average bumbling idiot.
In the pit of his stomach, irritation started to simmer. It was just like Miss Granger, trying to impress everyone with her knowledge, not taking into consideration that most people were stupid and needed simple answers if they were to learn anything at all.
“Why are you here, and where is Mr. Vector?” he barked, making the entire room go deathly silent, students freezing in their seats.
Miss Granger rose slowly, the folds of her wide black skirts rustling in the quiet room.
“I’m overseeing the homework on behalf of Professor Vector, Sir,” the girl said calmly, though she shifted her stance, folding her hands meekly over her stomach, her grip much too hard. “I don’t know where Professor Vector is at the moment, Sir.”
Somehow, Severus got the impression that she was trying to stop her hands from shaking, and he smiled grimly, pleased that he was able to induce fear into the insubordinate little chit.
“I wasn’t aware I had gained another teacher on my payroll,” he spat. “An unqualified one at that. Who told you to do this?”
The girl turned bright red, then pale, and then she was bristling with that uncouth, unwomanly pride she so often displayed. “Both Professor McGonagall and Professor Vector judged me to be qualified for supervising homework, Sir, and I assure you, I do not get any money for this. I’m not on your payroll, Sir.”
“Why on earth are you doing this, then, because surely even you can’t be so entranced by a chance to show off your little scraps of knowledge that you’d willingly spend your time correcting other student’s homework. Moreover, why aren’t you in your own class? I believe you might deserve a detention, Miss Granger,” Severus scoffed, staring her down, giving her his best glare.
The girl looked steadfastly down at the floor, refusing to take the bait. Her reply came with a forced sweetness, though her voice shook with a mix of fear and anger: “I’m not in class because the other seventh-years have four periods of Defence and Care for Magical Creatures, Sir. You told me yourself that such things weren’t approved for my sex. As for why I’m here … I’m hoping to qualify as a governess after Hogwarts. This is practice for my future, Sir.”
Severus stepped forward, closing in on her, forcing her to meet his eyes. “If so,” he said silkily, “you would do well to observe your students. Half of them hadn’t the faintest idea of what you tried to explain to them, and they are likely to do worse on their tests because of this. The curriculum is there for a reason, and not for little Know-It-Alls to disregard when they are playing school. Do you hear me, Miss Granger?”
Her large, brown eyes met his, and she visibly swallowed, looking nervous. “I see, Sir. Thank you for correcting me.”
“You may continue,” he said curtly, “if you’ll be a good girl and stick to the curriculum.”
“I’ll be good,” she whispered, biting her lip.
And there it was again. Severus could have smacked himself for using those words to her again, because his mind immediately envisioned filth and sin: the girl bending over the oaken table, raising her skirts to her waist, the slit in her drawers giving a tantalising sight of a glistening hole. Oh, her eyes would be hooded as she turned her head, whispering to him: “I’ll be good, Sir, please, give me your cock.”
For a moment, he froze, feeling an uncomfortable tightening in his trousers, something that shouldn’t happen because of a student , and he shouldn’t be thinking of this at all, no matter how pretty she was. Maybe it was about time to visit Knockturn Alley again, to blow off some steam. Or maybe he should punish himself by taking a bath in the freezing lake.
Clearing his throat, he turned on the spot, barking: “Continue!”
On his way out, he heard a small boy piping up: “Miss Granger, I think you’re a very good teacher. I understood what you were telling us, and it was so much better than when Mr. Vector instructed us. He never explains the why of it. You’re my favourite teacher, Miss.”
The distance across the Hall was too great to say with any certainty, but Severus thought Miss Granger’s response might have been a half-choked sob.
Xxxx
The post owls had arrived, turning the Great Hall into a flurry of feathers, soft hoots and beaks clicking as the letters were delivered.
As usual, there were no letters for Hermione, but Neville opened his daily letter from his Grandmother with a sigh, glancing over the admonishments of the day. Harry ripped open his own letter, his hands almost shaking as soon as he had seen the emblazoned W on the seal, and Hermione tried to peek discreetly at the unrolled parchment.
“They’re all coming,” Harry gasped, and Hermione almost shrieked.
“Ginny and her parents?”
“No, all of them, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron and Ginny, and… Fred too. Apparently, the Headmaster has invited all unmarried young men and women, plus their parents!”
The three of them looked at each other, Neville blinking in surprise, before Harry guffawed. “Who’d thought that Snape the Prude would set up a Yule ball like this? It’s… it’s going to be a manhunt!”
Neville almost smiled, but he said sagely: “If the parents are coming too, it’s a good opportunity as any to speak to a girl’s father. I, for one, will speak for Miss Abbott.”
And suddenly, Hermione couldn’t help thinking about how much Neville had grown up over the last year. He was no longer a small, chubby boy, but a tall, earnest young man - a good man, whom anyone would be happy to marry. Hannah Abbott was certainly a very lucky girl.
Harry squirmed on his chair, looking embarrassed, until Hermione rapped him on the arm with her wand, saying sternly: “Yes, Harry, you should too. Ginny has been waiting long enough for that, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t seen her since summer,” he muttered, “what if she’s found someone else? She might not care for me anymore, if she ever did.”
Rolling her eyes, Hermione shared an exasperated glance with Neville. “Chances are she will find someone else eventually, unless you actually ask her,” she said, her voice deceptively mild. Merlin, Harry was stupid at times, wasn’t he?
Both Hermione and Neville knew that while Ginny was pretty, she hadn’t a Knut to her. Thus, very few gentlemen would bother to court her. Harry, on the other hand, had Galleons in spades, and was one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, having inherited his title as Baron of Potter when he came of age this summer.
If anyone should worry, it was Ginny, but there was no need for her to do so. Harry had been besotted, completely in love with Ginny since the girl’s final year at school, taking her OWLs a year ago.
And then there was Ronald. Once, Hermione had felt something for him, they even had a sort of tacit understanding - it was supposed to be the two of them - but his scandalous dalliance with Miss Brown had ripped her future to shreds, just months after the chaos of her parents’ death. The disappointment had weighed upon her, though she rather thought the emotions were overshadowed by the loss of her parents.
Now Ronald was reluctantly engaged to Miss Brown, her father demanding that Ron reach a suitable salary before the marriage could take place. Currently, Ron worked as a shop assistant at the Quality Quidditch Supplies in Diagon Alley, saving up for the marriage to the girl he had ruined. And the few girls that had stayed on at Hogwarts for their sixth year, the Patils and a Ravenclaw girl named Jennifer McLeod, had been pulled from school, their parents not risking another scandal.
Furrowing her brows, she said slowly: “Is Miss Brown coming too? Because if not, it’s perhaps a little strange if Ronald shows up to such an event.”
Harry shrugged. “He’s been saving very diligently, you know, so maybe Mr. Brown relented. Maybe they are to be married soon.”
“Would be about time,” Neville mumbled, shaking his head in disapproval. “Leaving the poor girl like that, I hear from my Gran that Miss Brown hasn’t been seen outside her house since it happened, and no one has called on them either. It’s been a year!”
Hermione winced. The memory of that night in their sixth year was clear in her mind still, a furious Professor McGonagall dragging the two students into the Great Hall during dinner, Lavender crying and Ron looking flustered and angry. Then their Head of House had ordered them to pack their things, expelling them on the spot. No one ever knew what exactly had been going on, but later, during her summer visit to the Burrow, Ron had claimed that they’d been kissing, nothing more. As if that was a mere trifle!
Hermione’s sympathies lay with Lavender on this matter, no matter her personal disappointment and the betrayal of what she had thought was an understanding. Still, when Ron was out of the picture, who’d ever court a Muggleborn orphan like herself?
Notes:
Who might that be, Hermione... 😁
Chapter 3: Preparations
Summary:
“Minerva is right,” he said sternly, keeping his face blank. “I’m sure you deserve an O, Miss Granger. You are a very good student.”
At that, both witches looked utterly flabbergasted, and Miss Granger sank down in her chair, her cheeks suddenly glowing red at his praise, and she stuttered: “T-t-t-thank you, S-s-sir.”
Minerva shook her head, like she wanted to clear cobwebs from the corners of her mind, and suddenly, there was a strange glint in her eyes that made Severus uncomfortable, as if the old witch knew something he didn’t.
Notes:
Thanks for reading and commenting on my story! You're the best. 🖤🥰🖤
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I’m somewhat surprised you chose to invite so many for our annual Yule ball,” Professor Slughorn remarked, the corners of his eyes crinkling by the wide smile on his face. “Surprised, yes, but I’m so very pleased, and I’m sure all the young people and their parents will be delighted too. We are going to have so much fun!”
The staff meeting had come to an end, and Severus had successfully delegated the task of overseeing the preparations for the ball to the people who actually cared about such things, namely Horace and Filius.
They were glowing with expectations, already bubbling with ideas for merrymaking. Privately, Severus couldn’t help chuckling at the look of utter relief on Minerva’s face for not being picked for this task.
It was clear, his Transfiguration Professor was not at all interested in playing at being a party maker, though in the days of Albus, she had always been selected for the committee, their old Headmaster claiming that every party needed a female touch.
The rustling of robes and the scuffling of chairs filled his office as the Professors rose from their seats. The small, portly Herbology Professor, Mr. Sprout, was absently scraping off dirt from his leatherbound notebook, and Severus’ eyes narrowed as said dirt landed on the immaculate, polished tabletop in small heaps.
“Well, that’ll be all, gentlemen,” he said briskly, before nodding to Minerva: “And of course, Minerva.”
The men chattered as they filed out of the office, while Minerva stayed. Her lips quirked as Severus flung a furious Tergeo at the table and the floor, eradicating the traces of dirt left behind by the Herbology Professor.
She knew his penchant for order and cleanliness, just like most of them did, though apparently, Mr. Sprout never seemed to care, taking every opportunity to fertilise the Head’s office with dung and dirt. It had to be deliberate, a discrete act of insubordination, because he couldn’t remember the Herbology Professor showing such uncleanliness under Albus’ rule.
“I wanted to ask about this ball,” Minerva began, fixing him with a beady eye and diverting his attention from the Head of Hufflepuff’s discrete insurrection. “If I understand correctly, there will be young, unwed men coming to the ball, as well as young, unwed women, all of them chaperoned by their parents.”
“That is correct,” Severus said stiffly. “I believe that having so many young people at a ball warrants that their parents are present as well. I will not take the responsibility for the youngsters doing Merlin knows what in the corners, and…”
“Yes, yes,” Minerva snorted, “I know your sentiments. They will try, no matter what, you know that as well as I. I’m asking on behalf of poor Miss Granger. If I am to chaperone her, then Filius and Horace can’t set me to perform other tasks at the ball.”
The smirk she sent him was worthy of a Slytherin, and Severus couldn’t help but give her a grin in return. He could appreciate this, trying to frame a question of shucking one’s duties by camouflaging it as a good deed. And who knew, perhaps pretty little Miss Granger would manage to snag herself a suitor at the ball? That was, if someone had money to spend on a Muggleborn orphan, plus having the patience of a saint to suffer her incessant questions and her brash know-it-all attitude.
“Very well, Professor,” he said clippedly, “I’ll make sure you are absconded from all duties at the ball. You may chaperone your little charity project to your heart’s delight.”
xxxx
Around them in the Great Hall, the students were supposed to do homework, but all they did was talk about the upcoming Yule ball. The buzz of whispered conversations and murmurs filled the grand room, hopes, dreams and speculations drifting around, charging the air to a heat haze, making it shimmer by the pent-up magical excitement and energy.
Hermione had just finished helping the third year Arithmancy class with their homework, and with an exasperated sigh, she wondered if she had ever been this stupid.
“Until next time, Miss Granger!” a small Hufflepuff girl piped up, giving her a big smile. Hermione nodded to her, conceding that at least some of them were promising, though most of them had apparently taken the subject because their parents had told them to.
Gathering her books, smoothing down her black dress, she said farewell to the third years, and wandered through the hall, aiming for her usual seat by Harry and Neville.
On her way over, Mr. Goyle bumped into her - deliberately, she guessed - causing her to drop her books. True to his lack of manners, he didn’t even try to pick up her books, he merely stood there, watching her with a most unbecoming smirk on his face.
With a frown, she bent down, reaching for her books, as Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Malfoy sauntered over.
“She looks good on her knees,” Crabbe remarked, making the three of them guffaw.
Hermione gritted her teeth. There was clearly something … very … wrong with that statement, though she wasn't exactly sure what they were referring to. On her knees? Well, it was humiliating at the best, but somehow, they made it seem like something … worse.
“True,” Malfoy drawled, the smirk on his face making her blush. “In fact, it’s about time she learnt her place, don’t you think? I wouldn’t want my fiance to be seen with someone like her.”
Anger simmered inside her, coming to a boil all too quickly, as if she was picking up on all the excess magical energy in the air, gathering it into a spinning ball of magical power, constricted by the flesh of her own body, superheating her skin, like her pores would serve as a vent for her magical ire.
There was a sputter close to her ear, as if something crackled and fizzed, before it turned into zinging noise, and suddenly, Goyle yelped.
“Hey… what?” His normally deep voice became loud and shrill, and as Hermione rose, her books safely tucked against her chest, Goyle began hopping about, his robes on fire, while Malfoy and Crabbe stared wide-eyed at him.
The hall became silent, before someone began to laugh, loud and heartily, and soon the entire room was hooting and laughing, before Malfoy gathered his wits, dousing his friend with an Aguamenti .
Hermione felt oddly dizzy, like she had expended a large amount of magical power, the involuntary surge having drained her. Flushing with mortification - losing control of her magic like that, as if she was a child - she blinked rapidly. She could pretend it wasn’t her. At least, that was better than admitting that she had lost control, because that would be … embarrassing, earning her a night in detention at the best.
“It was her,” Goyle howled, red-faced and angry, “she tried to burn me!”
“I did not,” she said, her voice shaking with feigned indignation, “I didn’t even have my wand out!”
By that, she marched off to the Gryffindor table, where everyone cheered as Goyle stamped out of the Great Hall, clutching his ruined, dripping robes around him.
“Well done,” Harry said with a grin.
“I didn’t do anything,” she began, but Neville interrupted, winking at her and Harry.
“Of course you didn’t, but it was still amazing,” he said, his shoulders still shaking with mirth.
After a while, the commotion died down, and the chatter began anew, the Yule ball still being the topic of the day.
“There will be wine and spirits,” Seamus Finnigian said decisively to Dean Thomas. “I mean, it’s going to be a lot, like we could drink all night, and no one would be the wiser.”
“However much we’d like?” Thomas mused, sharing a shark-like grin with his friend, before they nudged Neville’s arm, causing him to topple his ink bottle over his History of Magic essay. Neville sighed, but sent a too-strong Tergeo at his parchment, in turn erasing all his work.
Hermine winced, and discreetly, she pushed her own, finished essay towards Neville. He took it gratefully with a smile, and started to copy her text.
Seamus, Dean and Harry continued talking, and as she jotted down the opening paragraph of her Potions essay, she listened in on their conversation. It was somewhat endearing: the boys happily talking about finding a pretty girl or perhaps they already had someone they hoped to score a dance with, or if this was the best time to speak to a girl’s father or if it was better to wait.
The boys would be having fun, she knew that, but what about her? Maybe it would be better if she didn’t go. After all, she had no ball gown, and … Malfoy’s words weighed on her. People wouldn’t want to associate with someone like her, a Muggleborn orphan with no magical pedigree or money.
Xxxx
“I’m going to attend the ball?” Hermione said slowly, blinking owlishly, while McGonagall nodded.
The two of them were working in front of the fireplace, their witchlights giving off a bluish light, competing with the flickering red of the fire.
“I’ll chaperone you, my dear. While you still need to wear mourning, I’ll help you Transfigure one of your dresses into a ball gown. You may not look … cheery, but you’ll be elegant,” the old witch said determinedly.
While Hermione knew herself to be more than decent in Transfiguration, she also knew that she hadn’t spent much time on Transfiguring clothing. This - the offer to have her dress Transfigured by an expert - would make her dress look like it was tailor made. As if she still had wealthy parents, as if she could afford a ball gown, instead of being an orphan without a penny to her name.
“Who knows,” her mentor said with a small smile, “you might meet your future husband at the ball.”
Hermione couldn’t help laughing, her cheeks flushing a little, before she replied: “No, I don’t think I’ll be that lucky. There won’t be anyone interested in me.”
The sad little smile McGonagall gave her was proof that her mentor agreed with that sentiment.
Xxxx
“Hogwarts is doing well, my Lord,” Severus said, looking straight into the black eyes of his master. Not only his master, but the master of the Wizarding world, as it were.
They were gathered at Malfoy Manor, the gentlemen enjoying a nice Port in the library after dinner. The ceiling was high above, broad beams in the roof almost lost in shadow, and rows upon rows of shelves marched towards the back of the room. In the area where they were sitting, there were comfortable chairs and small tables in front of a roaring fireplace, and a sparkling chandelier above gave a nice light for reading.
There had been a time in Severus’ life where he deeply envied Lucius for having such a library, but as it was, that envy had proved to be quite unnecessary. Prince Hall was on a different scale altogether.
The Minister turned the crystal glass between his long fingers, the red Port catching the light like glittering rubies. “True, I’ve heard good things, there’s been much improvement. Better marks and no … social failures, nothing of the sort that happened during Dumbledore’s last year,” the Minister said calmly.
“That … was an unfortunate incident,” Severus said quickly, “but apparently, the Brown girl and Weasley are set to marry fairly soon. All will be well, though it certainly never should have happened in the first place.”
Tom Riddle snorted, his beautiful features compressing into a scornful grimace. “Are you quite sure this wasn’t because of that female Professor - McGonagall - not having proper discipline and control over her House? Allowing the students to run wild? Both of them were Gryffindors, weren’t they?”
“I have the utmost confidence in McGonagall’s abilities,” Severus said, putting all his weight into the statement. “Even she couldn’t do much within Dumbledore’s rules. Remember, he allowed boys and girls to be alone together, turning the whole idea of having chaperones into a farce.”
“True,” Lucius said, his face very blank, “my Draco tells me it’s quite a different rule nowadays. Even amongst the Gryffindors.”
“Well, there’s still an older girl left in that House, isn’t it, Severus? You must avoid any kind of scandal, or else we’re facing the threat that all the great families will choose to homeschool their girls,” the Minister said. “You must uphold the school’s reputation, nothing must threaten the virtue of our precious witches.”
It was a testament to the self-control of their circle that no one even blinked, because after all, this came from a man who recently had impregnated another wizard’s wife.
Antonin studied the wine legs on his glass like it held the secrets to life, swirling his Port with a faint motion, while Augustus was glancing around in the library, admiring the room as if he hadn’t seen it before. Avery and Yaxley looked straight ahead, as if they hadn’t been listening at all, but …
…. Rabastan Lestrange was almost shaking in anger, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.
Severus hid his own wince, while Lucius closed his eyes, clearly regretting that he had invited Rabastan to Malfoy Manor.
Currently, Rodolphus was in Azkaban, locked away for some spurious tax fraud, but everyone knew that this was petty revenge for Bellatrix falling pregnant, her Contraception charms mysteriously failing at the worst moment.
No wonder that Rabastan felt strongly for this loss of pride and dignity for his family, but as he raised his voice, Severus couldn’t help wondering if Rabastan had a death wish.
“I wonder,” Rabastan said, his voice shrill and high, “how’s Bellatrix these days, my Lord? She isn’t at Lestrange Abbey. I wonder where she could be.”
The other men in the room sucked in a breath as Tom Riddle slowly rose, towering over the seated men. Power rolled off the Minister, smothering everything in the room like a thick, noxious cloud of magical fury, body tensing in a duelling stance as his face contorted in inhuman anger.
The screaming started immediately, and the dinner party went downhill from there.
Severus felt sorry for the Malfoy Elves that would clean up the mess afterwards.
Xxxx
“This is a surprise, Severus, but do come in. Would you like a cup of tea?” Minerva cocked an eyebrow, looking curiously at him, as she opened wide the heavy wooden door to her quarters, beckoning him inside.
“Yes, please,” he said automatically, entering the surprisingly cold and cramped chamber that was Minerva’s drawing room. It was only slightly warmer than the draughty corridor outside, and Severus winced, remembering the constant struggle it had been to keep his old dungeon chambers warm.
In an attempt to prevent draft, Minerva had dressed the stone walls with tapestries, depicting events from the Scots’ Covenstead before the Scottish wizards had been forcibly joined to the Wizengamot, centuries before the Muggle Union was in place.
As his eyes slid over the figures of woven wizards, brandishing wands as they fought the now extinct Nine-Claws, a type of particularly vicious dragons that had roamed the moors in Scotland, Severus wasn’t really sure why he had decided to visit. Usually, he'd just summon his Professors to his office, he never visited them in their chambers.
Maybe it was due to worry, to impart something about what the Minister had said last night, warning her that she had to be very careful, keeping strict discipline, because if there was another incident with a Gryffindor, Severus might not be able to keep her on, but surely, Minerva had realised that - maybe it was unnecessary, but still, as a precaution …
But as he entered, he saw to his surprise that the girl was reading by the fireplace, parchment and quill at the ready at the table beside her, and … no, he couldn’t talk about such things freely in front of a student. Why was she here, and not in the library? Surely that would be a better place for studying.
“Hermione, we have a visitor,” Minerva called out, bustling to a side table to make the tea, and the girl looked up in surprise.
Upon seeing him, her mouth fell open in a small, round ‘o’ - quite delectable, the baser part of his brain informed him - and she scrambled up to curtsey, holding her skirts, her eyes down, showing deference with perfect modesty.
Her book fell down from her lap with a thump, landing on the floor, and the girl blushed, saying awkwardly: “Headmaster - oh, I’m sorry…”
As she made to kneel to pick up her book, he stepped quickly forward, saying brusquely: “Allow me.”
Severus might not be much of a gentleman, but this he could do - even he could show a modicum of politeness towards a young lady , he told himself.
He bent to pick up her book, returning it to her, but as his eyes fell on the title, he couldn’t help arching an eyebrow. It was so typical, the girl striving to impress all and sundry, trying to outdo everyone in her class, competing in a very un-womanly way.
Clearing his throat, holding on to the book for a while longer, tugging it slightly towards him, making her almost lose her grasp on it again, he said:
“Really, Miss Granger? Reading up on Dagworth-Granger’s ‘On Magical Osmosis: Six Ways to Purify Wormwood Infusions’? I may not be the Potion Professor anymore, but I cannot remember setting this on the curriculum. This is … Master level, and surely nothing that you’d ever need for your essays at Hogwarts.”
The foolish girl perked up. “Oh, but it’s interesting, and we’re working on several potions using Wormwood infusion, Sir. I just thought that since there are more ways to do it, I should reference the methods in my homework, and…”
She looked so earnest, so glowing with conviction and pride in her work, though what she was doing was unnecessary, so very futile, that Severus couldn’t help but bark a laugh.
His laughter clearly startled the girl, making her tilt her head up, large brown eyes wide open in shock.
Shaking his head, flustered at his strange little slip-up, he muttered: “You should know by now, such references are a complete waste of time. Horace never reads anything longer than a foot, he automatically assumes that anyone writing more must be an Outstanding student.”
Minerva snorted, knowing the truth of his statement, but the girl was first shocked, then incensed.
“I cannot believe it, Sir,” she gasped, her eyes burning with anger. “I’ve spent so much time on my essays, and he doesn’t even read them?”
“You probably shouldn’t have said that, Severus,” Minerva commented merrily, placing a tea service on the table, moving the books and parchment away. “The poor girl has been working so hard for her O’s, and I’m sure it’s well deserved.”
At that Miss Granger suddenly blinked, her face crumpling: “But … Sir, you read my Potion essays, and I rarely got an O from you. Maybe I don’t deserve…” her voice faltered, and her large eyes became suspiciously glossy.
“Oh lass,” Minerva interjected, shoving a steaming cup into the girl’s hand. “That’s just because the Headmaster thinks that you need to be the second coming of Merlin to achieve an O, and not because you didn’t deserve it. Remember, Horace observes your brewing too, it’s not like he sets marks in a completely random fashion.”
The girl smiled weakly, but he could still see her bottom lip trembling, her sudden insecurity of her own merits still affecting her.
And somehow, Severus felt like he needed to reassure the girl too, though it was plainly ridiculous. Maybe it was because he hated to see a witch in such distress, or maybe because he very well knew he had at times marked Miss Granger unfairly, giving her E’s when she surely had deserved an O - just to take that unbecoming need to prove herself down a notch.
“Minerva is right,” he said sternly, keeping his face blank. “I’m sure you deserve an O, Miss Granger. You are a very good student.”
At that, both witches looked utterly flabbergasted, and Miss Granger sank down in her chair, clutching her cup of tea, her cheeks suddenly glowing red at his praise, and she stuttered: “T-t-t-thank you, S-s-sir.”
Minerva shook her head, like she wanted to clear cobwebs from the corners of her mind, and suddenly, there was a strange glint in her eyes that made Severus uncomfortable, as if the old witch knew something he didn’t.
“Have a seat, Severus,” she said, indicating the large wing chair by the fire, which was surely her own preferred seat. With a flick of her finger, she Summoned an old, spindly Queen Anne chair, its curved legs sliding over the floorboards with a creaking sound.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” he said politely, declining the comfortable chair, instead stopping the Queen Anne in its tracks, positioning it beside Miss Granger’s chair. As he took his seat, he hoped that the spindly legs would hold his weight.
Accepting the cup from Minerva, he almost choked on the tea as his hostess asked: “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Severus? I’m assuming this isn’t merely a social call.”
As if he was likely to make social calls! A social call like this could only be interpreted in one way, that he was aiming to court Miss Granger! Such a preposterous idea. But he had to improvise, his original purpose being thrown by the girl’s presence, as he couldn’t lecture or warn Minerva about the Minister in front of a student.
Casting desperately about for a reason as the two witches watched him, no doubt wondering why the Headmaster had deigned to visit, he finally said: “Minerva, I’ve been wondering if we should work together to expand the Permanent Warming Charm in the Head’s office to the teachers’ rooms as well. It would need to be a collaboration, because we’d need much raw power and a certain level of strength. You, me, Filius and perhaps Septimus. What do you think?”
Minerva’s eyebrows shot up, and she leaned in, a smile breaking in on her face. “Why, an excellent suggestion, Severus! The castle is rather cold, and keeping up a personal Warming Charm at all times is too taxing. I think it would be feasible, but we’d need to…”
As they lost themselves in the discussion on how to tweak the charm and make it stick to certain parts of the castle, Severus noted from the corner of his eye that the girl listened in with rapt attention, her eyes flitting back and forward between them, but somehow, he thought her eyes mostly rested on him.
Notes:
This story isn't really a slowburn, but as it is set in Victorian times, people won't end up in bed that easily. We're getting there, trust me (that's why I write all these fics, isn't it, lol).
Chapter 4: Yule
Summary:
“Certainly,” she replied, daring another small smile.
Involuntarily, his eyes followed the upturn of her lips, noting how smiling transformed her face from an ordinary sort of pretty to something glowing, like there was a light inside her that suddenly broke free from its hiding place.
Notes:
Yule ball! A brief Cinderella moment coming up. 🥰
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Goggle-eyed, she stared at her own reflection, fingers reverently stroking the soft silk of her ball gown. The flickering magical candles on each side of the old, silvery mirror gave sheen and lustre to the fabric of her dress, and the light bounced playfully off her glossy curls, drawn back from her face and gathered in a heavy bun at the back of her head.
No one would ever have believed this was her oldest muslin dress. The black silk flared out around her legs, creating the shape of a bell in contrast to her narrow waist, and the broad, rounded neckline gave way to the pale complexion of her upper chest. Around her neck, she had her mother’s string of pearls, one of the few heirlooms she had been able to keep. The puffed sleeves ended just before her long kid gloves took over, giving a glimpse of pale skin between the fabrics.
“Oh, Professor,” she breathed, “this is…”
“You look like perfection, my sweet,” McGonagall said, her eyes oddly teary. She was also dressed in her best finery, a long green silk dress with a large, matching hat. “Just a moment, you need…”
The old witch brought out her wand, and with a whispered Charm, dark red roses - so dark that they were almost black too - bloomed in Hermione’s hair, adorning the classical hairdo.
“Oooh, “ Hermione almost whined, feeling slightly uncomfortable, as if she was dressing up as someone else, trying to trick people, pretending to be something that she was not. “This is …”
McGonagall smiled at her, but they both knew what she looked like: A rich, Pureblood widow, dressed in the black of mourning, and not a poor, unmarried orphan. Still, the dress and the hair made a pretty sight, there was no denying that.
And the best part was, no one would ever see that both the dress, the gloves and the shoes were Transfigured from worn fabric and old scraps of leather. Professor McGonagall was that much of an expert, and Hermione was sure, she could never thank her enough.
Xxxx
The students and guests were filing in, names being heralded by Horace’s booming voice, the Potions Professor happily filling the role as Master of Ceremonies.
Severus tried to be a welcoming host, but he suspected that he failed miserably at that. Especially when he had inspected his cuticles instead of admiring the young Lady Abbott. Well, the girl was pretty in her cognac-coloured silks, but he knew her to be an airhead, not worthy of his attention at all. Apparently, her mother had thought otherwise, by the seething glance she had sent him.
Horace and Filius had gone overboard with the decorations. The Great Hall was decked out with glittering icicles, snow-capped Christmas trees lit by the fluttering lights from real fairies, and snow was falling from the ceiling, never reaching the heads of the guests. The centrepiece in the hall was a grand, edible decoration: Hogwarts itself, a creation of marzipan turrets, gingerbread walls, caramel rooftops with dusted sugar, and chocolate frames for the door and windows. The roaring spun sugar dragon on the topmost tower chased the swarms of flittering liquorice bats, at times catching one or two, its teeth crunching the tiny black bodies, creating a shadowed filling inside its sugar belly.
Sparkling champagne rushed from a fountain, glasses hovering at the ready in neat rows for anyone to pluck out of the air, while House-elves toured the room, bringing the guests their choice of drinks, ranging from fine wines, Firewhisky, Butterbeer and fresh pumpkin juice.
He nodded politely to the Dowager Countess of Longbottom, hauling her oafish grandson along, the boy looking shiftily for ways to escape his grandmother, before he turned to greet the Lord and Lady Malfoy cordially, congratulating them with young Draco’s achievements during the semester.
A long string of Weasleys passed by, followed by Averys, Finnigans, Patils, Selwyns, Macmillans and Finch-Fletchleys, parents parading their young, hoping to catch the eye of someone important, or perhaps even securing a match.
As the host, Severus had to greet them all, and he couldn’t help musing upon why some of his students closely resembled their family, while others couldn’t be more different. The Weasleys for example, looked like they were moulded in one form. However, seeing young Miss Isobel MacDougal’s parents made Severus look askance at the girl’s mother, because surely, Lord MacDougal could never have fathered the girl. She couldn’t differ more from her parents, being a petite, dark-haired and olive-skinned beauty, while her parents both were tall, pale and with reddish-tinged blonde hair.
Then Horace boomed out: “Professor McGonagall and Miss Hermione Granger!”
Severus sent the MacDougals off with a disapproving, stiff nod, before turning around with a small smirk to watch just how smug his Professor looked for being exempt from the party responsibilities.
His jaw almost dropped, because … what had the dratted woman done with her protege? She was barely recognisable from the school girl he knew, looking older… stylish and proper, in a very becoming black gown, with her wild mass of hair barely tamed at the back of her head.
Suddenly, involuntarily, an image came to Severus’ mind, of himself grabbing hold of her hair, burrowing his hand into that soft tangle of curls, bending her head back to give him access to suckle her pale throat, leaving bruises in his wake, marking her throat as the girl would gasp and writhe under his grip.
His cock twitched in his trousers, and he blinked rapidly, trying to force that very improper image away, banning it into non-existence. The bane of his existence, apparently, the raging libido that no amount of cold baths nor warm whores seemed to slake.
“Good evening,” he said grimly to his Transfiguration Professor, affecting a brief nod in the direction of the two ladies.
“Good evening, Headmaster!” the two of them chorused, the girl bobbing a small curtsey, while McGonagall gave him an imperious nod.
He gave them a brief bow, trying but failing to match McGonagall’s haughtiness, knowing that her proud stance was borne down through the centuries by her highborn, Pure-blood ancestors.
The girl, however, was wide-eyed, her gaze flitting about like she had never seen a great ball before. Come to think of it, she probably hadn’t, though she looked like an adult witch, perhaps a young widow - an experienced widow, missing the touch of a man, his dirty mind supplied - still in the bloom of her youth.
Forcing down all those silly fantasies, Severus knew that the reality of her was something quite different. The girl was in all likelihood looking for a suitable match at the ball, though with her pedigree, it was unlikely at the best. She could only hope for another Muggleborn, or maybe a Half-blood without any other prospects for marrying. In both cases, any man courting her would have to be well off, because the girl hadn’t a Knut to her.
With a grin, closely resembling nothing as much as a shark, McGonagall said: “I will be looking forward to seeing you dance, Severus. The host must take his turns, you know.”
He narrowed his eyes, looking at the insolent woman, but she was apparently finished, taking the arm of her protege and the two of them sidled off.
With a heavy sigh, knowing that she was right - he would have to dance - Severus took up the task of greeting the next arrival.
“Good evening, Lady Bulstrode, how are you this evening?”
Xxxx
The dancing was well underway. As Master of Ceremonies, Professor Slughorn called the dances, his moustache quivering with cheer as his jowls grew more and more flushed by each glass of Port he consumed.
Hermione stood by Professor McGonagall, listening in on her conversation with Sir Dedalus Diggle and his two twin girls, both of them barely of age. Hermione didn’t know the two Ravenclaws well, as they had quit school right after their OWLs this very summer.
Diggle and McGonagall were far into a discussion of the merits of Transfiguring stone, rearranging the shapes to create suitable building material, and for the sake of etiquette, Hermione tried to keep up a conversation with the two girls, though she’d rather listen in on her mentor’s very interesting conversation.
“It must be very relaxing in the countryside,” she said diplomatically, smiling at the Diggle girls. “So … tranquil, so … picturesque.”
“Yes, yes, but frankly, it’s boring, not much for us to do,” one of the girls said. The two of them were clearly not interested in talking to her at all, as they were both scanning the room, looking for dance partners.
The conversation stumbled along, until both of the girls had found a partner each in the Selwyn boys, gleefully leaving their father’s side.
Hermione had so far only danced with Harry, Neville and Fred Weasley. Her two friends had both asked her politely to dance, though she knew they were itching to dance with Ginny Weasley and Hannah Abbott.
The two girls were standing up for every dance, not only the dances they were able to save for their beaus. Hermione knew that both Ginny and Hannah would privately be cursing the fact that propriety dictated that a lady couldn’t give a gentleman more than two dances during a ball.
For herself, she preferred to stay away from further dancing, instead observing the intricate Charms that Flitwick had layered the room with. Besides, though she enjoyed dancing, it wasn’t as if anyone dancing with her was anything but charity. No one would court her, not with her lack of Galleons and blood status, that much was sure, though people kept glancing at her. To her mortification, more than one wizard had let his gaze linger a little longer than what was proper, some even sneering at her like she didn’t belong in the ballroom, but not a single one had asked her to stand up.
That made her eyes slide over to where Ron stood, because the if only still burned somewhere in her mind, though she wasn’t convinced that she was still heartbroken about what had happened.
Luckily, Ron seemed to have the good sense to avoid her, keeping mostly by his parent’s side. Hermione supposed, no one would allow their daughter to dance with a man that had already ruined a girl.
Earlier in the evening, she had greeted the Weasley party. “You look so beautiful,” Mrs. Weasley had breathed out, giving her a radiant smile, making Hermione blush.
“A lovely young lady indeed,” Mr. Weasley had said, giving her a fatherly pat on the arm, “any young man would consider himself lucky to dance with you tonight, right?”
Young Fred Weasley had taken the hint, making a bow, asking her: “Be sure to save me a dance on your card, Miss Granger.”
“Of course, Mr. Weasley,” she had said, curtseying with a small smile.
And then Ronald had stepped forward, his eyes much too hot as he looked at her. “Hermione,” was all he had said. Beside them, Mrs. Weasley was saying something about the upcoming wedding to Miss Lavender Brown being finally set after Christmas.
While Hermione was relieved to hear that, Ronald’s expression had been much too intense, like he was scrutinising her face and figure in a most indecent way, making her feel uncomfortably warm, but Harry had stepped in, her saving grace as always.
“Ron!” he had almost bellowed, slapping his friend's back, letting Hermione make a hasty retreat as the Weasley family turned their attention to him.
Apart from the three dances, she had chosen to hide from the leers and sneers of the Pure-blood nobility, preferring to stand in the corner with McGonagall.
The conversation between Diggle and McGonagall stopped abruptly as the Headmaster came by. With a pained grimace, he asked McGonagall to stand up with him.
McGonagall shook her head, saying with a little smile: “Oh, my dancing days are long gone. I haven’t danced a single dance since my Elphinstone died, and I’ll never… Why don’t you ask young Miss Granger?”
It was hard to say who looked the most baffled.
Hermione had noted that the Headmaster specifically only asked married or widowed witches to dance. Probably wise, she thought, as he had been the teacher of every single young witch in the room. It was … bordering on inappropriate, wasn’t it, if he was to court a young witch who had been under his care?
But there was no refusing McGonagall’s request for either of them. For a lady to deny a request for dancing, it was tantamount to declare that she didn’t plan to dance anymore this evening. Hermione was sorely tempted to do just that - imagine dancing with the Headmaster! Her fellow students would surely laugh - but it would still be rude, especially as her chaperone had suggested it.
With a sigh, she turned her gaze up to Severus Snape’s face, and with a suppressed giggle, she realised that he had just gone through the exact same thought process. And when considering his boutonniere, it was safe to say that he was not interested in dancing at all. The white lily was a splash of contrast on his unrelenting black attire, but she knew well enough that this flower meant mourning and loss - something that would give every girl a cause to be wary. It was strange, though, she had no idea that the Headmaster had suffered a loss to such a degree that it made him signal a broken heart.
She felt a sudden surge of compassion for him, for all his harsh demeanour, giving him a small smile.
At that, he cocked his head, offering his arm, and said, his voice more commanding than inviting: “Shall we, Miss Granger.”
Xxxx
The girl had looked as if she had no more wish to dance with him than he had with her, until she quite unexpectedly had smiled at him. Still, her small hand landed stiffly on his sleeve and she held her head high as she stepped to his side, the two of them walking to the dance floor, standing up at the bottom of the line, waiting for the music to start.
The girl peered at him, before she said, conversationally: “I couldn’t help admiring the spellwork for the decorations. It’s magnificent, Sir.”
“Yes,” he said shortly. “Master Flitwick knows his way around the Charmwork.”
“Certainly,” she replied, daring another small smile. Involuntarily, his eyes followed the upturn of her lips, noting how smiling transformed her face from an ordinary sort of pretty to something glowing, like there was a light inside her that suddenly broke free from its hiding place.
And then it was their turn to go down the line, the girl with light, bouncing steps like she was made for this, a creature of air and starshine floating between the other dancers. Severus automatically straightened himself to do her justice, taking sure, quick steps to follow her, chasing her in the formal steps of the dance and catching her gloved hand on the turns, before they were once again waiting for their turn.
The girl’s face was flushed, her eyes shining like she enjoyed dancing with him, and when she said softly: “You’re a very good dancer, Headmaster,” he felt surprisingly proud, like her approval meant something to him.
“You too, Miss Granger,” he said gruffly. At his praise, her lips parted softly in a small gasp, like she had wanted and hoped for his praise again - his praise, and his only - and never had expected to earn it. A heated thrill shot through him, like he couldn’t get enough of the way she looked.
Impulsively, Severus decided that if she’d look at him like this every time, he could find it in him to praise her more often. Minerva had given her tutoring tasks, so … maybe he could give her some additional tasks too? Something that would require her presence, though nothing improper, far from it, but … Maybe she could file his correspondence, place orders for ingredients or similar tasks. Then he could give her the occasional praise in private, seeing her face light up in that blinding smile, just for him.
When the music stopped, Severus found that he didn’t want to let her go just yet. Gruffly, he asked: “May I have the next?”
Somewhere in his mind, his sensible, strategic voice of reason shouted: “The ramifications! You’ll be seen dancing twice with her! People will believe… They’ll think you’re courting a Muggleborn - what about your reputation, your standing, this is not helping to rebuild your family name, the very idea is preposterous, and … ”
But right now, Severus found that he didn’t care.
Xxxx
After the dances - the second one even more surprising than the first - he had returned her to her chaperone, thanking her stiffly for the pleasure, though there was something else in his eyes, something strange and burning, a difference to the cold emptiness he usually showed.
Hermione bobbed a curtsey, and behind his back, she caught an incredulous stare from Harry, her friend mouthing: “You danced with him ?! And twice!”
That made her smile, perhaps a little more boldly than she had planned for, making the Headmaster’s eyes widen slightly, his eyes roving quickly over her face, before he retreated.
“You danced very well together,” Professor McGonagall remarked, looking artfully casual, though Hermione was willing to swear that her mentor was hiding a grin.
Hermione shrugged. “He was quite a good dancer for such an old man.”
By that, McGonagall harrumphed loudly, valiantly fighting her laughter but losing, before she chuckled: “He isn’t that old. He just seems like he’s old. Severus was always such a grumpy lad.”
“Professor!” Hermione said, scandalised, but McGonagall winked.
“Remember, I taught him too. He was a brilliant student, oh, he really was, but always so severe, strict and correct, never letting loose like the other boys. Mark my words, he was born an old man, raised in poverty and strife, and while his life certainly is comfortable now, he will likely never change. This man will never take anything for granted, nor believe anything to be easily achieved.”
Hermione blinked, having never thought much about her Headmaster’s private life before tonight, but she supposed that what McGonagall said made sense. His puritanical insistence on propriety and hard work could easily be explained as tough experiences stemming from hardship.
And in a way, she envied him that he had come from poverty and risen above it, while on the other hand, she had fallen from grace, raised in riches and ended up as a poor orphan, depending on the charity of others as she came of age.
Their conversation was interrupted by loud applause and cheering, as Mr. Abbott shook Neville’s hand. Her friend was smiling, stars in his eyes, but those eyes were all for Hannah.
“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, “he… actually did it!”
“Who would have thought,” McGonagall murmured, her sharp eyes curiously amused. “Young Longbottom always seemed to be so … so very indecisive.”
“He’s a gentleman,” Hermione said, slightly reproachfully. “Neville is a man one can trust, and he’ll always do the right thing.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” McGonagall replied, a twinkle in her eye. “If one digs deep enough, one might find a gold mine. That is, if one has the patience for it. The patience of a saint, in some cases.”
Then her expression softened, and she told Hermione: “Offer your congratulations and mine. I wish Mr. Longbottom and his fiancee all the happiness in the world.”
Hermione nodded, before joining the throng of well-wishers. Harry gripped her arm as they waited for their turn, and whispered in her ear: “I’ve asked Mr. Weasley to court Ginny. He was ever so surprised, he thought I had already asked! Can you imagine?”
Hermione stifled a laugh, because she understood why Mr. Weasley would be confused. Harry and Ginny had been a pair waiting to happen for ages, what with Harry’s frequent visits to the Burrow during summers and all.
After reaching Neville, she couldn’t help smiling, seeing his beaming face, and Hannah looked radiant beside him.
“Good to see you again, Miss Abbott, and congratulations to you both! May you prosper in your marriage,” Hermione said politely, and Hannah nodded.
“Likewise, Miss Granger. It’s been a long time since my OWLs, and I can’t wait to see Mr. Longbottom every day.”
By that, she blushed, like she had said far too much, but Hermione only laughed.
“Have you decided on a date yet?” she asked politely.
“As soon as I’ve completed my NEWTs, and Gran says it’s going to be a lavish affair,” Neville said, his eyes hanging on Hannah, adoration practically shining from his face.
Hermione stepped aside, letting other well-wishers to the front, and found herself face to face with Ronald.
He swallowed, a rush of emotions playing out on his face, raising his hand like he wanted to take hers, but then he thought better of it.
Hermione took a small step backwards, but he followed, stepping closer to her, almost trapping her against a Christmas tree.
It felt like alarm bells were going off in her head, clanging mercilessly loud, screaming danger, because no unwed witch should be seen talking to him unchaperoned, seeing as he had ruined a girl, no matter that he was going to do the right thing very soon. For someone with a tenuous reputation and holding little regard in the eyes of society, like herself, it was positively dangerous.
On the outskirts of the throng, not caring who could see or overhear them, he told her: “You know, I always thought it would be different.You and me… I miss you, Hermione, I really thought it would be you and…”
“Don’t,” Hermione said with a forced smile, hiding the sudden intake of her breath. If only… If only he hadn’t been caught, then she’d be safe, not having to search for a stranger willing to take her as his wife, or beg for a position as a governess with people who looked down on her pedigree.
If only … then she’d be trapped with a husband who thought so little of their understanding that he’d court other girls, maybe even more, while coming home to her, knowing that she wouldn’t have the power to stop him from straying. If only … or maybe what had happened was for the best.
Her voice was almost breaking, falling to a whisper as she said: “What happened might not have been what you planned, but still. I wish you all the best of luck, you know. You and Miss Brown will be happy, I’m sure. If you’ll excuse me…”
Breaking free, she walked away rapidly in search of the rest rooms. Because no one should see the tears of what might have been in the corner of her eyes. How dared Ronald to bring that up!
Notes:
I think a dun-dun-dun is in order for the next chapter. Wait - did I tag for angst? 😁
Chapter 5: The Bathroom on the Second Floor
Summary:
There was a sudden, ringing silence in the corridor, like his words were the tolling of a sinister bell, and Hermione froze.
Not for the first time, she dearly wished that girls were allowed to take Defence, because this time, her lack of training could prove to be dire. Would her theoretical knowledge be of any help at all, when faced with three wizards who had learned the ropes of duelling since they were children?
Notes:
So ... some tags apply to this chapter.
Also: The chapter count went up, because I realised I had to split a chapter in two due to length.
Thanks for reading and commenting! 🖤🖤🖤
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The line for the restrooms was too long, chattering girls waiting to fix their hair, talking about who had danced with whom, who had dressed in the most fashionable way or who was rumoured to be courting in secret.
Realising that she couldn’t hold her tears back much longer, she headed for the old bathroom on the second floor. She certainly wasn’t going to show anyone that Ronald Weasley had managed to upset her. He had no business confronting her - what could have been between them was dead and gone, by his own actions nonetheless, and she shouldn’t be affected by it, at least not in public.
Still, such a blatant reminder of his regret was … painful. Especially when faced with her future - not as a Professor, not as a wife, but perhaps as a governess, doomed to raise other people’s children until they were old enough for Hogwarts, before she’d die alone in squalor when she was too old to teach.
The corridors and stairs were empty, her steps echoing in the stone halls, like she was the only being alive in this part of the castle, and maybe she was, at that. The younger students were in bed, and everyone else was at the Yule ball.
The winter frost outside permeated the castle walls, and there was a certain kind of cold, dusty and old smell from the stones, as if Hogwarts itself was a soul hewn from the very bedrock, an ancient being, uncaring and disdainful of all the human life crawling about in its halls, like they were nothing but scurrying ants briefly flickering in and out of existence, compared to the vast age of the castle.
Tiptoeing into the bathroom, trying not to disturb the weeping ghost of a girl who died years and years ago, supposedly because of heartbreak over a much too handsome boy, she sat down in a stall, resting her head against her cold hands.
A few tears trickled down, wetting her fingers, but most of all, now that she was alone and able to examine her feelings, she felt curiously empty, almost burnt out, like the anger and disappointment from Ronald’s behaviour was a thing of the past. A ghost of a feeling, much like the ghost of Moaning Myrtle was an impression of a girl that once lived. Her tears were the ghost of a girl who once had hopes for her future.
Sighing, she wondered if she had been more upset by the fact that her future had become uncertain than by the actual loss of Ronald as a possible husband.
Xxxx
Severus snagged a flute of champagne, trying to swallow down the sudden, inexplicable ire by seeing Ron Weasley ogling Miss Granger, practically trying to corner the girl. As she sensibly enough all but ran from the Great Hall, he glared to his heart’s content at the young man. Foolish boy, did he think he could continue with his scandalous behaviour, compromising girls under the roof of Hogwarts?
His parents should never have allowed him to attend the ball, that was sure. In fact, they should have had the decency to not let him show his face in polite society before he was well and truly married to the girl he already had ruined. Frowning, Severus hoped that Miss Granger would have the good sense to stay away from any further conversations with Weasley.
And suddenly, young Weasley caught his stare, furrowed his brows and made his way over to Severus.
“Headmaster,” the boy said politely. Still, there was something stern in his glance, as if he wanted to put Severus in his place, though he was nervously shifting on his feet, like he was about to do something he was secretly afraid of doing. By now, the boy was almost as tall as Severus, but he still had that gangly awkwardness of youth to him.
“Young Weasley,” Severus drawled, cocking an eyebrow.
“I’ll be blunt,” the boy began, standing up straighter, though his throat bobbed in a nervous swallow. “I saw you dancing twice with Hermione. I want the best for her, and I mean only the best. You see, she deserves that. Someone who’ll treat her well, and secure a respected position in society for her. She definitely does not need someone who’d drag her down, and…”
Something hot burned its way through Severus’ veins, boiling underneath his skin like a poison. What did the boy suggest? That Severus was courting the girl? And did the boy really have the nerve to call him out on his blood status?
Not good enough - not good enough… All the dark thoughts that had plagued his youth came rushing back: The disgrace his mother had made of his family name, his zealot Muggle father imprinting Severus’ wickedness on his skin by whip, the derogatory sneers of the Pure-bloods, the never-ending fights with the Gryffindors - all the things that he had gradually risen above and beyond, and …
“...so I really mean it,” Weasley concluded, his face a little red, his chest puffing out, like he was relieved to have said his piece.
“Well, obviously you're not the best for her,” Severus hissed, completely draining his flute of champagne in pure agitation, his fingers clenching hard around the spindly stem of the crystal glass.
At that, Weasley reddened even more, before he looked away, his expression suddenly stricken. “I suppose you’ve never known true loss, Headmaster,” the boy mumbled, “not like I did, ruining my future… But I still want Hermione to be happy.”
“What does a whelp like you know of true loss!” Severus barked, spittle almost hitting the boy in the face as he leaned forward, poking his finger almost in the face of the young rascal. As if he didn’t know loss, losing his Lily, losing the light of his life in the most horrible way, suffering ever since…!
The boy backed a few steps, visibly shaken, before he turned around, scampering off like the fool he was.
Xxxx
Taking a deep breath, smoothing her hair back, she straightened her back, preparing to return to the party.
But she had only taken a few steps, turning the corner, before she literally stumbled into Draco Malfoy and his two cronies, the three boys standing huddled together, whispering amongst themselves, looking as if they were up to no good.
“Watch it, Mudface!” Mr. Crabbe snarled angrily, shoving her, making her fall, her knees meeting the hard stone floor with a vengeance, though luckily, she managed to catch herself before she fell facedown.
“Ow,” she whimpered, standing on all fours in the corridor, her head bowed so as to not let those cruel boys see her grimace of pain.
“Like I was saying…” Draco Malfoy drawled, “Miss Astoria is pretty enough, but I daresay it’ll be impossible to limit myself to one woman. Luckily, there’s always whores. Mudblood whores.”
There was a sudden, ringing silence in the corridor, like his words were the tolling of a sinister bell, and Hermione froze.
Scrambling to her feet, she was shoved down again by Goyle, a meaty palm pressing hard against her shoulder, making her kneel. The slow snicker coming from Crabbe wasn’t good news, and not for the first time, she dearly wished that girls were allowed to take Defence, because this time, her lack of training could prove to be dire. Would her theoretical knowledge be of any help at all, when faced with three wizards who had been learning the ropes of duelling since they were children?
And suddenly, so many things happened - her body surged back to life, Crabbe grabbed her chin, holding her head like a vice, and Draco Malfoy stepped forward, his crotch right in front of her eyes.
“Get your stinking hands off me,” she snarled, pushing at both Goyle and Crabbe, the thrust of her arms fuelled by her magic, making both boys stumble back.
Malfoy’s eyes turned to little blue slits, and with a condescending sneer, he set an Incarcerous. The magical ropes snapped into being, lashing at her, binding her arms tight to her body.
Furious, she tried to Slice the ropes with a Diffindo, only to find that her mouth had been Silenced as well. As Draco stretched out a hand to grab her chin, his skin clammy and unpleasant to the touch, her hair crackled, sparking a blue fire, making him withdraw his hand with a sudden shout.
Trying to muster her magic - she wasn’t that good with wordless and wandless magic, but it was all she had - Hermione concentrated on breaking the Incarcerous. It felt as if she was slowly sawing through the ropes instead of neatly Slicing it, but in reality, it took only a few seconds.
As soon as the ropes fell, she scrambled backwards and to her feet, drawing her wand, and then the boys laughed.
“As if you can get away, little Mudblood,” Crabbe hollered, “one Mudblood against three of Hogwarts’ finest!”
Glaring at them, she slashed her wand, but her Stinging Hex was easily blocked and waved away by an almost lazy move from Malfoy.
“You did well, for a girl,” he said nonchalantly, like her Hex wasn’t worthy of real note, and Hermione readied herself for casting again, this time trying for something more dangerous, a Petrificus Totalus.
But then three of them suddenly sprang forward, crowding around her, wrestling her arm back, grabbing her wrist to take her wand.
Wild-eyed, she did the only thing she could think of, sending a cry for help, her magic surging, and her silvery Patronus form shot out of her wand, streaking towards the Great Hall in search of Professor McGonagall.
Notes:
Cliffie? 😇
*sips ☕*
Chapter 6: Aftermath
Summary:
No matter what McGonagall said, no matter how she tried to reassure her, Hermione knew that it was Headmaster Snape who’d decide her future. And he wasn’t merciful at all.
Notes:
q: Angst?
a: Angst.😁
Thanks for reading and commenting! 🖤
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Severus couldn’t stop it, a strong headache had started to form. This inexplicably strong feeling of rage, of helpless anger manifested in his blood pressure, making the veins in his temple pound with the force of a sledgehammer.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to block out the sounds of Draco’s whining and Lucius’ continuous rant, staring down at his ornate desk, as if the grainy wood could provide him with peace and a solution to this fucking problem. He’d be lucky if he had until morning before the Minister came calling, ready to rain Curses and punish him for not keeping Hogwarts under control.
“What were you thinking, Draco!” Lucius scolded, his hands flapping in the air like he wanted to cuff Draco around the ears, “a filthy Mudblood, she could ruin your engagement, as if the Greengrasses would let their daughter wed a wizard who spends his time pawing such a dirty little thing!”
“Father, she just… You know, we…”
The Goyles and Crabbes were thankfully keeping mum, or perhaps both fathers and sons were unable to realise what this could mean, stupid sods that they were.
All of a sudden, Severus pulled himself up from his chair, feeling the need to pace, and finally, that seemed to put a stopper in the incessant talking coming from the two Malfoys.
“Severus…” Lucius’ voice was soft, pleading, but he merely raised a hand, Silencing his friend with an arrogant wave, like he was Minister Tom Riddle himself, demanding obeisance from all and sundry.
“Silence,” he barked, “I need to think.”
The three adult men and the three youngsters watched him pace for a few minutes, the tension rising in the room, until Draco cracked, yet again. His voice was still high and whiny, and the boy was practically wringing his pale hands:
“Please, Headmaster, it’s my future, and she threw herself at us, offered herself up like a little slut, and … we’re just red-blooded young men, what could we do…? A whore begging us to…”
“Young women throwing themselves at men rarely send a Patronus, crying for help in public, in the middle of a formal ball,” Severus snapped, glaring at Draco. Did the boy really think him to be that stupid?
Miss Granger’s Patronus had crashed through the ballroom like a hurricane, stopping only as it found McGonagall, hovering in front of her as the girl’s loud, disembodied voice rang out from it: “Help! I’m attacked! Come quickly, the bathroom on the second floor!”
The ensuing chaos had been immediate, and he had left Horace and Filius to deal with the screaming in the ballroom, himself sprinting ahead of poor old McGonagall towards the doors, almost flying through the corridors, running as fast as his legs could carry him.
Running in the opposite direction, he had met Draco, Gregory and Vincent, and instantly, he knew what had transpired. Those horny little rascals, perpetrators of sins and filth, doing so underneath Severus’ roof was an insult to his rule!
Without thinking, he had pulled out his wand, Stunning the boys, the spell leaving his wandpoint like a ring of red fire, swelling to encompass all three of the fleeing boys, flinging them with loud thumps into the walls, knocking them out, while McGonagall came galloping past to collect the girl.
Seething, he had Levitated the boys, sending them up to his tower office, before collecting their shocked fathers from the ball.
“I can see why you are upset,” Lucius said suavely, but the worry in his eyes was plainly visible. “The important thing here is not ruining my boy’s future. The engagement to Miss Astoria… What would the Greengrass family say? Let’s keep the boys out of it, shall we? The girl is as good as ruined anyway, everyone heard her Patronus, but there’s no need to drag our boys into this sordid mess.”
“By all that is just, Draco should marry the girl! He ruined her, and should face the consequences of his actions,” Severus barked, turning on the spot, his dress robes flapping about him.
And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why saying that made him so very angry. It would be the right thing to do, the proper thing, avoiding a scandal, saving Hogwarts’ reputation. If not, Minister Riddle would threaten to remove him as Headmaster, at the very least order him to fire Minerva. But why did the thought of Draco marrying the girl feel like it was so very, very wrong?
Both Malfoy men gasped, and if they had been witches, they’d surely be clutching their pearls.
“No, you cannot mean that,” Lucius stammered, tugging jerkily at his frilly shirt like he needed more air, “Draco wasn’t alone in this, the other boys are just as guilty as he…!”
And finally the young masters Crabbe and Goyle seemed to wake up, and as if they had made a deal, both Vincent and Gregory pointed as one at Draco:
“It was him, all him,” both of them said, nodding sagely, like this was just another peaceful night in the Slytherin common room. “His idea, and he was the one who was going to do it. Not us.”
Draco gaped, and Lucius spun around, glaring furiously at the elder Goyle and Crabbe. The two older men stared blandly at the Malfoys, before they nodded. “It’s true,” Mr. Crabbe said, his voice a deep rasp, “ our boys would never touch filth like that.”
Severus’ headache seemed to come to a boil, and he sighed, scrubbing his brow tiredly. What to do … He didn’t have it in him to destroy his friendship with Lucius. After all, they were comrades in arms, so to speak, having supported each other on numerous occasions, going back a long time. Merlin knew they had both done bad things in service of their master, none of them were innocent men, and still their friendship had held true. Lucius had supported him since they were in school, taking a chance on a Half-blood that not many believed in, had backed him when he ran for Headmaster, he was Draco’s Godfather, and he wouldn't repay Lucius by forcing an undesired marriage onto his family. But the girl…
“Look, you are all expelled until further notice,” he said gruffly. “However, we will cover up the reason why, and… no one will marry the girl. She, however… I need to deal with her in a different way.”
Xxxx
Shivering, Hermione trailed after McGonagall, heading for the Headmaster’s office. She would be cast out, it was a given, though no fault of her own. Cast out of Hogwarts, she’d be standing on the streets of Hogsmeade this very night, her pitiful belongings in a purse, with nowhere to go.
Her mentor had been supportive, comforting her, telling her that it wasn’t her fault, and surely the Headmaster would see that.
Before they were summoned to the Headmaster, Hermione had been bundled up in blankets by the fireplace to stop the uncontrollable chattering of her teeth and the shivers in her body. McGonagall har resolutely brewed her a cup of strong tea, even offering a drop of Firewhisky after ascertaining that Hermione was physically unharmed.
“Everything will be alright, my dear, don’t worry,” McGonagall had said, but the worried look in her eyes had belied her words.
Now, she was stumbling after the old witch, barely managing to put one foot before the other, and her brain felt fuzzy, like she couldn’t quite take in what had happened.
The assault seemed to play out repeatedly in her mind, ending with the boys running off before they landed in a heap, surrounded by the fiery red glare of a Stunner, their head meeting the walls with an oddly comforting, sickening crunch. McGonagall had galloped towards her, helping her up - but it was Headmaster Snape’s furious, deep voice that rang through her ears: “What’s going on, girl?”
No matter what McGonagall said, no matter how she tried to reassure her, Hermione knew that it was Headmaster Snape who’d decide her future. And he wasn’t merciful at all.
Xxxx
The girl was still dressed in her lovely black silks, looking like his every fantasy come true, but she was paler than he’d ever seen her, the time of her parent’s death notwithstanding.
Taking a deep breath, steeling himself, he said decisively: “Regretfully, you’ll have to leave Hogwarts, Miss Granger. I expressly informed you as the year started that you were to avoid all such nonsense. I cannot keep such a bad example for the younger girls in school.”
His foolish reverie from the ballroom flitted through his mind - to make her smile, just for him - he’d never see that smile now, he couldn’t possibly keep her in school, and there was an acute pang of sadness in his chest.
Severus frowned, schooling his face into stern blankness, because … all that had been was a whimsical idea, and it would never come to pass after this.
The girl raised her pretty little face - heart shaped, he thought - her eyes big and dark in her pale face. Large tears were pooling in her dark lashes, and suddenly, Severus wondered where she’d go. She had some Muggle family still, hadn’t she? She might be alright - but there was a sinking sensation in his stomach, telling him that the girl just might be out of options.
And sure enough, the girl confirmed his suspicion. “I …” the girl said weakly, wringing her hands, “I … don’t have anywhere to go. Not a single place, and… I’ll be all alone. On my own, without any money. ”
“Surely your Muggle family will take you in,” he muttered. Gravely, McGonagall shook her head, staring at him, as if she wanted to impart something important to his mind by her eyes alone.
Cocking his eyebrow in a question, McGonagall nodded.
The non-verbal casting of Legilimency was second nature to him by now, and the girl never noticed a thing.
McGonagall's dry voice was shockingly loud in his mind, pleading for her charge: “Save her, Severus. Remember, there was a time, long ago, where you’d give the world to save another girl in the exact same circumstances. While I know there was more to it for you back then, will you allow this brilliant mind to be lost in a mire of … of … well, you know what I mean? She’ll be on the streets, Severus, sold to men, and… Remember what you couldn’t do back then. Will you help another girl, who’s circumstances are just as dire?”
Severus stilled, pulling back from the connection, not wanting to hear another word. At first, rage warred with the bitter sorrow of his past, because…
He had lost his Lily, hadn’t he? Though the outcome had been different, because Dumbledore had forced Lily’s rapist to marry her. Severus had offered for her, anguished, wanting to help his friend, but then their arch enemy had turned on the spot, realising that this was an entirely new opportunity to torment both Lily and Severus. So James Potter had decided to “take responsibility,” just out of spite, and married the girl he had ruined.
Severus never saw her again, as Lily died in childbirth less than a year later, secluded in the Potter family home.
And now this… But Miss Granger had no friend that would offer, had she? No one to save her from becoming a fallen woman, one of those that Severus so readily used to satisfy himself, despite his burning shame. Maybe he’d encounter Miss Granger in such an establishment, seeing those dark eyes staring up at him as her mouth faked lusty moans, or her mouth wrapped around his…
His cock twitched, and he felt deeply uncomfortable, never so much the despicable hypocrite as right now. If that happened, he’d never see that smile on her face. The whores never smiled like that, and the affection they showed was never real. Well, maybe he could make her smile for real in a different life, but not in such a situation.
Turning away, not wanting to meet the eyes of the girl or her mentor, he walked up to the window, staring down at the courtyard far below, leaning his head against the cool glass panes of the window. That pretty smile … but that wasn’t all there was to her, was there? The girl was also an obnoxious, arrogant little know-it-all who’d ruin his peaceful life with her incessant questioning.
Such a thirst for knowledge was unbecoming for a woman, and yet … all that would go to waste if she was forced into a brothel. All the intriguing power of her mind, all her scholarly achievements, her curiosity - all that was her would be lost. Her spirit would flag and die by what she’d endure in the hands of strangers, and no radiant smiles would ever brighten the dark rooms as she serviced her customers with her body.
Thinking for a long time, the room deathly quiet as he leaned against the window, his heart hammering too rapidly in his chest - that smile, that smile, oh, that smile, he would want to see that, wouldn’t he, but this … his facade, his future, the respectability he had finally managed for his family name was on the line … he finally said, his voice an odd croak: “Minerva… I … are you truly asking me to…”
With a sigh, the old witch said out loud: “I’m asking you to do what’s right and just. The girl has no fault in this, but it’s her brilliant future that has been ruined. Her thirst for knowledge and her mind should be cared for and nurtured, not lost on… Protect her if you can find in your heart to do it, Severus.”
And then Minerva’s shoulders seemed to flag, and she whispered: “Please.”
Severus had never seen Minerva cry - in fact, he hadn’t thought her capable of such a thing, but now, a lone tear trickled down her wrinkled cheek.
The girl stood beside her mentor, her back unnaturally straight, though her legs seemed to be quivering like a scared colt, making her silk skirts rustle in the dead silence of his office.
And Draco and the boys had had their way with her, hadn’t they? Ruined her innocence, taking her virginity. Spoiled her, using her for their pleasure, and Minerva asked him to take their sloppy seconds. Still, his heart clenched. What advice would Dumbledore have given him?
Severus glanced up at the old man’s portrait, and for once, Dumbledore seemed to be awake. He nodded sagely to Severus, and from the distance, he could see his mouth forming the words: “Do it.”
Just to make sure, he asked the girl: “The boys .. went through with it, they ruined you, did they?”
“Yes,” the girl whispered, blushing fiercely, staring adamantly down at her shoes. By her side, McGonagall moved, a sudden start, like she was about to say something, but Severus continued talking: “Well, at the very least you’ll require a Contraceptive if we are to do this, and...”
“No, no, you misunderstand each other,” McGonagall intervened hastily, grabbing the girl’s hand. “No such thing happened, Miss Granger defended herself admirably, and no one even saw her ankles, Severus!”
And the old witch smiled tremulously at him, like she was still on the verge of crying, but this time he knew it was out of happiness.
“Why would you say such a thing then?” he asked the girl, irritation warring with a sudden spike of lusty expectation - he’d have her fully, taking what would belong to him by rights then, and…
“Oh, my reputation is well and truly ruined, isn’t it?” the girl asked dully, staring at her shoes.
“It’s certainly tattered, but not in the way the Headmaster asked,” McGonagall said tartly, shaking her head.
Turning, she took the girl’s arm to lead her away, the girl looking confused and sad, before Minerva called out over her shoulder: “I expect you’ll take care of the practicalities. It would be better if it happened soon, and not later.”
“For sure,” Severus replied, his eyes following the slender waist of the girl who was about to become his. “It will be tonight, I’ll make the necessary summons.” And maybe it would even keep the Minister off his back.
Xxxx
Hermione plodded listlessly after her mentor through the corridors, not paying attention to anything. Her mind was still playing out what had happened over and over, like a repeating sequence of terror, but now the Headmaster’s decision started and ended it: “ Regretfully, you’ll have to leave Hogwarts, Miss Granger.”
After that, she hadn’t heard a single thing.
Mentally tallying her things, trying to concentrate on the practicalities, she realised that her packing list would be frightfully short. Going through her options, she knew that apart from the obvious, horrible solution - letting strange men do unspeakable acts to her, becoming a fallen woman - she had only one way of surviving, at least for a while.
She’d have to abuse her magic, to use it for dark purposes, Confounding poor, unsuspecting Muggles to take her in, though it would only be a matter of time before the Ministry would hone in on her, and then she’d be lucky if they didn’t snap her wand.
Still, for as long as it would last, it would be a better life than becoming a street walker. She had no idea of what actually happened between men and loose women, but the memory of Draco Malfoy’s clammy hands grasping for her chin made her shudder.
Shoulders slumping, she supposed that she’d eventually find out, sooner or later. One way or another, she was bound to end up in the streets, doing whatever she had to, just to survive.
“Here we are,” McGonagall said warmly, ushering her into their chambers again, and Hermione swallowed a sob as she passed the threshold. Would this be for the last time?
Stopping in the middle of the floor, taking in the cosy room, the numerous books, the fireplace and the chairs, she couldn’t help it, tears began falling at an alarming rate.
“There, my sweet,” McGonagall muttered, squeezing her shoulder, “there, there. I know he seems like a coldhearted bastard, but he might prove himself better than that. I’m sure he’ll take care of you.”
Through her tears, Hermione blinked. “What?” she croaked out, “who… what do you mean? Because … I am to pack my things, am I not?”
“Oh, you will be packing, but didn’t you listen, lass?” McGonagall said, patting her cheek softly, her old, wrinkled hand soft against Hermione’s tearstained skin. “The Headmaster is marrying you. He’ll save you, and it will happen tonight. You don’t have to leave Hogwarts, but you will move to his chambers.”
Hermione had always believed that ladies fainting was an act, a gross exaggeration, but that was also the last thing that flew through her mind as she sank to her knees and everything became black.
Notes:
So... it's happening. I promise it'll be in the next chapter.
Chapter 7: Nuptials
Summary:
The man standing in the half-shadow, like a greying shadow himself, terrified her more than anything. Would it hurt? Would he be gentle? No, surely not, Severus Snape would never be gentle, not to her, not to anyone.
Notes:
Chapter title says it all. Yes, the waiting is over... 😁
Remember: The tags are real. This is definitely dubcon, veering towards noncon, with mentions of non-graphic noncon.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Still feeling faint, nauseous and dizzy, like the earth had suddenly started spinning a thousand times faster, affecting her equilibrium, Hermione tottered after her mentor towards the Headmaster’s office for the second time that evening.
All her belongings were gathered in a large suitcase, trailing behind them by an effortless wave of McGonagall’s hand, and as for herself, her mentor had fixed her hair again and pinched her cheeks to get some colour back on her face.
As they walked, McGonagall continuously muttered advice: “It’s not my place, but sadly, your mother can’t prepare you, so I suppose it falls to me. Husbands may be fickle, but they do hold the power over their wife through the marriage bond, so while it might seem silly and futile, you should strive to keep him happy. Do as he asks, don’t baulk too much in the beginning, and later you’ll learn how to manage him better. All men can be steered, though they do not like to be told what to do openly. So … learn his habits and his wishes, and then you can influence him. Be patient.”
McGonagall’s well-meaning words were sliding through Hermione’s mind like a babbling brook in the distance, like background noise to her own, panicked thoughts. Married to Headmaster Snape this very night, getting an unyielding, harsh husband that really didn't want her, whom she’d owe her gratitude to for the rest of her life. All she was to him, was a charity case, a rescue she should be grateful for, but still…
She was sure he'd be as stern in private as he was in public, and … how would she survive all those sneers, his despisal, that ominous sarcasm directed solely at her behind the closed walls of his chambers? He was bad enough when his ire could be split between an entire class, if not the entire school. Alone, he’d surely be an absolute nightmare. He was her saviour, but she was also sure he’d be her tormentor. And she would have to be thankful for it, no matter what he threw at her. She’d have to be meek, grateful, obliging, a good wife meeting his every wish.
And the marriage had to happen tonight, of all nights, when all she wanted was to curl up in her bed, trying to forget the assault…
Their steps rang out in the cold corridor like death knells from a bell, and shivers were running down her spine, the icy draft cooling the nervous perspiration on her brow.
“Think of Hogwarts, and England, and close your eyes,” McGonagall suddenly said, and Hermione almost started, having not paid attention. The old witch sent her an apologetic, but worried glance, before patting her hand. “I know you don’t know much about this, but… you’ll be fine. At least most women are after a while, though to some it may feel like just another chore. It may not be enjoyable, but it’s usually tolerable. Close your eyes, think about your duty. It’ll be over soon enough.”
That only made her even more skittish, because… surely, McGonagall was referring to the marriage bed, was she?
Hermione had very little knowledge of what that would entail, apart from the fact that no decent women would talk about it, and that it was a shameful thing to be endured in private. Most of the details that she did know was pieced together from the crude remarks she had received during the autumn, and she knew that it involved being forced down on one’s knees, being used in some sort of horrid way, maybe even taking off her clothes.
Shuddering, she forced herself not to listen. It seemed like a nightmare to come, and her knees were already sore after the assault. Hopefully, it would be quick, like McGonagall had just said.
Still, it felt like a heavy stone had dropped into the pit of her stomach, churning around in there, sharp edges tearing bleeding scratches in the lining of her belly.
The grating of the gargoyle, allowing them entrance to the moving spiral stairs, seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet castle, and Hermione wondered if the ball still was going strong down in the Great Hall. Up here, it seemed like there was none alive except for her and McGonagall - and Headmaster Snape, obviously.
Finally, McGonagall had fallen silent, but instead, Hermione could almost hear her own heart hammering in a too fast rhythm in her chest, her breath loud and almost gasping as she was transported to her impromptu wedding.
The rotating stairs furthered her dizziness, making her stagger, leaning on McGonagall as they reached the landing.
Her mentor gripped her hand, giving her a smile: “I know you’re scared. But this is … far better than the alternative, my dear. Far better. Severus is as intimidating as they come, but … at least, you’ll have a respectable life here at Hogwarts. You’ll be someone to be reckoned with, you’ll be the Mistress of Hogwarts. That is an honour in and of itself. Be courageous, my dear, and keep your hopes up.”
Xxxx
Severus knew they were standing on the landing, just outside the door. What were they doing, why didn’t they enter? Obsessively, he straightened his sleeves, righting his cravat for the umpteenth time this evening.
“Nervous?”
The annoying, squeaky voice of the officiant made Severus frown. Of all people available, it had to be a Marauder, a childhood nemesis from that dastardly little group of Gryffindor miscreants, the followers of James Potter, the man who had ruined Lily’s life and taken Severus’s hope and happiness as well.
Well, Potter was long dead, courtesy of Tom Riddle. Severus suspected that the murder had merely fitted his master’s plans, though he had claimed it was a favour to Severus. Still, that favour was worth a lifetime of service.
The beady, round eyes of Peter Pettigrew stared at him, holding the same stupid expression he had always sported when Severus had squared it out with Pettigrew’s three friends during their school years. Ever the bystander, Pettigrew had cheered on his friends when they won, or when Severus had taken them down, he would run away, as often as not getting Stunned in the back.
In those first years at Hogwarts, Severus and Lily had little hope to win against the four of them. They targeted them both: Severus for being poor and a Slytherin, Lily for outshining them all, and them both for their friendship. According to those bastards, no Gryffindor should ever be friends with a Slytherin.
Severus had worked hard to be able to take them on, to protect Lily to the best of his ability - but in the end, it hadn’t been enough. He was sure Pettigrew had had the same, vacant expression on his face as he watched Potter rape Lily, Severus lying Stunned a few metres away after a vicious fight. The only good thing about the event had been that Stunner - Severus had always thought he wouldn’t have been able to survive if he had been forced to watch or listen in. Then again, he had always thought that if his Lily had had to live it, then he should be able to bear seeing it.
Brushing the nightmares of the past away, like lintels from his lapels, Severus snarled: “No,” taking satisfaction in seeing Pettigrew flinch.
“Come in,” he shouted, before flicking his fingers, opening the great doors to his chambers silently.
On the doorstep, he saw McGonagall give her charge a quick hug, before ushering the girl inside.
The girl looked lost and pale, but with flaming red spots in her cheeks, like someone strangely enough had just pinched her cheeks hard. Well, he didn’t suppose she was outright happy about this turn of events, but still, he was saving her honour and reputation. Surely, she shouldn’t look like her life was forfeit.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow upon seeing Pettigrew, but shrugged, obviously realising that getting a Ministry wedding officiant on a Friday night just before Christmas wasn’t that easy, and that Severus had to make do with whoever was available.
“Come here,” he told the girl - his bride, his mind corrected - and she walked forward, seemingly unsteady, like she was about to fall over.
Frowning, he grabbed her arm, before turning to Pettigrew: “Do your job!” he barked, glaring at the small rat-like man.
“Uh, yeah, right,” Pettigrew said, scrambling to rise, clutching his wand in a shaky hand.
The girl was quivering by his side, and fleetingly, he got the impression that she was barely holding herself up on her legs. He looked down at her, letting his eyes trail over the creamy flesh of her bosom. A jolt shot through him, making his cock stretch and fletch, hardening in his trousers, because in less than an hour, he could touch her anyway he liked. Undress her, look at her, touch her, take her, make her his…
Severus swallowed, hoping that McGonagall hadn’t seen the lecherous glance he had directed at her charge. Such things were better left for the bedroom, but oh, safely ensconced in there, he’d indulge in what was his to claim. And for once, it wouldn’t be a sin - it was his right.
Xxxx
The Headmaster stood beside her, tall and stern like always, holding her arm in a grip that was much too tight. The mousy official leered at her, like he thought her to be some kind of fallen woman, licking his lips as his eyes roved over her, making her want to tug her neckline up.
Flinching, she peered up at her Headmaster - her husband - because he was to protect her from that kind of thing, wasn’t he?
The assault still loomed large in her mind - no matter that she had gotten away without anything more than bruised knees, no matter that her dignity was inexplicably being saved by the most unlikely man ever, though she was not so sure her happiness would survive this marriage. Still, Severus Snape was saving her from the streets, from houses of ill repute and the misuse of dark, dark magic. He had saved her, Stunned her attackers, and now she’d be his grateful wife forever. And perhaps he’d continue to be her protector against the likes of this rude little man in front of her.
Sure enough, Severus Snape cleared his throat, that deep, silken voice making her start, as he sternly said: “My wife is not to be ogled by the likes of you, Pettigrew. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to start the ceremony.”
“Certainly,” the small man muttered under his breath, “you can’t wait to get to it, can you Snape?”
Snape surged forward, his wand in hand, pinning it underneath Pettigrew’s jowls. “ Do. your. job . and. shut. up! ” he hissed, eyes burning with a terrible rage, like little black flames were licking the insides of his skull.
And Hermione could feel his magic, like an icy wave building up, towering over them, threatening to break over Pettigrew, drowning him in the deluge, dragging him down in the deep dark depths.
Her breath caught, fascination warring with dread, because tangible magic was a rare occurrence. Not many could manifest like this - it was an intriguing piece of magic, frightening, certainly, but also rare, theoretically speaking, she had read about that, and…
Swallowing, she realised that this meant, clear as the day, that her future husband was a truly powerful wizard. And that … somehow, it felt good, and not only theoretically interesting.
In front of her, it was clear that Pettigrew didn’t find the display of power even remotely interesting, instead he was cowering, hands above his head.
From the corner, McGonagall cleared her throat loudly. “Gentlemen,” she said tartly, “I wish you all would stop this nonsense, and begin the wedding.”
Pettigrew squeaked, the sound oddly thin and reedy coming from a grown man, and Snape took a step back, his magic retracting like an outbound surge drawing back into the ocean, like it was compressing itself back into his form, barely contained like quivering rage.
Slowly, Hermione let out a breath that she hadn’t even realised that she held.
Fumbling with his wand, Pettigrew said breathily, sweat dripping from his brow: “Join hands.”
Snape’s hands were large, warm and firm, surrounding her own clammy hands almost completely. She stared down at their hands, her black gloves peeking through his grasp, like a counterpoint to his pale skin, and she couldn’t keep her hands from trembling. Such magical power, and yet, he’d wield a different power over her. She had to do as McGonagall had said: Keep calm, obey, and it would be over soon. Be grateful and patient.
Pettigrew spoke fast, the words almost tumbling from his mouth: “Will you take this witch to be your wife, to command, protect and cherish, and give her children?”
Beside her, there was a sigh from her husband-to-be, the words almost dragging from him as if he was reluctant: “I do. I will steer and guide her, take care of her, hold her dear and give her children.”
It felt like another Incarcerous, as if a magical rope, a flaming noose, had been flung about her very soul, pulling her close, tethering her to the man beside her, searing a mark in her soul and body like firm rein to control her.
Pettigrew nodded, and continued: “Will you take this wizard to be your husband, to obey, to hold and to cherish?”
Almost gasping for breath, her answer was a whisper: “I do. I will submit to his rule, tend to his needs, hold him dear and give him children.”
The noose tightened, like it was unbreakable steel, an unyielding ring around her being, and with an absolute clarity, she knew that on his side, it felt different: He’d be merely holding a leash, while she was the one leashed to him. The magic bound her to him forever, while he had the power to choose just how tight her leash should be. Oh Merlin, wasn’t this an unfair exchange?
Pettigrew swung his wand, chanting: “So be it. Amor Aeternam, Tenentur! ” A shower of golden sparks sprang forth, splitting in two, coalescing into fiery circles, drifting down, settling on their ring fingers, glowing golden bands tightening to fit. There was a slight burn, as of a passing heat, before it cooled, a heavy weight settling around her finger, but it was nothing to the weight around her soul.
“It is done, you may now kiss your bride,” Pettigrew said, panting, as if this piece of magic had taken all his energy.
Snape’s hands slid from her hands, up to her shoulders, gripping her, pulling her towards him, and his head came down, black strands of hair wafting gently over her cheeks, before dry lips met her in a brief peck, pressing hard against her, pushing her lips hard against her own teeth, like her mouth had nothing to say in this encounter. Like she would have nothing to say in this marriage.
Xxxx
He couldn’t get McGonagall and that little creep Pettigrew out of his chambers soon enough. One celebratory drink, served by the beaming Head of the House-elves herself, and then they were out, the heavy door to his office snicking quietly shut.
The girl stood in the middle of the room, looking as lost and scared as any fresh-faced young bride should be on her wedding night, and nothing at all like the saucy little whores he usually had.
It would be up to him to initiate anything, it was not like his new wife would ever sink to her knees in front of him, open his trousers and fish out his hard, leaking cock by her own volition. Blood surged downward to his cock at the very thought, his cock twitching, rising to half-mast in his trousers, though it was safe from her eyes by courtesy of his wide dress robes.
Severus swallowed. It was a heady thought, she was his, not allowed to refuse or resist him, and at last, he was not the hypocrite preaching prudence in public while indulging in debauchery at the brothels. He was within his rights, and everyone would think it just, fair and proper that he took his young wife to bed whenever he wanted. And … it was perhaps too much to hope for, but would some of that cheekiness she had shown in class, demanding to be acknowledged and praised, be transported to her behaviour in the bedroom? Would she demand her pleasure, would she show her fire and passion with her body and not only her mind?
His mouth curiously dry, barking: “To the bedroom! Don’t just stand there, girl.”
She looked startled, stopping the annoying, incessant wringing of her hands, as blood rushed to her cheeks, giving her a rosy, adorable look. “I…” she croaked, “I do not know the way.”
“Of course.” Severus almost smacked his head - how would the girl know the way to her Headmaster’s bedroom anyway? He was an utter, and complete dolt. A horny dolt, but a dolt nonetheless.
He strode forward, taking her arm, almost hauling her along, the girl almost tripping over her feet, like she was reluctant to follow. His steps were quick and sure over the flagstones, well-worn over the thousand years of Hogwarts existence, while the girl’s slippered feet padded softly after him.
Dragging her along to the secret entrance, the large bookshelf swung forward, gliding soundlessly, giving access to the stairs to his tower bedroom.
Up they went, and though it was merely a short flight of stairs, the girl was panting as they reached the landing, like she had been running behind him. Come to think of it, he had set a brisk pace.
“Undress,” he commanded, trying to appear disinterested and not as if his cock was already straining against his clothing, trying to escape, the swollen head almost peeking over the lining of his trousers, pushing against his belt. With jerky movements, his hands almost shaking in eagerness, he started to unwind his own cravat.
“With you in the room?” the girl gasped, scandalised.
Severus snorted, but seeing the girl almost visibly shake, her clasped hands trembling, he relented, Conjuring a screen at one end of the room.
The girl gave him a trembling smile in return, like she was grateful for this small act of common decency.
“Change into your nightgown,” he said, trying to temper his eagerness. She was already afraid, and maybe she would be more so before he was done. He wouldn’t be a brute about it, but still… He hoped that she’d … but no. It was perhaps unfair to expect his young, unwilling wife to be eager for her deflowering. Maybe the eagerness would be for later, and not tonight.
Slowly, the girl tiptoed over to the screen, casting nervous glances at him, before settling behind there, deftly Summoning her nightgown from her luggage.
The rustling of the clothes falling from her body, clasps clicking and buttons snapping made him almost groan in anticipation, ridding himself of his own clothing, dressing hurriedly in a grey nightshirt.
The nightshirt couldn’t hide his erection in the way his robes did, and the girl would have to suffer the tented fabric - until she found out what was underneath. He knew he was rather bigger than most, but she’d get used to it after a while, learning how to take him.
Almost hissing, he clutched his member, squeezing the shaft, trying to force down some of his excitement. Then the girl stepped out from the screen, pale as a sheet, her cheeks almost paler than the pure white of her long nightgown.
“Get into the bed,” he rasped, almost losing control, forcing himself to hold still as the girl climbed slowly, awkwardly, into his large four-poster bed.
Xxxx
The sheets were soft and cool, but Hermione almost didn’t register it. Vaguely, she thought the room might have been nice, maybe even a tad luxurious, but the man standing in the half-shadow, like a greying shadow himself, terrified her more than anything. Would it hurt? Would he be gentle? No, surely not, Severus Snape would never be gentle, not to her, not to anyone.
She laid back, folding her hands over her chest, staring into the canopy, her eyes mindlessly tracing strange patterns of flowers, dragons and snakes above the bed. Be calm, she thought. Try to accommodate him. Remember to be … grateful.
The bed dipped, signalling that someone heavy had entered, and the wood creaked under his weight.
Her breath shallow and fast, she forced herself to lay still. ‘Think of England. Think of Hogwarts,’ McGonagall had mumbled on their way here tonight. Yes, don't think about the fact that he’d do to her what the Slytherin boys had been prevented from doing, never mind that she was now married. Never mind that he was allowed, that it was right and just, it was still the same act. A man would … use … her, with little regard or care for how she felt.
Panic surged, and she felt as if her vision was narrowing, the corners darkening, like she was seeing through a tunnel, the light receding from her surroundings. Any moment, he’d force her up onto her bruised knees, and do …what, exactly?
He dragged the sheets down, pushing her legs aside, before positioning himself between her thighs.
Her legs trembled, and she had never ever wanted so much to just run away, and yet - she couldn’t move, because she wouldn’t be allowed, wouldn’t allow herself to try to flee. Remember, be grateful, she told herself. This is charity - he saved you, even though he didn’t want to. Obey his wishes.
Her nightgown was pushed up, baring her for her husband, and she closed her eyes in shame, just as he sucked in a hiss of a breath, like he was excited.
Slowly, his weight came down over her, pressing her into the mattress, and something strange, hard and hot, poked her thigh, like it was searching for something.
Apparently, this would involve her lying down and not kneeling, and for some strange reason, that was a small comfort. Whatever happened now, it wouldn’t be anything like what the Slytherin boys had tried to do to her. Whatever it was, it would be … different.
His hand fumbled between them, grasping that hard, hot thing, steering it towards her core.
“You’ll be dry,” he muttered, “dry and chafing, and we can’t have that, little wife. Lubricatem!”
And Hermione almost squealed in surprise, feeling a slick wetness pool between her legs, like she had started her monthly bleeding all of a sudden.
But the man above her groaned, and that blunt head poked at her, burrowing in between her legs, before he thrust hard with his hips, somehow notching the hot tip of himself into the crease between her legs, breaching her body.
Involuntarily, she grunted, feeling uncomfortably full, like she was about to be split apart, and she squirmed, trying to retreat from the uncomfortable pressure.
“This is … just … the … beginning,” he grunted, his arms bracketing her, his hands on her shoulders, holding her still, pushing deeper into her by each thrust, making room for himself where no room had been before.
Tears were leaking out from the corners of her eyes, and she whined softly, but his grip on her shoulders didn’t allow for her to wriggle away.
Then he slammed harder into her, hilting himself, and she grunted in surprised pain, a long, drawn-out “ooooof,” leaving her lips, as he groaned in tandem with her. For a moment, he held still, lowering his head, and his beak of a nose was nuzzling into the soft spot on her neck. “So good,” he almost purred against her, “such a good little wife, learning to take her husband so well.”
She gasped at the strange sensation - his nose tickling her sensitive skin wasn’t altogether unpleasant, though it drowned in the ache from her lower body. Inside her, it felt like a burning shaft was lodged in her stomach, and she was sure it had to be visible on the outside, like a great ridge protruding from her stomach.
Distantly, like her thoughts came from afar, like her mind was somewhere else entirely, she wondered: Who knew that the marriage bed held such awful secrets? Did parents tell the other girls that their husband would keep a thick trunk of a thing in their trousers, designed to hurt the soft tissue of their wife’s body?
Slowly, her hand crept down between them, patting her stomach, and for sure, below her navel, there was a faint ridge. As she touched it with a horrified gasp, the Headmaster moaned, a long, drawn-out sound, and he withdrew, pulling that thing out of her. For a moment, she thought it was over, but then he pushed in again, muttering to her: “That’s it, little wife, feel me inside you, buried so deep in your tight opening, claiming your body.”
He was moving, moving faster and harder, hurting her, stretching her far too wide, like he was hammering a pole into her core, though he slid easily in and out of her, thanks to the magical slickness her body had produced at his command.
He was grunting and breathing hard, his eyes closed, his long hair swinging into her face, tickling her, before she felt him strain even more against her walls, like he was swelling up, and with a few, last errant thrusts, he snarled above her: “My wife, my little wife, so obedient, always willing… mine in every way!”
Inside, she could feel a wetness bloom, like he had left a mark on her insides too, dripping down the shaft that still speared her open.
“This,” he breathed against the shell of her ear, “This… I’ll have you so often, you’ll barely be able to walk, little wife.”
And through her haze of relief - it was over, he was done! - she thought he heard him whisper: “And maybe you’ll learn to enjoy it too.”
Notes:
Ah, all those poor Victorian girls, never being told anything before the fact. It can't have been easy...
Chapter 8: The Mistress of Hogwarts
Summary:
“Yes,” he snapped, feeling a surge of anger, “you do love stating the obvious, don’t you? I expect more of you as my wife than being a witless Know-It-All, unable to hold her tongue!”
The girl flinched, as if she had somehow thought he’d be a better man as a husband than he had been as a teacher.
Notes:
Annnnd angst.
You didn't think there would be all roses, did you? *grins*
Also: Victorian attitudes are present - in spades.
You want to see what a frustrated Headmaster Snape looks like?
All hail the amazing Reineke Fox: https://www.tumblr.com/reinekefoxart/712779161935216640/frustrated-headmaster-snape-friday
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He woke bleary-eyed in the morning, squinting against the first rays of the December sun falling on the broad oak planks in his bedroom. Something warm was tucked against his side, soft curves pressing against the hard planes of his body, and for a moment, he was confused. Had he brought a whore back to Hogwarts? Surely not…
And then it crashed home.
The impromptu wedding, the girl in his bed, and what would this mean for his life - interruptions in his work at all times from an over-eager, arrogant little chit, a child bride that wasn’t really prepared for her new status in the Wizarding world as Mistress of Hogwarts, a wife that quite a few of his peers would look down on due to her lack of a proper pedigree…
But she’d also be a bedwarmer, an outlet for his lust and desires to take as he wished, and maybe, in time, she’d be a proper companion. He’d have to instruct her, though, it wasn’t as if a wife would come fully formed to her husband’s wishes, everybody knew that.
His morning wood twitched, and Severus grinned. This … had possibilities, right now. He could do as he liked, couldn’t he?
Pushing her slightly to her side, the girl mumbled softly in her sleep, and he raised her thigh, pulling it back over his own and slotted his cock against her opening.
She seemed to be a little sticky from last night still, but he wordlessly whisked the lubricating spell at her core before pushing in, his arm lodged around her waist, keeping her close.
The girl grunted, still in her sleep, and almost cross-eyed in bliss - she was so tight, tighter than any of the whores he had paid for earlier, no matter how fresh they had claimed to be to their profession - he pressed inside, not without difficulty. Slowly, his cock inched deeper, widening her opening, her body squeezing his shaft like a vice.
There was a sizzling curl of flames in his balls as filthy images flitted through his mind: how she struggled to take his fat cock, how he was too much for her hot little hole, and as he sank into her to the hilt, he couldn’t help moaning into her neck.
At that, the girl woke up. First, she stiffened, and then she struggled, clearly confused, the squirming tugging exquisitely on his shaft, but he moved the arm around her waist up to her throat, pressing her head back.
“Good morning, wife,” he breathed, and the girl let out a small shriek, before her body suddenly slumped into submission.
Her quick mind had caught up, she knew who had taken her, and Severus was thrilled that she was so easily dominated.
“Good girl,” he purred, and his little wife swallowed, the motion easily felt by the hand he had wrapped around her throat. Experimentally, he squeezed her throat lightly, his hand settling into a familiar chokehold - the one he enjoyed using on the loose women that sometimes came to Minister Riddle’s secret parties, the revels held for his most loyal.
His cock was throbbing, telling him that this would be over very soon, and he set to work, snapping his hips against the round flesh of her arse.
The girl was holding herself still, her head bent back to get enough air, but her body jolted forward with his every thrust. Speeding up, ramming himself into her, the slapping sound of flesh against flesh and his own heavy breathing was the only thing to be heard, apart from her little gasps.
Muddled thoughts were racing through his mind - how he held all the power and she would have to obey, he could take her on her stomach, on all fours, even making her ride his cock like a wanton whore, forcing her to act indecently, and oh, maybe he would have to punish her at some point, spanking her firm arse …
By that, white lightning shot down his spine, flashing through his balls, making them lift and harden, shooting up his shaft. Severus gasped, bliss racing through him, his cock jerking as he spent himself inside his wife’s tight cunt, filling her up, flooding her as he shook in ecstasy.
“Good girl,” he grunted as he pulled out. Looking down, seeing his softening cock slip out of her opening with a very satisfying sight of slick, thick wetness dribbling out of her, he repeated: “You’re such a good girl. I’ll teach you how to be my proper little wife.”
Xxxx
Suppressing a wince, she lowered herself in a seat by the Headmaster’s side at breakfast, wondering how it was possible to feel so battered and bruised between one’s legs. Walking normally hadn’t been possible, just like he had predicted last night, and she had entertained the notion of asking the Headmaster for letting a House-elf bring her breakfast. As if he had somehow sensed her thoughts in that uncanny way he had seemed to perceive everything in his classroom, he had sternly commanded her to join him for breakfast.
He told her in no uncertain terms that it was important that the Headmaster and the Mistress of Hogwarts were present at every meal, representing the school authority, and that had discouraged her to the point that she hadn’t dared to ask for a reprieve. Hobbling down to the Great Hall, she had rather thought she should have asked for a Painkilling potion instead.
McGonagall gave her a small smile, but her eyes lingered with a worried expression on the careful way Hermione seated herself.
The Great Hall would normally have been buzzing with students chattering as they looked forward to their holidays, eating a hearty breakfast before boarding the new Hogwarts express before lunch.
This morning, everyone was staring at the Head table - at her - conversation dying down as she took her seat beside the Headmaster. The silence scared Hermione more than anything.
She did, however, feel a certain kind of satisfaction that neither Malfoy, Goyle or Crabbe were in sight, and she wondered what the Headmaster had done to the boys. Last night she had seen his anger, and that Stunner showed that he had taken great offence, because surely, there were many other less harmful spells to choose from. She was grateful, but she felt that more retribution would not be amiss. Maybe he had expelled them, but even that might not be enough for her to feel avenged.
In the Great Hall, everyone looked shocked and surprised, but none more than Harry and Neville, distress and confusion visible on their faces. Hermione winced, knowing that she should have informed them last night - but she hadn’t been able to anything of that sort. Oh, they must have been so worried, knowing the state of her affairs, anxious on her behalf, wondering if she was cast out and expelled. And now, they and everyone else was in the dark as to why she was seated next to the Headmaster.
After a while, the sounds of breakfast resumed, spoons scraping against plates, soft murmurs and the clinking of mugs, but otherwise … no one talked to her, no one at the Head table seemed to recognise her presence. It was like she was a ghost - unseen, unwanted and unimportant. Not at all like an important Mistress of Hogwarts, like he and McGonagall had claimed she’d be.
By the end of the meal, the Headmaster clacked his knife against his teacup, bringing all other sounds to a halt.
“My fellow colleagues, students” he began, “as you have noticed, I have a companion by my side today. Last night I married Madam Snape, nee Granger.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence, as if no one was breathing at all, and Hermione could feel the eyes of the entire Great Hall pricking against the skin of her bowed neck, not daring to raise her head to meet Harry’s and Neville’s gazes. They’d be shocked and worried, or maybe .. would they be angry with her, thinking that she had betrayed their friendship?
“Congratulations,” Professor Slughorn suddenly wheezed out, breaking the hush, “to both of you. I think it’s marvellous that you’ve found a wife, Severus, and such an accomplished student!”
“Hear, hear,” Flitwick mumbled, but Septimus Vector chimed in: “Well done, Severus, picking the cleverest flower in the school. ”
After the well-wishings from the teachers, the students seemingly too stunned to even whisper amongst themselves, the Headmaster continued: “Madam Snape will take up her tasks as Mistress of Hogwarts as soon as possible, but first … we’ll visit with my family over Christmas. We’re leaving for Prince Hall for our honeymoon this afternoon. I trust my fellow Professors to keep the castle safe and sound while I’m away. Merry Christmas, and I wish all of you a pleasant holiday. ”
And all Hermione could think of was: Couldn’t he have told me in private?
Xxxx
As breakfast was finished, it had seemed like she had wanted to linger in the Great Hall, no doubt to speak with her asinine friends. Instead Severus had taken her arm, ushering her along without pausing for such frivolities.
Back in their chambers, he admired his wife’s efficiency. She had merely asked how many days to pack for, and if her eyebrow was cocked, showing a hint of displeasure, it wasn’t much. Her thoughts, however, were clear as day.
Well, Severus supposed he could have told her that they’d be leaving before he had announced it to his subordinates, though she’d have to obey no matter what. He wasn’t accustomed to discussing his decisions, but it was reasonable for a wife to wish to be informed before all and sundry. With a sigh, he vowed to remember that, and maybe do better next time.
She packed her own clothes within minutes, her wand directing it all. Secretly, he enjoyed watching her magic swell and take shape, as dresses, hoops and unnameable underthings shot through the air and into a bag that seemed much too small to hold such vast amounts of fabrics. She truly was an accomplished witch, wasn’t she? Even his mother would agree to that.
As she turned around, facing the bookshelves, he took a step forward, staying her arm. “There are plenty of books at Prince Hall. There’s absolutely no need for you to bring any.”
“Oh,” the girl said, suddenly looking excited like the little swot she was, before her brow furrowed. “Am I to pack your things too? I must confess, I’m not entirely sure what you wear. Shirt, vest, trousers, cravat and coat, of course, and I suppose you must wear some kind of socks, but other than that, I do … not … know…” her voice tapered off, like she was too embarrassed to say anything.
With a sudden clarity, Severus realised that his wife had never seen a man undress. She had no brothers, and likely hadn’t been much involved in sewing and caring for clothes for her father either.
He knew that she came from an affluent Muggle family, and while all Muggle girls would learn to sew and embroider, his wife had spent her years at Hogwarts learning magic instead. And now she was married, and that without the benefit of her mother’s instruction.
Most girls spent the year after their OWLs learning to care for a house, and … thus, his wife would know almost nothing. Still, the thought of her complete innocence made something stir, and strangely, it was not his cock, but a sudden warmth inside his chest.
Sighing with feigned exasperation instead of showing this odd … compassion, or maybe even caring … that seemed to swell inside his heart, he rattled off: “Undershirt, drawers, and do not forget the suspenders for my socks.” Whatever it was, it was an emotion too soft for his weary, embittered heart to entertain. He’d better purge it from his mind to avoid disappointment again.
The girl blushed fiercely, and gingerly, she opened his dresser and wardrobe, sending the items into the same small leather bag.
“Extension Charm?” he asked at last, indicating the bag, and the girl nodded with a small smile.
“Yes. It’s my … own modification. It also has a weight-reducing spell, so it can be carried easily.”
“Very good,” he said curtly, and the foolish girl beamed at the praise. There it was, that smile … the very same smile that had made him envision silly things and situations where he might praise her last night at the ball. Well, look how that had turned out - what had actually happened last night wasn’t something he’d be able to envision, even in his wildest imagination.
Severus straightened, and with a wince at his own foolishness he realised that he felt like more of a man for knowing that she’d look at him like this - like he was on top of the world, in fact as if he was the pinnacle of her world - and he shook his head, trying to clear such inane thoughts from his head. Stop it, Severus, he thought, cease this nonsense at once!
“Sir,” she began, her radiant smile faltering, “what should I expect from the visit? I do not know anything about your … family.”
Severus barked a bitter laugh. “Not much to be known. My grandfather is the Earl of Prince. He’s old, a 127 by now, and prefers to sit quietly in his room, sleeping most of the time. My mother is his only child, and she manages the house, but she never goes out, never entertains. I imagine you know why.”
The girl’s eyes became round, realising that there was a story there, but still, she ventured a question: “I don’t actually. I … should I know this?”
With a small sneer - though she was hardly in a position to scoff at his peerage - he said: “My mother caused quite the scandal in her day, eloping with a Muggle man that became my father. My grandparents disinherited her and Banished her. When he died, she returned to the manor. By then my grandmother was dead, and my grandfather was always somewhat more lenient.”
“Oh. You are of Wizarding nobility, but a Half-blood?” she asked, looking pensive, like she was adjusting her view of him, and surely not in a favourable way - because no one ever did . No, she probably lost respect, realising that she had been tied to a man with a pedigree of shame. A Half-blood born in disgrace, raised by a poor Muggle zealot, a devil’s offspring in both worlds, and…
“Yes,” he snapped, feeling a surge of anger, “you do love stating the obvious, don’t you? I expect more of you as my wife than being a witless Know-It-All, unable to hold her tongue!”
The girl flinched, as if she had somehow thought he’d be a better man as a husband than he had been as a teacher. Taking a deep breath, he wondered what he’d see if he peeked into her mind - nothing good, surely, nothing good at all. He’d better keep away from her mind, ignoring the temptation to see what she really thought of him. Yes, his wife’s mind should be out of bounds for him, or else he’d learn just how much she despised him.
Somehow, that made him angrier, and he turned away, growling: “I’ll be seeing the students off, you can expect me back for lunch.”
Xxxx
Her mood had plummeted when he had lashed out at her. This was what she had feared, his sharp tongue, the disdain and what was sure to be daily criticism from a man who expected nothing but perfection from her, just like he had expected from her work in his class.
He’d want to perfect her as a meek and docile wife, and no doubt he’d expect her to know how to run a house too, entertaining important guests as befitting his status as Headmaster, carrying witty conversation during elegant parties among the Wizarding nobility.
And … she had no idea on how to do that - to be that. As a child, she had been raised for lower nobility in the Muggle world, but then her Hogwarts letter had arrived and changed everything.
Since then she had thrown all her energy into being a witch, learning all about magic: Theories, spells and history, all the knowledge in this world of magical wonder she had been thrust into.
Thus, Hermione hadn’t bothered much with learning the ropes of Pureblood society, having never expected to be someone of note in that world. The fact remained, she was woefully unprepared for being a part of the Wizarding nobility and running a castle.
Sinking down on the drab brown sofa, noting in surprise that it was far more comfortable than she’d ever expect from someone as harsh and stern as the Headmaster, she sighed. There had been no time to talk to Harry and Neville, to explain how this had happened, and she knew she’d have to write to them both, as soon as possible.
Right now, it felt like all energy had left her body, as if all she could do was to flop down on this sofa, sitting listlessly, feeling her body ache, awaiting the return of her husband and what would surely be the next scolding.
Around her, it felt as if the air thickened, making it hard to breathe, as if her lack of control over her life, the weight of expectations were compressing her into a tiny ball of misery. From afar, it felt as if someone whispered to her: “Mistress of Hogwarts… Are you really the Mistress?”
A sudden loud crack! made her shriek in surprise, and a small House-elf stood in front of her, wringing her ears: “Mistress, I’m so sorry, I never meant to scare you!”
The House-elf was smartly dressed, a long black dress with a large Hogwarts crest embroidered on her chest, as well as a spotless white apron and a small white cap.
“I’m Telda, Mistress, and I’m here to settle you in as our new Mistress,” the Elf squeaked happily.
“Hello Telda,” Hermione said weakly, “would you please take a seat?”
She waved her hand, indicating the other sofa, and the Elf’s eyes grew even bigger. “Mistress is asking Telda to sit with her?” she said, her voice filled with wonder. “Oh thank you Mistress, I’m honoured, truly, at your service Mistress!”
For the next hour, the Elf proceeded to tell her all about her duties: Making sure that Hogwarts was always stocked with food, household necessities, ingredients and Potions for the Infirmary, deciding the menu every day, overseeing the Elves’ cleaning and cooking, ordering repairs on the castle and making sure the grounds were well-kept, keeping the books and administering all the salaries for Professors and staff, as well as helping the Headmaster with anything he might require.
“I can tell you in advance,” Telda said conspiratorially, “he’ll ask for help to set up the time tables. Not because he can’t do it, but because he loathes doing it.”
When the hour had passed, Hermione felt as if her brain was suffering from an overload on details, and Telda left with the not-so-encouraging parting words: “We will continue when you’re back after Christmas, Mistress, because we haven’t even began on how to organise Feasts, balls and the social gatherings in the Professors’ staff room, and not to mention the selection of tea and liquors for the Headmaster’s personal use! I won’t even start on the current problems of the drains and the leaking roofs on the Ravenclaw tower, as well as the failing wards against pests in the library, a very serious threat, and oh, you’ll be wanting to hire a new librarian come autumn, because Mr. Pinch is leaving, and …”
The torrent of information came to an abrupt halt as a strange and rasping disembodied voice interrupted, announcing: “Professor McGonagall asking for entry, Mistress.”
“That’s the gargoyle, it’ll inform you of visitors,” the Elf said sagely, before taking her leave with a loud POP.
“Please, let her in,” Hermione said, feeling foolish for talking to the thin air, but there was a clanging of the doors below, and the creak coming from the winding staircase began, letting her know that McGonagall was on her way upstairs.
“How are you, my dear?” McGonagall said warmly, taking the seat the House-Elf had just vacated.
Hermione plastered a smile on her face - not a beaming smile, but what she hoped could pass for a modicum of contentment - before murmuring: “I’ll order tea, Professor.”
Almost before the words had left her mouth, an Elf popped up, bringing a tea service and piping hot scones for the table, startling both McGonagall and Hermione.
“Your tea, Mistress, at your service, Mistress!” it squeaked, before Vanishing again.
“That was certainly quick,” McGonagall said humorously, and Hermione nodded.
“I suppose it has to do with my duties as the Mistress,” she said slowly.
“Most likely,” McGonagall said, and there was a brief silence as they poured the tea, serving themselves with scones.
Hermione noted that the dainty porcelain service was patterned with delicate green leaves interspersed with silver, a very different design from the red and gold dragon pattern on the tea service that had been served in McGonagall’s quarters.
“Yes, a House-elf - Telda - came by to teach me all about being Mistress of Hogwarts,” Hermione said with a sigh, her mind still struggling with the amount of details the House-Elf had impressed upon her as vitally important to remember right now .
“I suppose there was quite a bit to it,” McGonagall said dryly, and Hermione huffed.
“Yes, and I can’t help wondering: Who did all this before I came along? I’m supposed to give my opinion on baked or cooked potatoes with the chicken roast, or if we should grow more leeks or simply reserve the fields for beans this year, not to mention the bookkeeping and….”
McGonagall smiled wryly. “They decided for themselves, of course, but they prefer to have a Mistress. They certainly never bothered the Headmaster with dinner choices. My advice would be to let them run the meals and the cleaning by themselves, just give them praise and nod to whatever they might be suggesting, or else you’ll be overrun with the nitty gritty details of running the castle. What’s important to remember is that the castle and the Elves will do their duties perfectly well, and you should concentrate on keeping the books.”
Hermione puffed out a sigh of relief, making McGonagall laugh: “Oh lass, I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”
Though - there was something strange about what the Professor had just said, like … the castle was an entity too, and…
The train of thought was interrupted by McGonagall clearing her throat. “I don’t know if the Headmaster has told you, but he expelled those awful, horrid boys. They may sit the NEWTs in June, but they cannot attend school. The Headmaster was quite adamant about that.”
“Oh,” Hermione breathed out, feeling a sudden relief - she wouldn’t have to see them in passing, wouldn’t need to see their smug smirks for having upended her life.
For this, she was truly grateful. Still, she had been right earlier, even expulsion wasn’t enough for what they had done. Deep within, though smothered by the shocking turn of events last night, there was a stirring of black rage, a need to see them brought even lower, a desire to ruin them too. Yes, there was definitely something to be said for revenge.
As she pulled herself back from the bitter reverie of vengeance, sipping her tea with downcast eyes, she tried to school her face into a normal, pleasant expression - something that you’d expect from a happy bride.
But then her Professor finally came around to ask what Hermione didn’t want to answer, though she had known that this was the reason for the visit. “What I want to know, Hermione, is how you feel today. Did he … treat you right?”
Hermione blushed, because how could she say anything about what had happened during the night and morning - it was shameful, worrying and strange, not to mention indecent and awful - and shook her head. “I do not know what to say,” she said, her eyes lowered. “I do not know what to expect, so … I can’t say.”
“Oh lass, I’m certainly not asking you to share any details,” McGonagall said, creases of worry appearing around her eyes. “It’s just that… I couldn’t help noticing your gait earlier, and as a general rule, you shouldn’t be in pain from your … marital duties. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. I want you to know that, at least.”
Hermione had no response to that, blushing as deeply as she ever had done in her life, and she merely nodded, while sipping the excellent tea the Elves had provided for the Headmaster’s personal use.
Xxxx
Lunch was a quiet affair, as half of the teachers had left on the train with the students, with only a handful of them left in the castle to oversee the few students that would stay during the Christmas break.
Severus noted that his wife still seemed somewhat daunted by her new, exalted position, but he supposed he couldn’t blame her for not carrying the conversation. After all, yesterday she was a student, and today she was married.
After lunch, he was carefully packing a few choice ingredients that were hard to come by, while noting that his wife was writing letters, anxiously nibbling on the top of her quill, as if it was hard to word the letters properly.
It didn’t seem like she’d be finished anytime soon, and impatiently, he waited a few minutes, before patting her arm. “Come, we can’t dally anymore.”
“Oh, just a moment,” she said distractedly, sanding her parchment and rolling up the unfinished letters, putting them in her purse. Severus scowled, having caught a glimpse of “Potters’ residence, Godric Hollows.”
Godric Hollows, the place where Lily had died, after months of suffering, most likely, and this was a letter stiled to her imbecile son. Well, that good-for-nothing boy certainly looked enough like his father and too little like his gentle, intelligent mother. He’d have to think about whether his wife should be allowed to keep that friendship, but for now, he supposed it would be too much of a shock to order her to break all contact.
The old sense of pain flooded him, and he grabbed his wife by the waist, none too gently, pulling her into his body, the all-encompassing purse still in her hand.
As he turned them into Apparition, the girl shrieked: “But you can’t Apparate inside Hogwarts!”
As the squeezing, uncomfortable feeling dragged them into the void of Unspace, Severus rolled his eyes. Trust his swotty little wife to care more for details than the wonder of magical power.
Notes:
Prince Hall and Wizarding nobility? Yes, I'm doing a nod to the 'old fics of yore', when everyone thought Snape was a Pure-blood. Which he, of course, isn't, and that's the whole point of it. 😁
Chapter 9: The Prince Family
Summary:
Even through the thick doors, Hermione could hear a sudden gasp, and then the doors opened, soundlessly, like the hinges were oiled to perfection, the doors swinging open from the lightest touch.
“You could have told me in advance,” the woman said, taking a step into the room. “I … would have liked to be there for your wedding, Severus.”
Notes:
Yay, Saturday and time for posting!
I really love seeing your reactions and comments to the fic - thank you for taking the time to read and comment on the story. 😘
Chapter count went up, because I can't count. 🙄
And now it's time to meet the family... 😁
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Upon arriving, she clung to Snape, her head still spinning from the Apparition, leaning in against his broad chest, the buttons pressing into her soft cheek, like he was about to imprint her with a visible mark of his ownership on her face too.
As it was, Hermione felt slightly wobbly, but her usual travel sickness was nothing to the dull, throbbing ache between her legs. In the distance, a small bell tolled.
The room they Apparated into was obviously a room set aside for just this purpose: with comfortable chairs for the dizzy placed along the walls, ornate silver buckets which one might use for travel sickness, a spread of smelling salts for the faint and even a small day bed for those who got truly ill. On the wall, a tall mirror was set for travellers needing to make themselves presentable.
“Do you need a moment?” her husband asked arrogantly, freeing himself from her embrace, standing like he’d never been sick from travelling a day in his life. He straightened his cravat, striding towards the mirror to check his work, though Hermione could scarcely believe that anything ever had upset his strict formal attire. He was always so … proper, that she could barely believe he had ever let anything become ruffled.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she quickly said, not wanting to be a bother. Instead, she glanced at the sight of the two of them in the mirror. The tall, imposing man, in his prime and almost twenty years her senior, and her, looking like a pale young waif beside him, like someone insignificant, perhaps a servant, in her worn, black daydress. Not like a lady wife, and certainly not like someone who was the Mistress of Hogwarts.
“Severus?” a querulous, high voice asked, just outside the tall double doors. “Is that really you?”
He stilled, the fussing with his cravat stopped, and he took a deep breath. “Mother,” he called out. “It’s me. And … my wife.”
Even through the thick doors, Hermione could hear a sudden gasp, and then the doors opened, soundlessly, like the hinges were oiled to perfection, the doors swinging open from the lightest touch.
“You could have told me in advance,” the woman said, taking a step into the room. “I … would have liked to be there for your wedding, Severus.”
Her eyes were locked on Hermione, though, and Hermione stared back at her mother-in-law.
Snape’s mother was painfully thin and pale, her long face haggard like she had gone hungry for so long that starvation had imprinted itself on her features, and her dark hair was set in a tight bun. Her son had inherited her dark, sharp eyes, and Hermione felt as if those eyes were piercing her skin, almost penetrating her soul.
“Well, this is my mother, Lady Eileen Snape,” her husband said, finally coming around to do the formal introduction, “and my wife, Mrs. Hermione Snape.”
Breaking the eye contact, bending her neck to sink down in a curtsey, Hermione said: “My Lady, I’m so happy to meet you, and to see your lovely home.”
“Oh, it will be yours too, child,” the woman mumbled, not unkindly. “Prince Hall welcomes you to the family.”
As Hermione rose, she noted that mother and son were now watching each other, like the first to break eye contact would lose a competition.
Then Eileen asked, curiosity shining like a beacon from her eyes. “When, exactly, did this marriage take place?” she asked.
“Last night,” Snape said, his eyes flickering over Hermione, like he could hardly believe it himself. “At Hogwarts.”
And Eileen’s eyes widened. “She was a student,” she breathed. “A student under your care, Severus! That’s why she is so very young. What did you do?”
Xxxx
Explaining the whole debacle to his mother wasn’t something he had looked forward to, but luckily, she picked up that there was something amiss from an ordinary courtship.
Ever effective, his mother ordered an over-eager House-elf to show his wife to his rooms for letting her “refresh from the hardships of travel,” nevermind that the travel in question had taken less than ten seconds.
But the glance she sent him spoke volumes. As soon as his wife was out of earshot, his mother rounded on him. “Please don’t tell me she’s pregnant,” she began, hands on her hips.
“Mother!” he said, scandalised.
“Because I’d rather not hear that my son abused his privileges as Headmaster,” she continued, fixing a beady eye on him. “She’s obviously a student, and .. how old is she? She looks young, but I do hope she’s of age, at least. And you know your grandfather will question her pedigree. I didn’t hear you say anything about her family name, so I suppose she’s a Half-blood too, or maybe even a Muggleborn? Hermione… can’t say I’ve heard of any in our circle having a daughter by that name.”
She sniffed, looking as haughty as any Pure-blood lady upon saying the word ‘Muggleborn’.
“As if you’d care!” he shot back, glaring at her, as if his mother hadn’t done the unthinkable, eloping with a Muggle, a commoner even, ruining the family reputation, and now she had the audacity to berate him for marrying outside the Pure-blood circle!
“I don’t,” she said simply with a shrug, “but your grandfather might. I also thought you might, considering the company you keep. So, a Muggleborn it is, then.”
“Yes,” he said heavily. “Granger - that’s her family name. They were Muggle nobility, though, but the girl happened on hard luck, being an only child when her parents died.”
“So her title and money were lost, and you stepped in to save the day? How noble,” his mother scoffed, “I’m truly surprised you’d be bothered.”
Severus stiffened. His mother was a shrew, no doubt about it, questioning his morality like that. “As a matter of fact I did. Last night, at the Hogwarts Yule ball, she was … attacked by three male students.”
His mother sucked in her breath, eyes first widening and then growing hard, but he raised a hand, stilling her: “Nothing happened, she defended herself and sent for help. But … the scandal. I … was moved to step in.”
That was probably the best way to describe it. It would do no good digging into McGonagall’s badgering as she pulled all the bloody strings of his broken heart, or on how the Minister might turn on him if there was another scandal at Hogwarts. And they both knew that Severus would need to marry very soon, and none of the Pure-bloods would be available to him.
Besides, the girl was both pretty and smart. And there was the way she had smiled at him... For him the decision was a mix of protectiveness, of carnal desire, of her usefulness as broodmare - none of them a good reason to marry, but none of them a good enough reason to not do it either.
His mother’s shoulder’s seemed to relax, and for once, she smiled at him. “I knew you were a good boy. Behind all that … Pure-blood swagger from that stuck-up little Half-blood Minister you support.”
He blinked, because … that … was certainly a way to describe Minister Riddle in a manner not many would dare to do. Then again, no one would ever find out how rebellious his mother was, and none would care about the political views of a silly woman confined to her house, a woman who had disgraced herself so thoroughly.
With cocked eyebrows, she continued: “I am surprised, however. I always thought you had set your sights higher, to someone who’d help you climb back into society’s good graces. With this marriage, your grandfather’s title and your own achievements will have to do. Her lack of pedigree will hinder you, rather than help you. Unless … she has more to offer than a pretty face.”
Xxxx
Prince Hall was vast, making Hermione wonder if her childhood home, which was not a small house by any means, would easily fit in one of the wings.
The house was obviously well cared for, clean and in good repairs, but it felt like a mausoleum, as if you could walk for a day and not meet a single living person.
The House-elf, a female Elf named Bardy, scurried in front of her, chattering, telling her about the house and the family: “Founded in 836 the family was, Madam, and the Princes have lived on this property ever since. The cellars are from 992, a year before Hogwarts, the first foundations laid by the great Lord Trajan, and then the house was expanded in 1379 by Lord Hadrian, he had 25 children, would you imagine that, Madam, and then again by his grandson, because the family had grown to more than 250 people, all living in the family seat, and…”
They walked through lofty corridors, hung with portraits of the numerous former Princes, all of them staring with unabashed curiosity at Hermione, whispering amongst themselves, sometimes moving along the corridor, slipping into other portraits as if they wanted to see her up close more than in passing.
Interspersed with the paintings, there were statues, coats of arms, tapestries and vases, arranged just so with fresh flowers, though it was in the bleakest of midwinters. The colours were sombre, adding to the airs of old pomp and pride, dark wood with ornate carvings on doors and railings, plum-coloured velvet curtains framing stained glass windows, and thick forest-green or deep brown carpets.
Hermione couldn’t help feeling small, insignificant and out of place, because this wizarding grandeur was far from what she had expected, almost as if she had been thrust into wizarding royalty, and she couldn’t help feeling that she didn’t really belong, as if the place itself watched her with curiosity and mild disapproval, finding her lacking. How could she ever live up to this?
“And now,” the House-elf concluded as it stopped outside a grand set of doors, “there is only my Lord Prince and his daughter living here, plus us Elves.”
Its ears were drooping as it looked at her, before it brightened, a light shining through in the big, yellow eyes. “We’ve held out hope for so long that Master Severus would marry and beget heirs, and now you’re here! We do hope you’ll have lots and lots of children. This house deserves a host of children running around, playing in the halls and the grounds, Madam. We hope Master Severus will be as prosperous as Lord Hadrian, Madam!”
“Twenty-five children, you said?” Hermione said, wondering how many wives it took to produce that number of heirs.
“Yes! To be fair, he and Lady Amsonia - she was a Black, you know - did take their sweet time. The children were born over a period of 67 years.”
“Oh,” she responded weakly. While knowing that wizards lived longer than your average Muggle, she had no idea it would extend to their child-bearing years too.
“But here we are, I’m just talking away your time, Madam, if you’ll forgive me. Here’s your room!”
The room seemed to be an understatement, as it was an entire suite of several rooms. A sitting room, a bedroom for her plus a boudoir, a bedroom for him with an adjoining dressing room, a bathroom and a large study. The high roof was almost hidden in shadows, and Hermione’s four poster bed was large enough to encompass all of the former Lord Hadrian’s brood if she so had wished.
“I hope it’s to your liking, it’s been Master Severus’s set of rooms ever since he and Lady Eileen returned,” the Elf said, looking anxiously at her.
“It is magnificent,” Hermione breathed, because it was.
The tall windows facing west let in the low December sun, and the green velvet drapings looked as if they had been cleaned this very morning. The floor was a shiny dark parquet, partly covered by lush carpets, and every single piece of furniture was polished to a shine.
“I’ll install your clothes in the dressing room while you have a look around, Madam,” the Elf squeaked, looking inordinately pleased by her praise, and ran off with her bag.
Hermione wandered into the study, hands trailing over the books in there, wondering if the books were handpicked by her husband. It was a mix of tomes on Potions and Magical theory, spellbooks of the darker kind, plus Magical history. Interspersed with it, she also found, to her surprise, the works of a few Muggle philosophers.
Smiling as she patted the book case lovingly, it suddenly felt as if the presence watching her shifted - as if the presence grudgingly approved of her since she liked the books.
The feeling was so strong, so she automatically whispered out loud: “Who are you?”
She had expected it to be some sort of ghost, so when a disembodied voice rumbled in her head, she was so surprised, she had to sit down by the desk.
“Prince Hall,” it said curtly. “I am the House. I assume you are now considered Family.”
Xxxx
Their talk was interrupted by the House Elf. “Lady Snape!” it said insistently, “My Lady! Madam Snape has barely any clothes of quality! May we set our work aside to make her some?”
His mother raised her eyebrows at him - questioning, considering and then judging - before she said smoothly: “If Mr. Snape sees fit to provide his wife with new clothes, I see no problem with that. Just make sure dinner is on time.”
“Yes my Lady, of course, my Lady! We’ll also bring refreshments to the drawing room, and his Lordship’s Port is already decanted and ready.”
“Very well,” Severus said stiffly, “make her all the clothes she might want, but remember, she’s still in half mourning, so try to avoid the livelier colours.”
The Elf gasped, but promptly answered: “We didn’t know, Sir, but we’ll make her the prettiest mourning dresses there is, Sir.”
It disappeared with a low popping sound, leaving the two of them alone. At one point in the distant past, the family Elves had taught themselves how to avoid the loud cracks of Elvish Apparition, making a distinction between themselves and the Elves from lesser families of newer origin.
“Barely no clothes of quality,” his mother quoted, looking at him reproachfully. “Did you not stop to think that an orphaned girl might need such things if she’s to be your wife? Your position in society will suffer, if your wife isn’t well dressed.”
“I know that, mother,” he said irritably, “but we got married last night. Whenever would I find the time to get her a seamstress?”
“Well, maybe you should have done so before taking her to visit, lest she’d be embarrassed,” his mother snapped, before turning around. “Come, we can’t stand here all day. Let’s move to the drawing room. Your grandfather is still asleep.”
Xxxx
The Elves had measured her from top to toe, forcing her to pick out fabrics ranging from silk to fine wool, with a colour range from silvery grey, the darkest blue and to midnight black, before they released her. She had stated that she’d like the dresses to be modest, but at that, the Elves just tittered, scandalised that someone who’d be their lady in a few years would ever want something modest.
Hermione wondered how many House-elves the Prince family had, because now there were more than twenty of them working on dresses, chemises, drawers and petticoats. The Elves were well-dressed, clean and looked happy, but she couldn’t help feeling her usual nagging sense of unease that this was slavery - magical slavery and subjugation of the worst kind. Though apparently, she was the only one in the Wizarding world who thought so. Who was she, an orphan Muggleborn girl, to sway the Pure-blood wizards of the Wizengamot?
The fashion of the day dictated tight, long sleeves for her day dresses, a wide bell-shaped skirt and a modest neckline, while the evening gowns would be off the shoulders with a deep decolletage that made her uncomfortable. Because … how would the Headmaster react? She didn’t know what would be the worst - if he found her dresses inappropriate, being such a stickler for propriety, or if he would like it entirely too much.
While the Elves cut fabrics, some of them already having started to sew, she was shown downstairs to the drawing room. Her mother-in-law waited for her, but there was no sign of the Headmaster.
“Please,” Eileen Prince said, gesturing to her to sit down, a pinched frown on her face, but somehow, Hermione thought that might be her usual expression and not something that was specifically directed at her new daughter-in-law.
The dark green brocade of the two opposing settees was lovely, with a low, polished walnut table in the middle. The room itself was grand, with a large marble fireplace with an enormous silver mirror hanging over it. Plush little carpets lay scattered on the polished parquet floor, and there were enough chairs and tables to comfortably seat at least thirty people.
In a corner, there was a black lacquered grand piano, the lid open and the music rack filled with sheets, showing that someone had been playing recently. Lacquered cabinets with glass doors stood along the walls, showing off exquisite vases or sculptures.
Hermione sat down, eyes trailing over the room, trying and probably failing in showing her surprise that the austere Headmaster hailed from such riches.
“He doesn’t,” Eileen Prince said curtly, but there was a small quirk to her mouth, showing that she was amused.
“I beg your pardon?” Hermione said, because surely, the woman hadn’t read her mind, had she? Or had she somehow spoken her thoughts out loud?
“I did,” her mother-in-law said with a sigh. “It’s an inherent trait for the Prince family. We are all more or less blessed with strong talents in Legilimency. Some of us are more, like me and my son, and some less, like my father. You will find that my son reads your mind just as easily as I picked up on your thoughts just now.”
At that, Hermione blushed, because… oh, she’d have to guard her every thought - never think anything unfortunate, or…
“Don’t bother,” Eileen said callously. “We’re quite used to it, and usually block out the thoughts of others. I did, however, mean to tell you that my son wasn’t raised here. We lived in Cokeworth, in a Muggle working class area, and it wasn’t until Severus was a grown man that I moved back here. I assure you, he was raised by a Muggle smith turned preacher. A very … ardent … preacher too, if I must say so.”
“I didn’t know,” Hermione muttered, seeing her Headmaster in a new light. His prudence, his fastidiousness, his anger at anything inappropriate - it all added up. An ardent working class preacher? Oh, he’d have the fear of the Muggle God beaten into him, she was sure.
“Have some fruit,” Eileen said, pushing a small crystal bowl towards her. “You’re much too thin.”
The bowl was filled to the brim with dried figs, apricots and dates, sugared plums and apple crisps, and beside the bowl there was a small silver tray with a carafe and glasses, the carafe holding a reddish-brown liquid. Politely, Hermione served herself a small platter, foregoing the drink.
“Fruit, it’s good for you,” Eileen said bossily. “Nutritious, and it’ll put some fat on your body. You’ll need that for the babies to come.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Hermione replied, blushing fiercely, absolutely not wanting to think about what she’d have to do to get those children in front of her mind-reading mother-in-law.
Xxxx
After far too much dried fruit, making her feel slightly nauseous and very thirsty, and a lesson in ‘how to represent in Pure-blood-society’ - something that her mother-in-law clearly seemed to believe that Hermione was completely ignorant of, and no, she wasn’t wrong either - she was to be presented to the Earl of Prince just before dinner.
The Headmaster showed up, clutching a book in his hand, and took her arm to escort her back to their rooms to dress for dinner.
The Elves had apparently worked some kind of magic, because three dresses were already finished, while another seven were in the works. Hermione chose a dark grey dress, the off-the-shoulder-sleeves giving her the perfect narrow, sloping frame that fashion dictated, completing it with a black lace shawl.
“Are you ready?” the Headmaster asked impatiently from outside her dressing room.
“Just a moment,” she replied, finishing her look by pinching her cheeks, biting her lips and putting on her black gloves.
“You look acceptable,” he said, scrutinising her with that black glare of his. His eyes dipped down to her cleavage, resting for an uncomfortably long time on her breasts, making her want to squirm, “but I believe some jewellery wouldn’t be amiss. Why don’t you put on a necklace? It’s perfectly fine to wear jewellery even when mourning.”
“I …don’t have that much,” she stammered, suddenly realising that her string of pearls had been left behind at Hogwarts, her cheeks flushing in shame. “My cousin took most of it when he… disinherited me…” Her voice ended in a whisper, and she closed her eyes, not wanting to meet his eyes. It was so shameful, so … awful, to be orphaned like this, a burden to society, and now to her husband. There was no dowry, nothing she could bring into this marriage but worn clothes that weren’t deemed good enough for his family and an upbringing that was lacking. In fact, she had nothing to offer but her own body. A charity case, indeed.
“That’s right,” the disembodied voice from the House hissed in her head, making her bend her neck in shame. “Your fertile body is what we need, though, because we certainly don’t need more Galleons. The Princes have been amiss for years, only producing one or two heirs for a long time. I expect great things of you in return for your … rather sudden elevation of status. A tit for tat, to pay your debt. Young Madam, you and I have work to do. ”
The Headmaster just shrugged, like the magnitude of her embarrassment was of no importance to him. “We’ll see what we can do. Bardy!”
There was a whooshing little pop, and the House-Elf that had escorted her earlier bowed her head: “Master Snape?”
“See if you can find a string of pearls for my wife,” he said casually, “and a matching set of pearls for her ears as well. She needs no rings but mine.”
There was a heated sort of possessiveness in the way he accentuated the word ‘mine’, making Hermione blink. She knew that she belonged to him by law, of course, but it almost seemed that he found … pleasure in the idea too. Like he relished the fact that he had ownership of her.
She didn’t quite know what to make of that, except that … it was better to be wanted than to be a charity case, a nuisance and a bother to his daily life, wasn’t it?
The thought left a bitter aftertaste, like she had to swallow down bile, but she worked hard to not let it show on her face, keeping a pleasant expression. There was no point in lulling herself in daydreams. First of all, she was nothing but charity to him, and secondly … being owned by such a stern husband wasn’t all that uplifting either. Like the House said, she was indebted to him.
Some time later, with a long string of saltwater pearls around her neck and with matching earrings, they made their way downstairs to the drawing room to meet with the Earl of Prince.
The Earl was very old, nearly blind, and apparently almost deaf too, sitting in a chair with a thick, woollen blanket over his lap.
“So this is your wife, Severus, you finally got around to marry,” he croaked out, craning his thin neck to look at Hermione. “Come closer, child, I can barely see you.”
Nervously, Hermione stepped closer, curtseying.
“No need for that nonsense,” the old man scoffed, “you’re one of the Princes now, girl. Tell me, which family do you hail from?”
“My father’s name was Granger,” Hermione said softly, bracing herself, knowing full well that the old Pure-blood Earl wouldn’t be particularly impressed by that.
“Speak up, I can’t hear you,” the Earl grunted.
“Granger!” she said, a little louder, and to her surprise, a toothless smile bloomed on his face.
“Ah! A relative of my old friend Dagworth-Granger! Well certainly Severus, you’ve gotten yourself a catch right here. Old Hector was a fine wizard, a very good potioneer, and we had so much fun in the old days. Ah, back in 1740, I remember…”
Hermione opened her mouth to correct the matter - he couldn’t go on believing she was a Pure-blood, she didn’t have the heart to fool an old man - but both her husband and his mother shook their heads, a mixed expression of relief and glee on their faces at this misunderstanding.
Xxxx
Dinner had been much better than anticipated, his grandfather snoozing through the meal, though he was occasionally spoon-fed by a House-Elf. While the rest of them had an excellent roast of goose with applesauce, salsify and carrots, his grandfather had stuck to the bland white soup from the starter. Conversation was sparse, though his mother did question his bride on her habits and hobbies, looking disappointed when she didn’t prove herself to be a Gobstone enthusiast.
He noted with pleasure that his wife drank sparingly, though he shook his head admonishingly when an Elf wanted to refill her glass. The girl flushed, looking like she wanted to say something, and a grumbling thought flitted over to him: I know how to watch myself, I’m not entirely ignorant, though these people think so, and he doesn’t need to control me - but I have to take it. He’s in charge of me now.
A small smirk bloomed on his face at that, because he couldn’t help relishing the fact that this was true. She belonged to him, body and soul, and seeing her bend to him, however reluctantly, made a strange sort of pride stir in his chest. He had a wife - a real, warm-blooded pretty wife that would obey his every wish.
After pudding, the Elves offered a nice Port with dried fruit and cheese, after which the ladies retreated to the drawing room. The House-Elves led his grandfather to bed and Severus was able to slip away to the library, a tumbler of Firewhisky in his hands.
Spending an hour or so comfortably reading, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. His wife stood there, her silhouette perfect against the door frame, showcasing her slender waist over the wide skirt and the enticing, round shape of her breasts.
“Your mother went to bed,” she said, her voice a little uncertain, “and I was … strongly urged … to seek you out here.”
There was something strange about her flat voice, as if it somehow wasn’t his mother who had done the urging, but Severus shook it off, as it was probably a meddling House-Elf.
She sidled into the library, and he couldn’t help snorting, seeing the longing glances the girl sent at the tall shelves, containing thousands of books and scrolls. The ancestral library was vast, the galleries reaching the shadowy heights of four stories above them, filled to the brim with shelves, and Severus doubted he’d have read every book by the end of his life; there simply wouldn’t be time, unless he lived until he was 150 years old.
“Go on,” he said to the girl, “have a look, choose what you’d like.”
“May I?” she breathed, with stars shining in her brown eyes, and her delighted expression went straight to his cock.
She wandered the shelves, her hands trailing lovingly over the old, leathery spines, and damn his libido, but he couldn’t help imagining that her hands were caressing his body, smoothing over his chest, fleeting touches over his nipples, boldly pursuing the trail of hair to his navel, moving hesitantly lower, until she reached his straining cock.
A suppressed moan escaped him, but luckily, at the same time the girl said: “Would you help me? I’d like to read this treatise on ‘Herbal Aid of Imaginative Transfiguration’, but it’s too high up for me to reach. I believe you may reach it, though.”
Raising an eyebrow - the girl could very well use an Accio, like everyone else - but then the filthy little devil in his mind mumbled seductively: She wants you to touch her, she wants you, right now, that’s why she’s asking. Give it to her.
The sober, sane voice that followed that insane thought - as if any decent woman would ever want to be fucked in a library - wasn’t enough to sway him, though it told him that she, Muggleborn as she was, probably was used to doing more by her hands than the Wizard-born.
Severus swallowed, and rose from his chair.
Xxxx
Hermione stared up at the book, expectation sparkling like the popping of little champagne bubbles in her veins. McGonagall had talked about this book at length, saying that it was a vital text for anyone attempting to Transform into an animagi, and Hermione couldn’t wait to read it.
Behind her, a shadow fell over the shelves as the Headmaster rose and came closer.
“This one?” he asked, his deep voice startlingly close to her ear, and as she nodded, he pressed himself against her body, pushing her into the frame of the bookshelf. Its lower half was slightly wider than the top, and the edge gave her hands a purchase, or else she would have been falling headfirst into the rows of books.
Unfortunately, that also meant that she had to push her hips back into his body, and the resulting groan from him made her freeze. As his arm clenched around her waist, she realised that there would be no time to read the book tonight.
Her breath picked up, like her body was getting ready for fight or flight - or something else - a feeling that she couldn’t identify at the moment.
“My sweet little wife,” he growled, pushing her backside closer to his front, and even through her many layers of fabric, she could feel that … big thing … of his was hard and ready for her.
His breath on her neck tickled her, goosebumps forming on her skin, like the sensation was pleasurable. Deep in her stomach, it felt like a tiny hot ball of fire was coalescing, gathering speed as it seemed to roll around in her lower belly, like his breath against her skin was kindling a fire inside her.
When his fingers cupped her throat, pressing lightly against her windpipe, bending her head back, his mouth teasing the sensitive skin on the side of her neck, she couldn’t help releasing a whimper, the sensation an odd blend of fear and apprehension, but also a delicious tingling, spreading like heat through her body.
The sound of her whimper seemed to make something in him catch fire, and frantically, he pushed her head into the shelves, hiking up her skirts, before fumbling with his clothes. Without a word, only loud breaths coming from him, like he had been running, he steered himself between her legs, notching in her opening, before pushing in.
This time, he hadn’t used that lubricating spell, and she winced, squirming in a sudden pain, as the thick, blunt shaft sawed its way into her flesh.
“Hold still,” he grunted, relentlessly pushing, but she kept wriggling, trying futilely to escape the burning ache of being stretched out. The wriggling seemed to ease the pain, making it feel … different, more of a chafing tickle, and not entirely unpleasant. Almost as if there was a trickle of wetness down there , helping his access to her body.
“Hold still!” he commanded again, putting force behind his words, but Hermione couldn’t help sniffling: “It makes it better if I move, it really does!”
“Hold. still. like. I. told. you. to do!” he growled, every word accompanied by a staccato thrust until he was buried inside her to the hilt.
Whimpering, her lower belly vacillating between pain and unfamiliar, weak pleasure, making her confused and disoriented, she whispered: “No, please, make it stop, I don’t know what’s happening…”
With a grunt, he smacked her arse, her cheeks jiggling, and hissed in her ear: “Be a good girl, take it when I give it to you!”
The shock of being spanked made her body go rigid, but a flash went through her belly, like the glittering trail of a shooting star, making her mouth dry, like her breath had sucked all moisture from the roof of her mouth. The pain seemed to fade, and the slide of him inside her helped by the strange slickness seeping from either her or him.
It seemed to go on for a long time, he was grunting and pumping into her, and fighting the odd sensations in her body, not wanting to acknowledge the embarrassing fact that it felt curiously good amidst the humiliation, Hermione stared at the gold-embossed spines of the books in front of her, reading the titles over and over:
‘On Objects: How to Animate the Inanimate’
‘Transfiguration of the Living: Turn your Foes Into a Tea Service’
‘Transfiguring Fruit to Quills, a Discussion on How to Keep Your Quills From Rotting’
Forcing down the flutterings in her stomach, she primly hoped that this little nightmare would come to an end, and that no one would ever discover that he had defiled the library like this - or worse, that he should ever discover that her body had, shamefully enough, somewhat enjoyed his intrusion. If he did, the Headmaster would surely punish her, because someone like him would never want his wife to act as a wanton, fallen woman.
Behind her, the Headmaster’s breath was coming in shuddering gasps, and his thrusts were becoming uneven, before he pulled her tight to him, ramming himself hard inside her, and she could feel the thing lodged in her core twitch and pulse.
“Yes,” he grunted, “yes, take it, I’m filling you up, you’ll drip from me, your little hole flooded with my seed!”
Obediently, her head hanging down between her arms, she stood there, letting him finish, and when he retreated, pushing her skirts down, she turned around, looking at him, trying to convey through her eyes that this was … not … how she’d expected to spend her evening in the library.
The normally pale and austere Headmaster was flushed, his dark eyes glittering and his chest was heaving. The excitement in his eyes faltered as he met her gaze, and suddenly, he looked uncomfortable, almost regretful and embarrassed. To her scandalised surprise, the Headmaster suddenly scratched his head, mumbling haltingly: “I’d wish for you to enjoy this too.”
In her head, the disembodied voice of the House suddenly materialised, tutting like it thought the two of them to be quite foolish. “Quite right, he really should make you enjoy it too, and neither of you should bother with all this modern prudishness. It wasn’t like this back in the days.”
Mortified, she closed her eyes, as if she could escape the man in front of her and also the House in her head, but the House crooned: “ The good part is that he truly wants you, little girl, and his seed will catch for sure. Providing for and protecting the Family is my one duty, and you, witch, will bear the fruits. You owe us that much, and the world will learn that the Princes have returned to power. ”
Notes:
Library sex - can't have a good library without smut, lol.
Half mourning was a thing in Victorian times. It was all black mourning clothes for a year or so (two, if the deceased was your spouse), and then gradually half-mourning with somber colours.
Chapter 10: Being a Prince
Summary:
“Would you like a drink?” he said absentmindedly, as he poured himself a finger of Firewhisky, crystal tumblers and a carafe placed on an ornamental silver tray.
She looked incredulously at him, wondering if this was the same man that now had - twice! - barred her from drinking more than a glass of wine for dinner.
“I suppose I’m not allowed, Sir,” she retorted somewhat snippily, and he turned to her, at first annoyed by her cheek, before a small smile flashed to life on his face.
Notes:
The House has things to say. 😁
Thanks for all the lovely comments! 🖤🖤🖤
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the morning, she was to spend her time with her mother-in-law again in the drawing room. Walking slowly, almost reluctantly, downstairs, her hand trailing over the railing, the wood smooth under her palm, she took one careful step after another, trying not to think about the ever-present ache between her legs.
The Transfiguration book from last night was tucked under her arm, and she hoped she’d be allowed to read during the day. That, however, would lead to needing a new book, and…
While she regretted the opportunity to search for more books, she felt wary at the thought of going near the library again. In fact, she felt embarrassed just thinking about it, and she’d quite like to forget what had happened there yesterday.
He had taken her again before she could get up from bed, rocking into her slowly, like he wanted to relish the experience, being more careful than he had been last night, but she still felt sore and most of all unsure, both at her own reactions and his expressed wish for her to enjoy their couplings.
She couldn’t help thinking about his quite shocking remark from last night, because … how and why was she supposed to enjoy it? As far as Hermione knew, no decent woman should enjoy it. From what little she had been told beforehand, it was clear that the marriage bed was supposed to be an everyday small torture to be suffered to please one’s husband. Why he’d want her to like it like a tramp or a fallen woman she couldn’t even begin to imagine, nor why she should let such enjoyment come to pass.
After a short while - not nearly enough time to think through such strange matters - she was again seated in the drawing room, the skirt of the lovely midnight blue daydress fanning out on the dark green brocade of the sofa, looking like a deep pool of water amidst great trees.
His mother proved to be as sharp-eyed as McGonagall. She picked up on Hermione’s uneven gait, seeing how carefully she seated herself, and snorted: “I see my son has some brewing to do.”
Scrawling a note, she snapped her fingers, Summoning a House-elf, and said imperiously: “Bring this to my son, and see to it that he does as I say. At once.”
Shaking her head, she muttered: “Such foolishness. At least, it seems like he has picked a woman he wants.”
Hermione stared down in her book, not knowing what to respond to such an outlandish remark, because … what was on that note, and why should the Headmaster be brewing? Surely, her mother-in-law didn’t suggest he’d brew … painkilling potions, did she?
Then the other woman sighed, saying sadly: “I suppose, we all want happiness for our sons. That means, of course, that he should do what he can to make his spouse happy too.”
Slowly, during the day, Eileen Snape told her bits and pieces of Pure-blood etiquette, the family history, interspersed with advice on how to run a big, magical House.
“It will run things smoothly by itself, but you shouldn’t leave everything to the Elves and the House,” she said, “or else you might get more than you bargained for, much more. I believe that’s why one of our ancestors happened to get 25 children - they let the House and the Elves decide entirely too much. Magic can only do so much, and the poor witch died in childbirth with the last child, her body finally giving up under the strain.”
“Surely, it wasn’t the Elves that made them have so many children,” Hermione protested, but Lady Snape hummed, like she thought Hermione’s comment was amusing.
“Perhaps they did not not, apart from providing encouragement, but the House certainly had something to do with it. Old houses like ours have a will of their own, as you’ll surely find out for yourself, and they also hold certain kinds of familiar powers, concerning the protection and providing for the family. That also means that it can take a hand in procreation, by setting Fertility Charms on us. It has a … vested interest in keeping the line intact, and unless you actively tell it not to meddle, it will.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, her cheeks crimson by the thought of the House last night - she hadn’t told it not to interfere, had she? Or had he done so? If so, she might already be pregnant by the House’s magic.
At the back of her head, there was a slow snicker, as if the House found this to be immensely funny.
Her mother-in-law chuckled too. “I see you’re of tender sensibilities, like all the young people of today. It seems that none of you can’t seem to tolerate the facts of life these days. Perhaps I made it seem easy, but the House will not listen to just anyone. First, it must decide to talk to you, which is something that neither me nor my son has managed so far. At this point, it only listens to my father.”
“That’s true,” The House whispered slyly in her head. “The two of them haven’t taken proper responsibility for the Family. Her son should’ve been married years ago, he’s very late, should’ve produced a number of heirs already, and she… Bah! One single child by a Muggle - it’s preposterous. Not up to my standards at all.”
Hermione did her best to remain expressionless, just nodding in response to her mother-in-law. Why do you talk to me? she inquired. I’m not of their blood, and I’m not even Pure-blood. It makes no sense.
The House muttered to itself for a while, before it deigned her with a reply: “Later.”
After lunch, Lady Snape told her, her face flushed by her second glass of sherry, while Hermione once again was forced to munch on an abundance of dried figs and too-sweet dates: “Growing up here, in this family, was a prison, that’s what it was. A gilded cage, trapping me. I was to be pretty, which I wasn’t, I was to be happy, which I wasn’t, I was to marry an old relative to cement family ties, and I didn’t.”
In Hermione’s mind, the House snarled, a sound of displeasure, and something that sounded suspiciously like “Family traitor! ”
Her mother-in-law seemed to notice the sudden plummeting of gloom in the room, like the sun had disappeared behind a cloud, the chandeliers dimming, and her raised eyebrow proved that she didn’t care or heed the House’s anger.
She continued: “ Marrying my mother’s cousin from that horrid house of Black was absolutely out of the question. So I went to the smithy, and found Tobias to make my escape.”
Then she paused, before saying with a bitter snort :”In the end, that choice proved to be hardly any better. All of a sudden, he turned religious on me, claiming I was a spawn of Satan, and it all went truly downhill from there.”
And the sudden flinch, the haunted expression in her eyes and the reflexive hunch of her shoulders, told Hermione the story Eileen Snape’s words didn’t quite convey.
Xxxx
In due time before lunch, she excused herself, because she couldn’t postpone writing to Harry and Neville any longer. Sitting down in the study in their suite of rooms, she pulled out a sheet of parchment, before deciding to duplicate the letters - after all, the boys were wondering about the exact same thing.
Dear Harry and Neville!
I know how surprised you must be at seeing me married to the Headmaster. Truth to tell, no one was more surprised than myself. After the incident at the Yule ball - I won’t put it in writing, but rest assured, I was never harmed - the Headmaster offered me marriage as a solution to the terrible predicament I had been forced into. I accepted, and I’m grateful for the solution he provided me with. Please know that I’m …
The scratching of her quill stopped, because … what was she going to say to them? That she was happy or safe?
At the moment, she didn’t feel like any of those things, but she couldn’t write down what she truly felt like. Shocked, because her future had taken such a strange and unexpected turn. Sad, because she had just as little control over her life as she might have feared from any marriage, maybe even less with such a stern husband. Confused, because she didn’t quite know what he expected from her. Embarrassed, because being intimate with the Headmaster was … no, she couldn’t even word it in her own mind.
No, she could never write down any of the sort, and she didn’t even know if the Headmaster would let her finish her NEWTs.
With a sigh, she wrote:
Please know that I’m provided for. I will see you at Hogwarts at the start of the term, but for Christmas, we’re staying at Prince Hall. Merry Christmas, my dearest friends.
Granted, the two of them deserved a much longer letter, but she didn’t know what to say. Maybe it would be easier to explain everything to their faces.
Rolling up parchment and sealing the letters, she noted with a grimace that her seal had changed too, to the same as the Headmaster used: A dark green P and S entwined by leaves.
Trying and failing to change it to her own sign, the grey dogs of the Granger baronetcy, she finally had to accept her failure with a defeated shrug. Just another sign that she wasn’t really her own person anymore.
Setting out to find the Owlery, Hermione walked to see more of the House, wandering long, empty corridors.
The curious glances of portraits followed her as she peered into empty bedrooms, a music room equipped with any and all instruments one might like to play plus an immense ballroom adjacent to a grand dining room.
The only sounds to be heard were her own footsteps drumming on lacquered floors or a faint whooshing noise when her slippered feet sank into plush carpets. No matter how empty it was, it was all devoid of dust, shining with polish and in good repairs, as if a horde of guests were to arrive any minute.
The Owlery was large, and it seemed empty with the forty handsome Hawk owls nesting there. As everything else at Prince Hall, the Owlery was remarkably clean, and the normally rank odour of bird droppings was barely noticeable.
By the door, there was a closed box with owl treats. Hermione scooped a handful, holding out her hand with the offer as she neared the middle of the room. A few of the Owls hopped towards her, clearly curious, nibbling at the treats, and she brushed her hand over the soft feathers, tying to the letters to the two that seemed most affectionate.
“Potter’s residence, Godric Hollow,” she whispered to the first, and told the second, sturdier owl to leave for Longbottom Hall in Orkney Island.
Afterwards, she explored the house for a while longer, before finally sinking into a sofa, situated in a lovely boudoir on the second floor, upholstery, carpets and curtains set in a pretty porcelain blue colour. At once, the marble fireplace in front of her sofa lit up, flames crackling merrily, warming the room against the slight chill.
“It’s later, and we will talk,” the House announced in her head.
Hermione settled back on the sofa, folding her hands in her lap, nodding expectantly.
The House said slowly: “I didn’t choose you. He married you, it was his choice. It’s always so, and I’ll work with what I get. You’re a strong witch, despite your unfortunate background, and you will help me bring power and fertility back to this Family. Make no mistake, they’ve dwindled over the years. So many of them lost, no children of their own, some falling into madness and disease. Before you, all I was left to contend with was an old man who waits for his death by sleeping away his days, a witch who disgraced her Family and an heir that try as he might, can not raise our dignity and pride back to our rightful place by himself, not without the aid of a wife and heirs. So, perhaps the Family needed new Blood. Perhaps we needed you. You will bring back the pride of the House of Prince. Like I said, you will work with me.”
Swallowing, Hermione thought that might make sense. The frequent Pure-blood intermarriages would be unhealthy by Muggle standards, and she supposed the Wizarding world was much the same.
“I … don’t know if I can be of much help, though,” she said truthfully. “They - the Wizarding nobility, I mean - have little respect for my background. They will not care much for me.”
The House snorted. “They will respect the Mistress of Hogwarts and the Lady of Prince,” it said grimly. “However they want to or not. No Lady Prince has ever been meek, and you shouldn’t be either, girl. Be proud and fight for your Family."
Hermione blinked, before she muttered: “But … That won’t work. I’m a Muggleborn, no matter my role, and … the Headmaster wants me to be a proper woman, decent ... and everyone says that a woman’s place in society is beneath her husband, to obey him and he will want me to...”
“Nonsense,” the House said briskly. “And you shouldn’t worry overly about your pedigree.You should know, most of them aren’t Pure-bloods. Those few who actually are, are so inbred and prone to insanity that they too have lost all respect in society.”
Hermione nodded slowly, feeling a little dazed, but then she had to ask: “They too? What do you mean by that?”
“I’m of course referring to the unfortunate choices of your husbands’ mother,” it said bitingly, like it resented what had happened deeply. “Having Muggle relations is one thing, to elope like she did as the only heiress and daughter is on quite another scale. Did you know she left me and her Family for years and years? But now there’s you. You will help Severus Snape to rise in society, and thus, you’ll elevate yourself - and the Family. We will return to our former glory. Do not fight against this, fight them. Help me show those other Families that the Princes are back in power. ”
At that, it fell silent, and Hermione shook her head. This was… preposterous. She might be intelligent, she might be a powerful witch, but … she was certainly no socialite, nor a hostess to throw parties and make friends in the cut-throat game among the nobility. She was a reader, a scholar, and not at all a social climber.
“You don’t need to make friends,” the House said slyly, picking up on her thoughts. “All you need to do is to make alliances. Use your brain, understand the game, be politically savvy, and produce a number of heirs. That will go a long way to make repairs on our tattered pride. I might not have chosen you, but now you’re my duty and responsibility too.”
And slowly, something dawned on Hermione - an opportunity - a way to get even. She couldn’t ask the Headmaster to do more for her than he already had. If this was to happen, she’d have to do it herself - and maybe she could get a little help.
With grim determination, she asked: “Will you, in return, help me to get revenge on the wizards who tried to assault me? I would like to see them brought down.”
At that, the House chuckled, like it was pleasantly surprised. “Of course, my dear. I’ll be delighted. ”
Xxxx
Dinner had been much like last night, though Hermione felt somewhat better. That was, of course, most of all due to the truly excellent Painkilling potion that had been sitting on her vanity table when she came back to dress for dinner. Apparently, her husband had been brewing, and Hermione had been right about the note her mother in law had sent him earlier that day.
After dinner, he had asked her to join him in the library, and she nodded, feeling apprehensive, hoping that last night was an exception and not a future norm.
As they crossed the threshold, she couldn’t help shuddering, and he gave her a quick glance that turned into a frown of displeasure.
Schooling her face again, she pretended like nothing had passed, but his voice was still gruff as he told her to sit.
“Would you like a drink?” he said absentmindedly, as he poured himself a finger of Firewhisky, crystal tumblers and a carafe placed on an ornamental silver tray.
She looked incredulously at him, wondering if this was the same man that now had - twice! - barred her from drinking more than a glass of wine for dinner.
“I suppose I’m not allowed, Sir,” she retorted somewhat snippily, and he turned to her, at first annoyed by her cheek, before a small smile flashed to life on his face.
“Not at dinner, my sweet young wife, but in private with me you might be allowed - when I’m feeling generous.”
Without asking, he poured her a glass, thrusting it into her hand.
“Thank you,” she said automatically, before sniffing at the glass. It was clearly strong, nothing like she had ever tasted before, and she dipped the tip of her tongue into it, before making a grimace.
A small snort came from her husband, as if he thought her reaction funny, and she glared stonily at him - before she remembered. Oh wait, she was supposed to be grateful, quiet and obedient. The perfect wife, right, not … like myself. No matter what the House said, she felt sure that Headmaster Snape would not take lightly on a disobedient wife.
Schooling her expression into something that she hoped was suitably meek, she folded her hands in her lap, waiting expectantly for what he had to say.
He sat down in a chair opposite of her, holding his own tumbler lazily in one hand, studying her face. Looking at her so closely, she felt a flush rising in her cheek, reddening her neck and chest too.
Xxxx
“I realise I haven’t taken the time to tell you my expectations for you, for our marriage,” he said. His voice was smooth and balanced as always, though truth to tell, Severus felt somewhat nervous. He was far out of his depth now, having had no time to think, plan nor prepare for dealing with a wife. Normally, such a thing would have taken months, not days.
And perhaps he should have talked to her before claiming her, consuming the marriage, dragging her off to see his family, but instead, he had taken her and then dumped her in a family she knew nothing about. Oh well, she would learn to adjust.
“No Sir, I must admit that I’m still reeling from all … of it,” the girl said, before she haltingly added, as if she just had an unpleasant afterthought: “However, I hope I haven’t done too badly.”
“No,” he said quickly, “you’ve done … well enough.”
There was a small, relieved smile on her face, as if she had been dreading his displeasure.
And for a moment, Severus felt a small jolt in his chest, as if he enjoyed the fact that she wanted to please him, that he relished his control over her, revelling in the fact that she was his own entirely too much. And predictably, such thoughts led to the memory of his father’s voice booming in his head: You’re a lecher, a sinner, falling prey to the basest desire, you hellspawn!
Frowning at his inner monologue, feeling the familiar conflict of sin and vice coming to life again, he forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand: Setting boundaries for his wife, and telling her what he expected of her.
Now the girl was looking apprehensively at him, no doubt due to the scowl on his face, and he smoothed his face to his customary blankness, but that seemed to make her even more unsettled, as if she’d rather prefer to see his reactions than a facade.
“You will not return to your studies,” he said abruptly, and her large eyes became curiously misty.
Still, she nodded in acquiescence. “I gathered as much, Sir,” she whispered.
Surprised by her ready acceptance - he had thought she’d fight him on this, claws and teeth, to finish her precious education - he added an explanation, though it was strictly not necessary. “It would be strange, having you seated beside me in a position as Mistress of Hogwarts, while you still were a student. Besides, your duties might not accommodate enough time to observe your classes.”
“I understand,” she said, biting her lip, and … by rights, that shouldn’t be as enticing as it was.
He must have seen her biting that lip time and time again in his Potion classes, nibbling on quills and whatnot, either as a nervous trait when she was trying to get his attention, or when she concentrated hard on her brewing. And yet, now it shot straight to his cock, making him think about having those lips wrapped around his…
Severus cleared his throat, feeling like a silly youth, too horny for his own good, just because he could have her if he wanted to, and the girl sat back, looking expectant at him. “You may however, read all you like in my personal library, in the Hogwarts library and of course, in here.”
And there it was, that brilliant smile that felt as if he was flooded in sunlight, making something inside him stretch like a cat basking in a spot of sun.
“Thank you,” she breathed out, before she bit her lip again, venturing a question. “May I … if there isn’t too much trouble … perhaps take my NEWTs? Just the exams, not the course work. You see, I’ve worked hard for my results, and I’d love to see the final results, and…”
Frowning again, he peered at her. Well… would it matter? Almost no one had a wife holding NEWTs, but that was not to say it would reflect badly on them if she did. Maybe the other witches were too stupid and his witch was the only one brilliant enough to do both her wifely duties and studying, and … why should he deny her this?
Somewhere in his mind, he felt that there was a reason why he should say no, but it seemed unimportant, silly even, like it was nothing against the smile on his wife’s face.
“You may,” he said gravely, “but it mustn’t interfere with your duties.”
Though he’d always considered her as more of a level-headed witch than most, despite her incessant questions and need to prove herself, she surprised him when she let out a high, girlish squeal of happiness.
“Oh! I may? Really? I’m so happy, oh, thank you, Sir!”
She was beaming, and there was no doubt in his mind: This smile - he’d do anything to see her smile like this, at him, forever.
Still, he tried to feign gruffness, as to not reveal the entire sorry state of his hungry soul. “Yes, but expect to be busy. Your duties as Mistress of Hogwarts, representing our guests and…” he wanted to say taking care of my needs, but that felt somewhat too uncouth to say out loud, and instead, he added: “... helping me running the school.”
“For sure,” she almost sang, still smiling so sweetly. “The Head House-elf already did stop by to teach me my duties, and your mother has been instructing me in how to represent as well.”
“Very well,” he said. “I will at times require your help in administering the school, plus…” his voice fell, because … oh, the comforts she’d bring to his life … and he couldn’t help a certain kind of silkiness slipping in: “there’s also our … family life. You will learn all my needs and habits, and make sure I have every comfort I crave.”
To be honest, he had meant it in terms of her learning his favourite brand of tea, cakes, parchment, ink or quills, but clearly, that was not how she interpreted it.
The girl sucked in a breath, staring wide-eyed at him, before a deep flush of mortification seemed to spring from her very pores, making her redden like a pretty peony in bloom.
Mortified, she whispered: “I will try, but … I do not know much about this. You’ll have to instruct me. I mean, how to be good for you, the way you want it.”
And that made him instantly hard, shoving all thoughts of restraint to the back of his head.
Xxxx
Her breath came much too fast, making her chest heave, and that was not a good thing. Her husband was ogling her, burning eyes locked on her chest, before his gaze travelled up to her face, feeling like a heatwave brushing over her bare skin.
In a moment, he was on his feet, moving towards her like he was propelled. Coming to stand beside her, his crotch was almost at the same height as her face, and nervously, her eyes slid over the thick, hard bulge of his trousers.
“A .. woman … might be called upon to serve a man in many different ways,” he said, his voice impossibly deep, their closeness making the timbre almost reverberate in her chest.
The slight hesitation in his voice made her think that maybe, perhaps decent women didn’t do what he was about to suggest, since he had not mentioned wives or husbands, merely men and women.
He gripped her chin, his hands warm against her cool skin, and his thumb traced her bottom lip, pulling it slightly down, letting the tip of his finger butt against her teeth.
In shock, she opened up, and his thumb slid into her mouth, caressing her tongue.
Looking up at him, crestfallen at this very strange behaviour, her eyes met his, and he groaned.
“Ah, when you look at me like this… so innocent, so … My pretty little wife, I’ll instruct you, and you’ll be so very good to me, my good girl…”
His other hand fumbled with the fly of his trousers, while his thumb kept burrowing in her mouth.
Hermione didn’t quite know what to think, and then he fished out that … thing … the organ that had breached her body earlier.
She hadn’t seen it before, merely felt it, and now, she couldn’t help but stare.
It proved to be a large and thick shaft with veins protruding along its length, and at the top, there was a shockingly red mushroom head with a glinting droplet in a tiny slit. It pulsed slightly, like it was alive, twitching slightly in his hand, and then he grated out: “Open up.”
His thumb pressed her bottom lip further down, and shellshocked, she obeyed. Did he mean for her to put … that … in her mouth?
Apparently he did, because the head of it swiped her lips, bringing with it a salty taste and a strange, musky smell. It was softer than she had thought, almost silky to the touch, and then he repeated the movement, this time pushing inside her mouth.
“Hide your teeth,” he instructed, his breathing short, and she nodded. His hand came around her head, pushing her gently onto his shaft, letting it slide deeper into her mouth. When he reached the back of her throat, she coughed and sputtered, and he retreated, telling her in a broken gasp: “Breathe through your nose. Try to relax your throat.”
She tried to obey, but it was difficult, and he made several passes, some where she succeeded, and others that left her gagging. At the same time, she couldn’t help wondering if this was something she was supposed to do - did all goodwives do this? Was this something extra, something special that a decent woman perhaps should refrain from? It was odd and it wouldn’t lead to children, that much was sure, but … it didn’t hurt her, it wasn’t painful, so maybe it wasn’t so bad.
He groaned, throwing his head back, like this felt good to him, even exquisitively so.
It was also … strange, a little exhilarating to make him come undone like this, his breath coming hard and ragged, his hand gripping her neck as if she was his anchor from drowning, like he needed her so very badly.
Though after a short while, her jaw hurt, but he was speeding up, beads of sweat forming on his brow. She tried to keep eye contact with him the entire time, and meeting her eyes seemed to urge him on, and suddenly, he bucked - once, twice - and the big thing jerked in her mouth, before he pulled out, spraying her lips, chin and chest with a salty, white liquid, forming thick globs on her skin.
He was panting, his eyes hooded, but still he groaned, his thumb tracing the fluid around her mouth, smearing it into her skin: “This is a sight I won’t forget. Oh, you’re such a good girl, my good girl.”
Strangely enough, though this was a bizarre occurrence if there ever was one, his words made her warm up inside, like she’d do this and a million other strange things to hear his praise. He had almost never given her praise, being her strictest Professor, and this - somehow, it felt like vindication for all her earlier failures to please him in class.
He pulled back, tucking into his trousers before whisking a Tergeo over her. In a whisper, he repeated his words from last night: “I would like for you to enjoy this too. I really would.”
Still, Hermione found that hard to believe, and she replied, her voice very low: “But I can’t, can I? If I did, I wouldn’t be a decent woman. That’s what people say.”
His face darkened, but she rather thought he was more angry with himself than her, this time. “There’s that,” he said curtly. “Besides, you would never want to, would you?”
Notes:
Severus... *shakes head*
Do you miss Harry and Neville? I do, so they'll be calling on the Snapes. *grins*
Chapter 11: Callers
Summary:
The arrogance in his voice was a challenge to the boys, and somehow, Hermione had never seen his eyes colder or more empty. For a brief moment, he lingered in the door, before stalking into the room, coming to stand behind her, his hands possessively coming to rest on her shoulders.
Notes:
Thank you for reading and commenting on this filthy Victorian angst piece. It's so much fun when other people enjoy the dirt that manifests in my brain, lol.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Pacing in the library, Severus couldn’t seem to find the peace needed for reading or brewing. What had he been thinking? He was delusional, that’s what he was.
It was clear that his young wife didn’t want him, she had told him as much last night. The fact that she also was in pain from his attentions, to the point that it had made his mother interfere, ordering him to brew Painkilling potions for her, should have been a telltale sign, even for him.
No, she was a decent young woman, not like one of the whores he used to fuck that would take anything he wanted to do, and last night …
Groaning, his fists clenching, Severus realised that he had asked too much of his wife. Making her suck his cock, even demanding that she’d enjoy it, it was no wonder she had gently, quietly rebuffed him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she couldn’t enjoy it.
And there was but a small leap of imagination - a familiar leap his mind had taken all too many times during his life - to understand that she didn’t want him. No one did, because Severus wasn’t the kind of man anyone would love or even respect. He was a filthy pervert, a spawn of Satan like his father had told him, unworthy in the eyes of the Pure-bloods, and …
No, to expect his pretty little wife to bloom under his attentions, to be writhing in ecstasy in his bed was nothing but a foolish dream. If he kept up doing this to her, even her pretty smiles would fade and wither, and he’d be left with a husk of a girl that would despise him.
The bell signalling visitors rang, stopping Severus in his tracks. Why, they never had callers at Prince Hall?
Xxxx
Sitting in the drawing room with her mother in law, the morning sun casting a weak light through the windows, creating long slates of gold on the floor, her reading was disturbed by the sudden ringing of a bell.
Eileen Snape looked up, before she muttered: “Callers. I wonder who that might be? We’re not receiving and haven’t been for years. I suppose this has something to do with the marriage.”
After a moment, a House-elf came bustling in, with three cards on a pretty silver tray. “Lady Longbottom, Mr. Longbottom and Sir Potter here to see Madame Snape the younger, my Lady,” he announced.
“Augusta,” her mother in law murmured, before shaking her head. Fixing a beady eye on Hermione, she asked: “And I suppose the young gentlemen are your friends from school?”
“Yes, my Lady,” Hermione said. It felt like little butterflies flitted around in her stomach, while she couldn’t help grinning, nervousness and happiness mingling. How would she explain the marriage? And in front of her mother in law and Neville’s grandmother too?
Eileen took a deep breath, before deciding: “We’ll see them.” Then she turned to the Elf, saying: “Tippo, please make sure we have a sherry for the visitors. I remember Augusta liked that well enough … before.”
They waited for a short while, Hermione obsessively straightening her hair, while her mother-in-law went back to reading, looking as cool and calm as if she received an abundance of callers every day.
“Hermione!” Neville cried as the three visitors entered. “I can’t believe you got married without us!”
Harry was right behind him, looking anxiously at her, like he wanted to reassure himself that she wasn’t horribly abused by their Headmaster.
Then Neville’s formidable grandmother entered, slowly and stately, vulture hat bobbing as she cocked her head, looking curiously around the room.
The two Snape women rose to greet their visitors, and Eileen said a little stiffly: “Welcome to Prince Hall. Please, have a seat.”
“It’s been a long time,” Augusta Longbottom commented, her eyes finally falling on Eileen. “The house looks just as fine as it ever did. You look well too, Eileen, like widowhood … suits you.”
“Grandmother!” Neville whispered, scandalised, his face a deep red, while Harry goggled at the old woman. Augusta Longbottom merely sniffed, taking a seat directly in front of Eileen.
Hermione held her breath too, not daring to look at anyone, and beside her, the silks of Eileen’s dress rustled faintly. To her surprise, her mother-in-law chuckled. “Oh Augusta, you haven’t changed a day, have you? I’ve gotten used to being a widow by now, and truthfully, it isn’t all bad. But of course, you knew that long before me.”
Augusta Longbottom smiled wryly, before noting: “And I see your repartees are just like before too. Good to know your … Muggle life … didn’t strip your wit as well as your will.”
From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw a small, involuntary movement of Eileen’s hand, like she was reaching for her wand, but then she relaxed.
“I’d always enjoyed broadening my horizon,” Eileen answered, her voice perfectly even. “Seeing the world from a different angle, you know, as not to be stuck in … old … perspectives not suited to cope with the world such as it is.”
“Ever the radical,” Augusta said with a glint in her eyes, before she sighed. “I miss our discussions. I’m … happy that you’re receiving again, and I hope to revive our acquaintance, my dear. Perhaps even outside the confines of your home?”
“Even so,” Eileen said, her voice very low.
Then Lady Longbottom turned to Hermione, saying sharply: “Congratulations on your … surprising … marriage, Madame Snape. I hope the Headmaster will be a good husband for you. You never know with those who hold out as bachelors for as long as he.”
Hermione blinked. In her head, the House hissed: “Family pride! Don’t you dare say anything else.”
Clearing her throat, she smiled sweetly to Lady Longbottom, deciding that the House probably was right, though she’d like to present a more … nuanced … story to the boys: “He’s been delightful, Mrs Longbottom. Thank you so much for calling on us.”
And the astounded looks on Neville’s and Harry’s faces was almost worth it, because clearly, they knew that Hermione was lying through her teeth.That almost made her giggle.
“Congratulations,” they both said automatically, before Harry questioned: “You will return to Hogwarts, right? You’re not staying here after Christmas?”
From the door, the Headmaster’s voice cut in, sarcasm dripping: “I’m so .. pleased … that you’ve called on us, Lady Longbottom, Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Potter. Rest assured, Madame Snape will return to Hogwarts with me, though she won’t return to class. She’ll be busy with her duties as my wife and Mistress of Hogwarts.”
The arrogance in his voice was a challenge to the boys, and somehow, Hermione had never seen his eyes colder or more empty. For a brief moment, he lingered in the door, before stalking into the room, coming to stand behind her, his hands possessively coming to rest on her shoulders.
And for the first time, Hermione noted that Neville was much better at playing such games than Harry. Harry looked at the two of them with something close to abject horror, while Neville said smoothly: “Of course. We’ll merely be delighted if we can have but moments of Madame Snape’s precious time.”
At that, her husband’s hands tensed, squeezing her shoulders hard, but Lady Longbottom grinned like a cat who got the cream, whispering loudly: “Oh well done, Neville!”
“I’m sure Madame Snape will make time for you, when and if she’s available,” the Headmaster said icily, almost through clenched teeth. “She has a much too tender heart, and I know she will not forget her friends, despite her numerous duties. However, due to your status as students, you will have to meet in the library. I will not suffer students visiting in my quarters.”
“For sure,” Neville said, his round eyes filled with concern as he peered at Hermione. “We wouldn’t dream of imposing on your … privacy, Headmaster. However, Madame Snape might perhaps be allowed to accompany us on walks? Nothing far, of course, just in the castle grounds park.”
“I’ll consider it,” her husband said irritably. “Do not presume that she can give you much of her time, though. Her time is best spent with … me.”
Augusta Longbottom arched an eyebrow at that, but the visitors left shortly after, worried glances and all, though there were promises of invites to come.
It was less than an hour before she got a letter from Harry:
'Please, if you need help, you will tell us, right? Love, Harry.'
With a sigh, Hermione contemplated telling her husband that he might have been too strict, and instead of soothing the worries of her friends, he had heightened it significantly by his grim demeanour, showing off just how much control he could exert over her actions. But there was no point, was there? He was the one in control, not her. Maybe … it was better to wait confronting him over this until they both were more familiar with each other. Maybe his animosity towards her friends would lessen when they had taken their NEWTs, or maybe she would just make time to spend time with them, without him being any wiser.
But if he thought the boys were meddling with their marriage, who knew what he might do? To prevent further visits or whatever the boys might plan for, she wrote back to Harry, a quick, scribbled note, feigning a surety she didn’t quite feel:
'Calm down, Harry. No help needed. H.'
Xxxx
Christmas Day passed, and she was overwhelmed when the Headmaster stiffly presented her with sets of jewellery. Not one set, but ten: Necklaces, ear drops and bracelets of rubies and sapphires, emeralds, opals and amethysts, set in silver or gold, all of them heavy and worth entirely too much.
“Oh,” she said weakly, having nothing to give him but her best set of quills and her silver inkpot, having neither the money nor the time to buy a gift for him. The set had been the last gift she had received from her parents, and she had never used it - instead choosing to preserve it as a memory.
“It’s nothing,” he said dismissively, like he just hadn’t presented her with jewellery worth thousands of Galleons. “Old heirlooms, and we have enough of that, if you can imagine. You’ll need this for representation.”
And there it was, the glaring inequality between them: He could give her a priceless present, something that would be worth a lifetime of salary for a governess like it was nothing, even deeming this as a necessity, while she could only give him a small gift in return. This just proved how much she should be grateful for his mercy, because surely, he could have done much, much better than her. All she could do was to try to live up to his expectations, though that had proved to be more confusing than she could ever imagine.
Thus, her smile when she thanked him for her gift was just as stiff as his demeanour when he presented the gifts to her.
Xxxx
“It’s all barbs and needles,” the House told her, “it’s always so. You must never brag, but nevertheless, you need to prove the power and prowess of our Family through more insidious remarks. Make comparisons that discreetly go in our favour, pull the others down, be pleasant and yet arrogant, show them that our expectations are rather higher than theirs.”
Hermione wandered through Prince Hall, looking for all the world like she was exploring or merely taking a walk, but on the inside, she kept up the conversation with the House.
The bannisters on the stairs were all free from dust, her hands trailing over polished, smooth wood, all surfaces looking like a House-Elf had rubbed them down just this morning, not forgetting a single crevasse on the balusters, and her steps echoed like she was the only one alive in the vast manor.
“I’m not sure,” she muttered, “it might seem like … blustering overconfidence, coming from me. I’m just me, remember? They all know that I’m not a Pure-blood scion like the rest of them. Why would I expect so much of the world, when I had nothing before this marriage?”
The House scoffed, the sound ringing loudly in her head. “They will believe because you are a Prince. Yes, yes, I know what you’ll say, technically you are not, you are a Snape, but the whole point of this ordeal is to make them remember the Princes. Remember our status, remember our power. We are not dwindling anymore, we are returning to full force. You will make them realise, and you cannot start by acting like the meekest of Muggleborns.”
Hermione was thankful that the House chose that expression, because somehow, she had a feeling that the Princes of the past might have used quite another slur when describing people like her.
“I will try,” she said with a sigh. “I .. can’t promise any results, but … I will try.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Startled, she turned around, seeing her husband standing on top of the stairs, looking curiously at her.
“Sorry, it was … I merely spoke my thoughts out loud.”
He raised an eyebrow, peering down at her. Standing above her, he seemed taller, like a looming shadow over her life, and she gave him a nervous smile, hoping that he wouldn’t pry into her thoughts.
Something in his eyes softened as he looked at her, as if he liked to see her smile, and he brandished a letter. “We are invited to the Blacks for tomorrow night. 12 Grimmauld Place in London, we’ll make sure to look our best.”
Nervously, she smoothed down the fabric of her dress over her waist and hips, hoping that she’d be able to live up to the House’s tuition.
By that his eyes seemed to darken, trailing over her face, her throat and her chest, and he said hoarsely: “Join me in my rooms, wife. Now.”
The outstretched hand of his seemed like an invitation, but his voice told her he would brook no opposition. This was an order for her to lie down, there was no doubt about it. And for sure, no decent wife should ever feel a tingle in her belly at being ordered so.
Xxxx
The girl obeyed him, walking up the stairs, and there was something strange on her face, like apprehension was fighting a reluctant eagerness.
That made his cock twitch, hardening further in his trousers, as if he hadn’t already gotten hard on seeing her sweet face, her lithe body turned sideways to look up on him, her dainty hand poised elegantly on the hardwood bannisters.
You’re imagining things again, Severus! he told himself sternly, she doesn’t want this, she doesn’t want you, she’s merely obliging and obeying her husband like a good wife should.
That - her sweet obeisance - made his swallow, like the roof of his mouth had turned curiously dry, and he grabbed her hand, hauling her along, making her almost run beside his long steps towards their chambers.
Well inside, he wasted no time, Divesting her of her much too complicated clothing, making the girl shriek in surprise, before the little swot breathlessly said: “Oh, what kind of spell was that, Sir? I’ve never seen it, and…”
She addressed him as ‘Sir’ as if he still was her teacher, but instead, he was her master, her husband, and surely, that shouldn’t have made him even harder.
Divesting himself of his own clothing, he lifted her right off the floor, carrying her over to the bed and dumped her in the middle.
“Sir,” she breathed again, her pretty face flushed, her eyes glittering in a strange way - no doubt because she was embarrassed, though he hoped for something else.
Really, he should resist peeking into her thoughts, because nothing good would come out of that, for sure, and instead, he let his fingers trail over the inside of her thighs, noting the small shiver that went through her.
Goosebumps formed on her skin and her nipples hardened, but he tamped dutifully down on any hopeful ideas that his filthy mind tried to present to him. She would merely be cold, there was no doubt about it, him being a brute, undressing her and throwing her naked on a bed on top of the covers in the middle of winter.
With a small growl, he pushed her thigh apart, settling over her, and it was only as he pushed in that he discovered that his wife’s opening was, in fact, slick.
Xxxx
“You’re wet,” he said wonderingly, stopping his thrust mid-motion, letting only the wide mushroom head spear her opening, stretching her wide, and for the first time, it wasn’t painful, it felt good, much too good, like she wanted to clamp down on him, squeezing the large, bulbous head until he’d burst, filling her up with that thick white fluid, soaking her opening with his seed.
Mortified at both her filthy thoughts and her body’s failure to resist temptation, she covered her flaming face with her hands, whispering: “I’m sorry. I don’t know why…”
With a wordless groan, he sheathed himself fully into her, pushing all the way in, but his entire body quivered, like there was a tension there, like this was something that he had wanted, like this was a thrill he had been waiting for his entire life, like he was a coiled spring wound up to its breaking point.
She barely had time to draw a breath, the sound more like a whimper of pleasure than anything resembling a normal, decent deep breath, before a shiver ran through her. The thick trunk going inside her had brushed something at her front, something delicious, something that made her want more pressure, more of that heated friction her body suddenly craved. Involuntarily, she pushed her hips up to meet his body.
Above her, her husband became decidedly wild-eyed, and thrusting hard into her again, he mumbled something unintelligible, his shaft jerking inside her as he gasped. Almost at once, like he was beyond excited, her husband came, cursing and growling, his body shaking as he lost himself in her body, pumping into her like he wanted nothing but to bury his shaft forever into the deepest recesses of her.
Notes:
Aw, you should've lasted a bit longer, Severus... 🥲
Chapter 12: Visit
Summary:
“I hear your kitten has claws.” Severus stiffened, hearing the deep voice of his master behind him, but he turned smoothly.
“Minister,” he said, inclining his head.
Chapter Text
Walking slowly behind the Headmaster, her head bowed like the meek and proper wife she tried so hard to be, they entered 12 Grimmauld Place for what was supposed to be an ordinary Christmas party. Though both the House and her mother-in-law had told her it was anything but: It was a party for the Minister’s close allies, and in all likelihood, the men would treat it as a business meeting with the ruler of the Wizarding world.
No matter what, the trappings of a party were all there, and Hermione was dressed in the best dress the Elves had made, and her husband had donned his galla robes. They were both dressed in black, she for reasons of her mourning and he for stylishness, and Lady Snape had told them that they made a striking pair together, her eyes curiously warm.
Hermione’s dress had delicate black laces at the neckline and on the short sleeves of her arms, the lace-covered silk of the dress tapering down her waist, ending in the full, midnight black skirt. Around her shoulders, she wore a lace shawl, and the heavy pearls from the Prince estate hung low on her decolletage, almost nestling between her breasts.
A young but still gnarled House-elf stood at the ready by the door, beckoning them in, though its eyes widened as it saw Hermione, its nose quivering as if it smelt something rotten.
Though the house was fairly new, the hall was dim and much smaller than Prince Hall, and for some reason, Hermione felt that this house was unfriendly.
Remembering Eileen’s words, she knew the Blacks had done something awful to inaugurate the house, and somehow, it felt like there was a taint to it, a stench of evil. Behind a small table, there were damp patches on the outer wall, and Hermione spied cobwebs in the corner, as if the taint was physically manifest in some way.
“We did much to create me,” another disembodied voice whispered in her head, like something was slithering over dry leaves, “and we do not like Mudbloods here. You defile me by your very presence.”
Swallowing, she realised that she was able to hear this house too, though she couldn’t begin to understand why. The House snorted in her head, a loud, disdainful sound, and said: “If you do not understand why, you’re just as stupid as your lack of Blood indicates. But the Blood means that I must suffer your presence for the time being … but I warn you, do not darken my steps too often.”
Hermione furrowed her brow, not quite understanding what this could mean, but then the Headmaster took her arm, guiding her upstairs to the drawing room.
Upstairs, they were greeted by their hosts, Licorice Black and his wife Desideria. Nothing could be said as to the polite words of the Blacks, but their stiff smiles told Hermione that they were in full agreement with their House.
Desideria was a stately woman with chestnut hair, dressed in a velvet plum-coloured gown, a heavy gold chain with a webbed string of rubies adorning her neck, while her husband was tall with thinning black hair, a rounded, golden lorgnette tucked to his deep-set eyes.
“Congratulations on your wedding, Severus, I see you’ve found yourself a wife at last, haven't you?” a man croaked out, tottering towards them in old-fashioned high heels from the last century, and a powdered wig on his head. He had the sort of faded elegance of an elderly gentleman, though Hermione thought he might be no more than seventy years old. The man was also very drunk.
“Allow me,” her husband said stiffly, “Madam Snape, this is the Honourable Eduardus Black, the younger brother of tonight’s host. Sir Black, this is my wife, Madam Snape.”
“And a pretty little morsel she is too,” the man chuckled, eyeing her in a very disturbing way, making Lady Black fan herself, as if she was about to faint from the crass words of her brother-in-law. “That being said, I always held such high hopes that you and Misapinoa would wed.”
Lord Black sniffed, scowling at his brother, getting a drunken grin in return. His wife shook her head, like Sir Eduardus was a lost cause, and the couple turned to greet another arrival.
“Oh, I daresay, Lady Misapinoa wouldn’t care for that,” her husband said, his face blank, though his eyes were burning with ire.
“Quite right, cousin,” a voice drawled, and a very pretty, pale and dark-haired girl glided towards them. Hermione remembered her vaguely from Hogwarts: A Slytherin that finished her OWLs with very good results, before leaving at the end of Hermione’s first year. “After all, your mother was supposed to marry Uncle, wasn’t she? Though she preferred to wallow in the mud instead.”
Hermione gasped, anger shooting through her - Eileen Snape certainly didn’t deserve this. Beside her, her husband had stiffened, black rage flashing through his eyes, though it was clear he wasn’t about to deign his cousin with a response.
Her spine straightened - because this, this was what Prince Hall had been preparing her for - and Hermione was propelled into action.
Batting her eyelashes, Hermione said blithely: “Oh, my Lady, I’ve certainly never seen a house more well cared for than Prince Hall. Whatever dirt that exists, must be in the eye of the beholder. That being said, I’m quite sure my mother-in-law would be happy to lend you a House-elf or two to keep up this house. It seems … a little dank, neglected … almost oozing with filth. I wonder … this is a rather new house, isn’t it? How can it be this dirty?”
Hermione looked pointedly at the faint, glittering cobwebs dangling from a chandelier, and then at the London soot smeared on the windowsill, courtesy of the ever-present smog.
Misapinoa Black narrowed her eyes, before turning on the spot, marching off. Her uncle however - maybe even the very same man that Eileen had been supposed to marry - laughed. “Such a little wildcat too, Severus. She’ll be all teeth and claws, I suppose, and the happier a husband should be.”
He wandered off, tipping his hat at them, and her husband leaned down, speaking quietly in her ear, his breath hot against her skin, making her shiver: “I’m surprised, but … Do take care. Cousin Misapinoa isn’t much of a concern, but there are other people here that you mustn’t anger.”
“Like the Minister?” Hermione whispered back, and the Headmaster nodded, following her gaze.
Minister Tom Riddle stood in the middle of a crowd, a very tall, elegant man, handsome beyond his years, with a slight greying of the black hair over his ears.
He was simply put one of the most handsome men Hermione had ever seen, gesturing with large, well-formed hands as he spoke, and people were obviously hanging on to every word that left his lips. But there was more to it than good looks, though, because Hermione could feel power almost oozing from him, like his magical core was bleeding all over the party, influencing people.
The Minister spotted them, and a smile broke out on his face. “Severus! You must join us - I’m so happy you were able to tear yourself away from your honeymoon.”
They walked over to the Minister, Hermione curtseying as she was introduced, and then the Minister said - shockingly loud: “A real shame about her blood, Severus, but I can see why you married her, pretty little thing she is.”
Up close, the Minister didn’t seem nearly as friendly as he had from a distance. His face might be smiling, but his eyes were cold like black pools of ice, dragging over her like freezing sleet, making her shudder with a sudden chill.
Her husband said stiffly: “She’s of a brilliant mind, Minister. A true scholarly delight.”
The sudden praise almost bowled her over, instantly thawing the cold, making her heart race and her cheeks burn, and with shining eyes, she looked up at her husband.
Riddle snorted, giving him a wry glance. ”A true delight, I’m sure, Headmaster. Knowing you, it will be in one way or another - or perhaps even both. Like a childhood fantasy coming true, isn’t it, Severus?”
Hermione wondered if there was some sort of innuendo in this, as the Headmaster’s pale cheeks coloured faintly.
Xxxx
Severus couldn’t help the unhealthy flush flooding his cheeks, because as usual, the Minister’s uncanny knack for digging up uncomfortable truths was spot on. Oh, he was a master in alluding to things better kept hidden: Severus’ fascination with all things learning and all things sex, his old love for Lily … but did Riddle really imply that he had chosen his wife because she too was Muggleborn girl, an intelligent, learned girl like Lily…? Was the Minister right? Had he, in fact, been drawn to his wife’s unwomanly intelligence and outstanding magical prowess? Somehow, it felt like this held a kernel of an uncomfortable truth.
The smirk on his Master’s face was taunting, but all Severus could do was to force down the sudden sensation of an unwanted epiphany. He nodded, responding: “I enjoy marriage far more than I had been led to think beforehand.”
“That may be so,” Riddle said, still with that infuriating quirk to his lips, “as we all know, you were long due for producing that illustrious heir we all seem to need in this society. I’m just a little surprised at your choice, though I appreciate the way you … accommodated the situation that arose. There was no need for me to intervene, you solved this in a satisfactory way.”
“It was the best solution for all parties involved,” Severus replied, hoping to Merlin that his master wouldn’t prod much more into this in public.
It wasn’t a suitable conversation in front of his wife, or anyone else, for that matter, but luckily, his master refrained from pursuing it further, instead inquiring after Severus’ recent research into a potion that could break a stasis.
On his arm, his little wife listened with rapt attention, and he knew she was just burning with the need to ask a hundred questions on how, what, why, where and when. He tugged at her arm when he felt her growing too antsy, and she bit her lip, forcing herself to be quiet to please him, though she was almost tripping over herself with curiosity.
Her apparent meekness didn’t fool the Minister at all, and he turned to her, asking condescendingly: “You seem to take a vested interest in your husband’s work, my dear.”
“Oh, I find it so interesting,” she said earnestly, her cheeks glowing, and then the floodgates opened. Severus almost rolled his eyes, this time more fondly than in irritation, and he raised an eyebrow, looking at the Minister, silently saying: “You asked for this, Master.”
His wife continued: “And I always thought it would be possible to reverse the Dreamless Sleep, what with the sources from McMorrel’s manuscript from 1658, where he explains that he accidentally happened on a potion that would wake you from nightmares instead, and…”
Minister Riddle looked somewhat surprised, like he had never expected a witch in polite company to quote old and obscure manuscripts, and he stared blankly at the two of them for a moment.
Not daring to rouse his ire - the Minister had some very strong opinions on what witches should and shouldn’t do - Severus interrupted his wife’s torrent of words, all her knowledge on Dreamless Sleep threatening to spill over in what would surely be a several minutes long monologue:
“Fascinating, my darling, but the Minister hasn’t enough time on his hands for you to show off everything you’ve ever read,” Severus drawled, wondering what his master would make of the fact that his wife was such a little bookworm, and eager to prove herself to boot.
In front of him, Tom Riddle’s eyebrows narrowed at first, but then he laughed. “Very fascinating indeed. I’m sure you can keep Severus awake anytime. Maybe in time, you’ll find that he’ll … welcome your advances, even in this matter.”
At that, even his innocent little wife blushed, realising that the Minister was talking about something entirely different than research, and Severus cleared his throat.
“Always such a prude,” the Minister mumbled, before greeting a new arrival. “Ah, Avery! Such a long time, we need to talk about the French market, my friend.” And by that, Severus breathed out a sigh of relief, knowing that their time was up, and to be frank, it had gone down better than he had feared.
Xxxx
Her husband had deposited her into a gaggle of ladies. For some reason the brandy-soaked fruit and fruitcakes seemed to be an ever-present staple when wizarding ladies socialised, and Hermione gave a sickly smile, waving down offers of thick slices of cake. It made her nauseous, and so far, her stay at Prince Hall had made her detest dried fruit with a vengeance.
The seat of the brocade settee was surprisingly hard, and Hermione looked longingly at the more comfortable chairs by the fireplace. Still, she realised that this was a place of honour, as their hostess was sitting in the settee across the table.
Lady Malfoy came over to the group, sitting down beside Hermione, before turning to her, peering critically at her belly. “Aren’t you feeling well, my dear? I can’t help noticing that you aren’t eating. You are perhaps … a little indisposed?”
Chatter died down, and the ladies looked at the two of them, some whispering behind their fans.
Instantly, a flush spread over Hermione’s neck, and she blinked. The woman had some nerve, indicating this! Knowing that Hermione had been married for a week, and the reason behind that was the transgressions of the woman’s own son! For sure, Lady Malfoy had just tried to slander her reputation, indicating that she had had indecent relations before she was married.
Lady Malfoy only smiled, her blue eyes wintry cold, despite the slight crinkle around her eyes. “Goodness knows, it’s about time Severus got an heir,” she drawled. “He’s getting old, isn’t he? Good thing he got himself such a … young …. wife.”
The other ladies tittered, and Hermione swallowed, having no idea how she should word a comeback to such blatant rudeness, as the blush spread to her cheeks.
Advice from the House, the dry voice of Prince Hall, seemed to float through her brain: Don’t let them get the upper hand. Be polite, but put them in their place. Never stand for slights, or else they’ll think you’re easy prey.
Hands fidgeting over her silk skirt, she braved an answer: “I’m sorry, Lady Malfoy, but … I find it uncouth to discuss such things in public, it's somewhat … old-fashioned and unladylike, if I may say so. I am, however, happy to tell you that my husband is in good shape, no matter what you might say about his age. As for eating … I’m sure the cake is delicious, but I happen to not be hungry at the moment.”
Those ice-blue eyes widened, her head snapping up as if Hermione had struck her, and a few ladies laughed openly, as if they enjoyed seeing Lady Malfoy being publicly rebuked.
Lady Malfoy rose, and Hermione wondered if she was about to brandish her wand, but she merely moved to another sitting group, her spine very straight as she walked off.
“Good one,” a woman whispered conspiratorially, “I’m quite sure Aunt Narcissa never expected to be called uncouth.”
The woman winked at her, and Hermione recognised her as Mrs. Moody. She had met the woman at the Burrow during a summer visit, along with the woman’s much older, now deceased husband. The most notable thing about her had been that she was a Metamorphmagus, changing her looks at will to the amusement of everyone present.
Hermione racked her brain to remember the woman’s maiden name, but couldn’t seem to place her. If Lady Malfoy was her aunt, it stood to reason that she would be a Black or a Malfoy, though the intermingling marriages of the Pure-bloods were confusing at best.
The group of ladies were quiet for a moment, before someone took an initiative, starting a discussion on recipes for Christmas pudding as made by their Elves. Hermione tried to feign interest, but it was hard even keeping a polite expression on her face, as the conversation turned to dried fruit - as if it wasn’t enough that Hermione was forced by her mother-in-law to eat vast amounts of the vile stuff, now she had to talk about it too?
“Oh, my Piddy always soaks half of the raisins in brandy and the other half in port, it makes for such a wonderful taste,” Lady Selwyn gushed. “My boys love that.”
“Why, what a novel idea,” Miss Misapinoa Black said with a sneer, while her mother simpered at her, like she admired her daughter’s permanently disgruntled expression. “Kreacher will never say what he does, but I know for a fact that he uses the same recipe as his mother. It’s brandy most definitely, and the candied peels are half and half oranges and lemons.”
“True, our family’s puddings are superior by far, no matter what else there is to be said about the family,” Mrs. Moody said, showing her teeth to her cousin.
Hermione supposed it was supposed to pass as a smile, but the frosty glances between the ladies proved that it was more of a challenge.
A woman to the left cleared her throat, looking at Hermione to defuse the situation. She recognised her as Lady Avery, a middle-aged woman with a pointed nose and a pinched frown on her narrow face. “Please tell us, Mrs. Snape, what does your House-elf do?”
There was a moment when Hermione almost panicked - how was she supposed to know these things after mere days of marriage - but again, it felt as if Prince Hall whispered to her: Never show fear to a vulture. Be superior.
Showing her fear into a dark corner of her mind, Hermione gave her a sweet smile. “To be frank, I do not know which Elf makes the pudding yet. There are so many, you know, I’ve barely learned the names of a mere twenty of them in such a short time.”
There was a brief silence, some of the younger ladies looking shocked, before Lady Avery said faintly: “Right. Twenty Elves. In Prince Hall, right, not … Hogwarts?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, keeping the saccharine smile on her face. “Prince Hall is quite a large house, you know. Nothing like … this.” She waved around her hand, indicating 12 Grimmauld Place.
This time, Mrs. Moody guffawed out loud, but inside her head, the Black’s House almost screamed in rage.
Xxxx
Severus muttered under his breath, seeing his …wife … establishing her authority among the Pure-blood ladies. She had decided to stake a claim, hadn’t she, competing with the ambitious Pure-bloods? Well, he supposed it was a clever move, letting them know in no uncertain terms that she was not someone to be trifled with. It was slightly surprising, even given her intelligence, but he couldn’t help admiring her. So unafraid, so courageous, so cunning - and he felt like he had been given an unexpected gift in this marriage, as his wife by chance seemed to be an expert in manoeuvring the fickle Pure-blood society.
The doors between the ladies’ drawing room and library where the gents took their after-dinner drinks were wide open, and Severus had placed himself as to keep his wife in full view.
“She’s doing much better than expected, isn’t she?” Lucius said, joining him by the fireplace, peering critically into the other room. “Taking down Narcissa in the most unexpected way, and I expect I’ll hear no end to it. Still, I daresay Narcissa will leave her alone after that. Did you instruct her on how to behave?”
“No,” Severus said slowly, “I believe my mother did. Still…”
“Well, if so, she did a good job of it. It’s surprising though, your mother was never someone who was all that interested in society, was she?” Lucius said with a humorous laugh.
“True,” Severus said, “but still…”
“Or the girl is more clever than you thought.” Lucius smiled, his eyes still trained on Hermione, before leaning in: “And she’s a quite attractive girl, isn’t she? Young, pretty … I’m sure you’ll have heirs in no time, old friend.”
Severus stiffened, seeing the leer in Lucius’ eyes. With a bark, he snapped: “Don’t talk about my wife like that!”
Lucius laughed, holding his hands up in a placating gesture: “Peace, I merely wanted to convey my heartfelt thanks to you, and I’m happy to see that it might work out well for you too. I wish you all the best, you know, and for you to step in and save Draco…”
“Don’t mention it,” Severus said tiredly, “I … it was the right thing to do. The girl had no other options.”
“I hear you kitten has claws.” Severus stiffened, hearing the deep voice of his master behind him, but he turned smoothly.
“Minister,” he said, inclining his head.
“This is interesting,” Tom Riddle said, his eyes on the ladies in the other room too. “At first, she seemed like a meek and docile little thing, having never raised her head from her precious books, but apparently, looks can be deceiving. I think we can expect more from your spouse in the future, Severus. She might be contending with Narcissa as society’s leading lady in no time.”
Lucius snorted in derision at that, and the Minister sent him a chilling glance. “And no wonder, Narcissa should be careful, as she’s not in our good graces at the moment. Remember, being the sister of our greatest scandal to this day doesn’t exactly endear her to our circle.” With that he turned around, walking away, and Lucius stared after him, openmouthed.
After a minute, Lucius mumbled: “As if he wasn’t guilty of causing that scandal, by seducing Bella!”
“I don’t think he sees it that way,” Severus said slowly. “I think he really believes she’s to blame for falling pregnant. You know, it’s always the witches’ fault in his eyes.”
“I suppose so,” Lucius said darkly, looking worried. “Because there could be no fault of his own, could it?”
Xxxx
The party had lasted well into the night, and Hermione was dead on her feet when they arrived back at Prince Hall.
Her husband extended his arm to her, leading her upstairs, while her head almost nodded drowsily against his shoulder. Dressing in her nightgown, she fell asleep as soon as her head landed on her pillow.
Her dreams were strange, though: Laughing ladies, the cold and calculating eyes of the Minister, men leering at her, like the world was out to get her, a sinister house meaning to hurt her, but it didn’t matter: she was safe, protected inside the circle of her husband’s arms, as he mumbled against her neck, telling her that she was a good girl.
Something warm pressed against her backside, and slowly, her nightgown was raised to her hip, calloused hands sliding over her thighs and arse, making her sigh with pleasure, though she couldn’t seem to rouse herself from this pleasant dream of safety. Somewhere in her mind, she knew that the touch was real, and yet not, like it was an extension of her dreams coming to life.
Behind her, something smooth and hard slid against her bare skin, pushing against her, but it only added to the tingling feeling of happiness and heat that was growing inside her. She was safe, safe and cherished, and nothing in the whole wide world could ever harm her.
Sighing again, she pushed back against the warmth, and there was a muted gasp behind her. The hands massaging her hip and thigh slid forward, cresting over the swell of her hip, dipping into the valley between her legs.
A small whine escaped her, but still, she was so sleepy, feeling so comfortable in her dream that she refused to wake up, merely squirming against the palm pressing against her most secret place. Behind her, she could feel his heart hammering in his chest, and his breath had picked up.
“So good,” he whispered in her hair, “such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”
She shuddered, relishing the feeling - he praised her, didn’t he, her stern husband, just like in the dream - and he seemed to register her response by the satisfied sigh that came from her lips.
Then his hand pressed harder against her, making something catch fire in her belly, like there was an ember turned bonfire in there, and a finger slipped between her nether lips, rubbing slowly against her. Her belly spasmed, like this was a feeling that she’d craved and chased her entire life, though she’d never known anything like it before.
Mewling softly, whimpering for more, she pushed against him again, silently begging for more, feeling as if something was rising on the horizon, swelling inside her like an immense wave of pure light.
He gasped, his breath fanning over her hair, whispering: “Like this?”
Her small needy whimper was enough of an answer, and his fingers began to move faster, rubbing her more decisively, rushing her forward to meet the towering wave. And then she fell into it as it crashed over her, and she became one with the wave, a being suffused with glittering sparkles, the surge flooding her body, making her gasp and tremble, legs kicking out, her belly convulsing, clenching around nothing, like there should have been something there - something inside her - and then the wave receded, leaving some of its fire behind like smouldering cinder, as aftershocks ran through her lower body.
Behind her, he was thrusting against her arse, like he couldn’t wait, and then he pushed her leg forward, steering himself inside her, and finally, Hermione woke up.
Xxxx
It was slick and wet, like heaven around his aching cock, a smooth slide of real lubrication, the scent of her arousal heady like nothing else, making him swell with pride and shame. He had made his innocent little wife come, defiling her purity, forcing her to give in to her base desire like a common whore, and yet, he was proud, overwhelmed by the fact that his wife came for him.
The girl whimpered, still aroused from her high, and he held her hips still, rutting into her, his cock pounding her tight opening, their skin smacking as he took her.
“Mine,” he grunted, not being able to hold it in anymore, “all mine, my little minx, so wet for me, coming for me, and…”
He pushed his fingers between them again, feeling her stretched open on his thick cock, but the prominent little nub at the front was still hard. He rubbed her again, the girl whispering a scandalised “No, you shouldn’t, this is…!”
Severus groaned in her ear, licking against the sensitive skin underneath, mumbling: “You came for me once, now come on my cock, wife!”
The girl was blushing, her neck and face thoroughly red, but her lower body seemed to obey his words and not her mind, and sweet trembles started around his cock, squeezing him so tight, and Severus pushed harder to fit all of him inside her, going as deep as he could, his fingers flicking her little nub until she squealed, and deep shudders raced through her belly, almost trapping his cock inside her.
He lost all control, taking her brutally, slamming himself inside her in time with his grunts, his cock swelling and jerking, before he finally spurted, releasing deep into her, his cock twitching as he filled her up.
The girl was gasping, as if she was out of breath, before her pants turned to sobs: “I’... sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I swear, I’m not like this at all, I’m not… Please don’t punish me.”
He lay still for a moment, letting the afterglow flood his body and mind, before he pulled out, his cock slipping wetly out of her well-used little hole. It was true, no decent woman should act like this, and yet… It had felt amazing, like he was on top of the world, on top of her, controlling her lithe body, making her act so wantonly, just for him. This was what he wanted, what he craved, what he had hoped for and…
Ridding himself of the guilt that his father had driven so deep in him, deciding that he had earned this - he, Severus Snape had earned this wanton little slip of a wife, this too-smart girl with a need to prove her mind’s excellence - and he pulled her into chest, stroking her back slowly, rhythmically, kissing her hair.
Slowly, as her sobs subsided, he purred into her hair: “Good girl, my good girl, you did well, just like I wanted, coming like this for your husband. Oh, little wife, I won’t punish you, not for this, never for this. I meant what I said when I told you to enjoy it. This was but the first time of many.”
Notes:
It took somnophilia to get there, lol.
So... why was Hermione able to hear Grimmauld? 🤔😇😁
Chapter 13: Served Cold
Summary:
“I hope your wife will save me a dance,” the Minister commented, coming to stand beside Severus.
Schooling his face, not letting his surprise show, Severus muttered: “I’m sure she will, Master. That will be an honour.”
“She’s an interesting creature. Did you set her up to all this, or did she do it herself?”
Notes:
An Act of Charity is coming to an end, and I'd like to say thank you to all of you that has been reading, giving kudos, subscribing, bookmarking and commented. I'm grateful for that. 🖤
Enjoy the last chapter! 😁
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning after, he was thankfully gone from her bed by the time she woke up, though it was still early. On shaking legs, she filled the clawfoot tub with steaming hot water, sinking down into the magically induced warmth. The House-elves would be shocked to learn that she had done this by herself, but right now, she didn’t want to see anyone.
No matter what he had said, she had behaved like a fallen woman, getting pleasure from the marital act, as strange as it seemed. He had done things to her that felt good, so the blame was certainly his too, but still, she had acted like no decent woman ever should. If she had been a proper lady, her husband should be able to touch her body however he liked, without soliciting such a response from her.
Hermione groaned, ducking underneath the water, little waves splashing over the edge of the tub, holding her breath as long as she could, as if the water could cleanse her body and soul from her wanton transgressions.
Coming up for breath, gasping, she still couldn’t let her breach of propriety go. The Headmaster was notoriously strict, so she couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of punishment she’d receive from acting like a harlot in the marriage bed. He had said he wanted it … but how could she trust that, given the way she knew him to be?
Shivering, despite the hot water, little tendrils of steam escaping the bath, she curled up, her mind conjuring punishments ranging from torture and violence, from the Cruciatus to spankings.
After the second reheating of her bathwater grew cold, she mustered her courage, deciding to start her day.
Xxxx
“She slept in today,” his mother remarked dryly, before adding: “I hope you brewed more than one batch.”
“Mother!” Severus said, scandalised, shaking his head. What things the older generation saw fit to talk about, it was like they had no sense of propriety at all!
Thankfully, they both heard the rustle of wide skirts as someone moved through the corridor towards the open doors of the breakfast room, and his mother decided to keep quiet.
Severus rose to greet his wife, and something like joy sparked in his chest upon seeing her entering the breakfast room. Today she was pale, with high spots of colour in her cheeks, and she didn’t dare to meet his eyes.
Nervously, he took her arm to lead her to the table, and her sudden shyness made him ache inside - oh, this would be akin to taming a wild animal, tempting it with treats until it would eat out of his hand, except … she was far smarter than that, his little wife, and would easily see through such a ruse.
A sudden rush of pride welled up - his wife, his lovely little wife, his to take care of and protect - and Severus couldn’t help it. He leaned down, kissing her on her mouth, making her freeze. The kiss lasted much longer than he had planned for, because he wasn’t able to let her go, instead clutching her closer to him. She had been so good to him last night, making him believe that he could have it all: A loving wife, a clever wife who’d manage to turn Pure-blood society around her fingers, a wife that would conscientiously manage her duties, a wife who’d even read with him and care about his research, even welcoming him in her bed.
Tentatively, the girl was kissing him back, though she barely moved her lips. Stiff and inexperienced, it was still the sweetest kiss he’d ever received.
Finally, a chuckle broke through his concentration, and he released her. And he was right, his mother was fighting a laugh, trying and failing to hide her too-wide grin behind a napkin.
“ If you will pardon me, I have a few letters to write,” his mother said, her voice a mere croak. Shoulders still shaking, she left the room hastily, not even setting her chair to rights.
Finally, his wife looked up at him, her cheeks flushed and bright. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “so sorry about last night. I should never…”
“Never what?” he asked, dread pooling in his stomach. Didn’t she like it? Was she going to deny him her arousal, or…?
“You must think I’m an awful wife,” she muttered, hiding her face against his frock coat, like she was afraid of him. “I never meant to be so … wanton. I hope you’ll find it in you to forgive me.”
“Oh, that,” he said, almost laughing in relief, tightening his grip around her small waist. “No, not at all, you’re mistaken. This is what I want.”
“But you … you! … you’re so very uh, formal and austere, so correct… Why would you truly want me to act like a fallen woman? I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“Oh, my dear,” he said, fighting a grin, “remember that public and private are two different scales. We’ll be proper in public, and in private, you’ll be different for me, and me only.”
And for once, the hypocrisy inherent in himself seemed to fit, like it was a solution and not a moral nuisance, a thing to be enjoyed instead of a blemish on his conscience.
Looking at her, the smile on his face slowly faded as his joy was replaced by something else - desire - oh, he’d have her again, right here in the breakfast room. Come to think of it, he’d make a project of this, fucking her in every single room at Prince Hall.
Somehow, he thought the house would approve of that, though it hadn’t deigned to speak with him. Not yet, at least, not until he’d inherit the title, he suspected.
“The table is large enough, don’t you think?” he muttered, walking her backwards past the place settings, before lifting her up, pushing her down to lie on the table.
“What…” she said nervously, straining to raise her torso to a half-sitting position, “your mother might return, or the Elves…”
“They will stay away if they have any good sense,” he muttered, taking hold of the hem to raise her skirts.
The letter whooshing through the sudden flare of green fire in the fireplace, however, had no such compunctions. It flapped towards him, unfolding itself in the air.
Upon seeing the thick, expensive vellum, there was no surprise for Severus when the Minister’s slanting handwriting appeared, the ink quickly bleeding into the parchment, like he was writing the words this very minute:
"Needless to say, my invitation extends to your new wife. TMR."
“What’s that?” his wife asked, looking greedily at the letter like she couldn’t wait to get her hands on it to examine the curious magic of Tom Riddle’s letter-writing spell.
With a sigh, Severus replied: “The Minister’s birthday. It’s an annual ball on New Year’s Eve. It’s the event of the year, everyone will be there.”
Xxxx
The prelude to intimate relations were forgotten, as she asked in detail just who ‘everyone’ signified. She nodded grimly upon hearing that the Malfoys and rest of the Pure-blood nobility would be out in force plus the upper echelons in the Ministry, having expected no less, but she was surprised to learn that Neville’s grandmother was a staple, along with many of her Professors from Hogwarts.
There were only a few Pure-bloods of note not invited, namely Harry himself, Dumbledore’s younger brother Aberforth, the sixth Earl of Tristis, plus Minerva McGonagall and a few other associates of the late Headmaster.
If her husband was surprised by her interrogation, he didn’t show it, but the House applauded her silently, telling her that “information is the key to success. This will also be an opportunity for revenge, if you’re still inclined to get your vengeance.”
“I will,” she vowed silently to the House, “ I will.”
A little distractedly, she asked her husband: “Sir, may I use your lab for brewing today?”
“For sure,” he said, looking surprised, and then something like shame flitted over his harsh features. Hesitantly, he added: “Remember, you can always ask me. I’d be happy to brew for you, whatever you need.”
Xxxx
Her hair curled up in frizzy ringlets around her brow, and her face was sweaty by the hot tendrils of foul smoke coming from the cauldron. Well, it was obvious she couldn’t ask her husband to brew this, because she’d have no legitimate reason for the use of the Incurable Boil Potion.
“I still wish you’d include your husband, ” the House rumbled in her head. “By rights, he’s the one who should retaliate, giving you the revenge you crave, and I’m sure he’d help, and not only because he has sworn to protect you.”
“He’s done so much for me already,” Hermione said softly. “He’s saved me, protected me and … he already Sunned them and expelled them from Hogwarts. I should do this on my own, because … I don’t want to be a burden. What if he got caught? It would be a scandal like no other.”
“Rule number one ,” the House growled, “is to never get caught. If you do, our standing in society will be ruined. Therefore, you need to proceed with the utmost caution. I’m worried about this use of a Potion, because it’s easy to see as you apply it to your victim. We need to work on that.”
“I know,” Hermione sighed, dragging a hand over her sweaty face, “but I’m not … I have so little training in duelling and attacks, I mostly know the theory of such spells, I’ve … never tried them.”
“I’m not sure I believe that,” the House chuckled. “In class, that I’ll believe, but don’t try to tell me you’ve never practised such spells by yourself? ”
Hermione had to smile at that. “True,” she admitted, “but that doesn’t mean I can master them, not all of them, at least. I can do the two spells that we talked about, but I don’t know how to make other Curses permanent, so … there’s this.”
“Well,” rumbled the House, “it is wise to have three different punishments, because if all three were affected by the same Curse, it would be obvious. Just … be careful, will you? No one must see.”
Xxxx
The gravel path outside the gates of Riddle Manor was frozen, and the pebbles crunched under their feet as they landed.
The house on top of the hill looked warm and welcoming, lights blazing out of the windows into the dark December night, and there were fairies fluttering in the trees and the shrubbery, lighting the sweeping path up to the house.
“It’s beautiful,” his wife whispered, and he nodded, but his eyes were all for her.
“Yes, you are,” he mumbled, taking her arm, being rewarded with a surprised glance and a sudden blush.
The Minister’s house might be lovely, but it wasn’t a patch on her. A silk cloak was held together with a thick silver clasp, soft, black fur lined the hood of her cloak, framing her pretty face. Her pale complexion stood out, and this time, her cheeks had actual roses from her response to his words, and not because someone had pinched her.
Underneath the cloak, she wore the best ball gown the Elves had made for her: A black silk dress with wide skirts, and a decolletage that both made his cock stir and made him want to cover her up, lest other wizards enjoy the sight of what was his, and his alone.
For sure, he had marked her before they arrived, quickly taking her bent over their bed, the gown flipped up over her back, knowing that she’d be dripping with him the entire evening. Her slender neck bore the visible mark of hereditary Prince jewellery: A heavy silver necklace with the family crest, set with rubies, the biggest nestling between her breasts, almost touching her dress. Droplets of matching rubies bled from the tips of her ears, while finely wrought silver chains with more of the precious red stones dangled from her gloved wrists.
In short, she was bedecked with the symbols of his family, signalling to all and sundry that she was taken, that she belonged to him.
“The Minister hasn’t got an Apparating room, like Prince Hall?” she inquired as they walked up to the house, breaking his reverie.
“I suppose he has,” Severus huffed, before he gave his wife a wry smile. “The Minister is … very particular about his wards. I don’t believe he’d let just anyone Apparate in. Maybe none has that privilege.”
“Oh,” she said, appraising the house again. “But … Prince Hall has that, and…”
“Prince Hall will let everyone Apparate in, but not let anyone enter uninvited. The wards are set around the Apparating room,” he explained, taking pleasure in seeing her widened eyes.
“Ingenious,” she breathed, and from the stars in her eyes, he wanted so badly to believe that her opinion on his family house extended to him too.
As they stepped through the door, met by the Minister’s little army of lackeys, all of them curiously empty-eyed, like there was no one at home behind those welcoming smiles, his wife whispered to him: “I think I felt a tingle when we passed through the door. It was faint, but it still felt like … a bit like something brushing my hair, like there were bristles and teeth combing over me.”
Severus snorted. “No wonder, and if you hadn’t been invited, those teeth would have clawed through your skin. No one sets foot in this house that the Minister does not want to see.”
He rather thought the Minister had done a fine job with the house. By rights, it should reek of dark magic, just like that Cursed house the Blacks had built themselves, but the darkness was barely noticeable. The Blacks had surely gotten their ideas from those rituals the Minister had performed at Riddle Manor - it was no secret among the men close to Tom Riddle - but their execution was far more crude. Or simply put, the Minister was far better at hiding Dark Magic in plain sight.
Xxxx
The Minister’s house was practically glowing with the lights of fluttering fairies and glowing orbs of wizard fire. By the windows and doors there were festive wreaths of green holly, bound by living silver wires in the shape of writhing little snakes, as sly, undulating garlands of mistletoe moving silently around the corners.
Somehow, Hermione felt sure that this house was sentient too, but if it was, it chose to remain silent, as if it liked to keep its secrets.
“Severus, my good friend,” the Minister greeted them by the door to the ballroom, “and your wife. Enchanted, m’dear, you look lovely.”
Hermione curtseyed, smiling a little stiffly at their host, because while he seemed cordial, there was something off about it, like he really didn’t like … people. As if he somehow, secretly, wanted to kill them all.
Shocked by her own thoughts, she gave the Minister another nervous smile, and she was happy as her husband led her into the ballroom proper.
“We’re joining the fray,” he muttered, before adding: “Stay close to me, and everything will be alright.”
This time, the smile she gave him was somewhat strained, because if she was to effect her revenge, it would require at least a little time on her own. “Surely you’ll let me dance?” she asked softly.
There was a flare of something possessive in his eyes, like he’d deny her, but then he took a deep breath. “I suppose you’d like to,” he said bitterly, “A young girl like you...”
“It’s only my second ball,” she said, standing on her toes to whisper in his ear. “I’ve only danced four times in my life. One time each with Harry and Neville, and twice with you.”
“I’m tempted to break all bonds of propriety to dance with you, to keep your every turn for myself” he muttered, and Hermione couldn’t help a scandalised giggle.
“You can’t do that! Married couples don't dance together.” But the frown that was deepening on his face made her add hastily: “There’s no one I’d rather dance with than you, but it’s not done. Please?”
With a sudden movement, he took her arm, bringing her closer, looking down at her with an intensity that almost scared her: “I’ll let you dance for tonight, but if you want to dance with me, just say so. I’d dance with you every night at Prince Hall if you’d like.”
Xxxx
His wife turned out to be popular on the dance floor. At first, she danced with the bumbling fool Longbottom, the big dolt almost stepping on her toes in the process, but nevertheless, they seemed to enjoy themselves, chattering animatedly. Next, she stood up with Avery, the introduction being perfunctory made, before Augustus Rookwood, young Oliver Wood, Yaxley’ son Phillip, his old friend Jeremy Rosier, the youngsters from the Dearborn and Bones families, old Mulciber and Corbel Jugson came politely asking for a dance, writing their names on her dance card with utmost care.
“At this rate, you won’t see your wife all evening,” Lucius told him, sauntering over to him from his last dance partner.
“Don’t even think about it,” Severus said with a scowl, and Lucius laughed lightly.
“Don’t worry, my friend, I may be a bastard, but even I understand that your young wife does not want to dance with a Malfoy at the present. Maybe later, when all this is forgotten.”
“Perhaps,” Severus said sourly, his eyes resting on young Draco, who seemed to be fetching a drink for his fiancee. “Did you tell your son too? Because if he tries, I will stop him, no matter if it’s the Minister’s ball.”
“Draco has promised to be on his best behaviour for the time being,” Lucius said clippedly. “Narcissa pointed out the consequences if he didn’t in a very succinct way, and as a result, he’ll be doting on his fiancee for the foreseeable future.”
Severus snorted, but his eyes slid quickly back to his young wife, her gown swirling about her as she and Rookwood stepped out, dancing down the line. He did note, however, that the smiles she gave her dance partners were nowhere near the genuine, blinding smile he so wanted her to reserve just for him.
Xxxx
Hermione smiled mechanically at Oliver Wood, knowing that he had asked her to dance because he wanted to quiz her on how on earth she managed to get herself married to Professor Snape.
Still, her eyes were sliding discreetly over the crowd, looking for Neville, who had promised to execute step one of tonight’s plan. During their dance, Neville had agreed to dump the phial of the Incurable Boil Potion into Gregory Goyle’s goblet, with no one being the wiser.
“So you and Professor Snape, huh?” Wood said, squeezing her arm a little too hard.
“Yes, so it would seem,” she said, nodding at Wood.
There, right over there! She saw Neville by the buffet table, bumping into Goyle, making him stumble, before Neville solicitously gave him a drink - the drink - patting his arm by way of apology.
“So good to see you, Hermione,” Neville had said as they stepped out in the dance. “You look …well.”
His eyes had been searching, and she smiled at him, grateful for his concern. “It’s better,” she said truthfully, “I … actually think it will work out.”
“Good,” Neville said, before casting about in the room. Leaning in, he whispered: “We gathered that this had something to do with the Malfoy gang, Hermione. Your Patronus… them being expelled, the marriage… but no one knows.”
“True,” she said softly, feeling a momentary flare of anger, as she saw Draco Malfoy to her right, holding the arm of his innocent fiancee. “But I was not harmed, but still… my reputation.”
Neville grimaced. “Just say the word. Harry and I are at the ready, if there’s any need for retribution.”
And suddenly, she couldn’t help smiling at the brilliant idea forming in her mind. “Actually, there’s something you could do for me tonight. Just bump into Goyle, and then give him a drink spiked with this, will you?”
From her sleeve, she slipped him a small crystal phial directly into his hand.
Neville had almost laughed, before he said slowly with a wry smile: “I should’ve known you had something planned. Consider it done, as you know, I’m quite good at bumping into things.”
Satisfied, she saw Goyle down the entire content of his goblet, never knowing that he’d never sit comfortably again in his life. Those boils would form by morning, and if the recipe was accurate, the Incurable Boils would quite literally cause a steady pain in his arse for the next sixty years.
“So Snape and you,” Wood repeated, still incredulous, “how long has this been going on? Did he actually court you in school? I mean, it’s kind of unbelievable, isn’t it? Snape courting anyone? Sorry, I suppose that was a bit rude, but… You know what I mean.”
She would have been exasperated, if it wasn’t for a golden stroke of luck in that exact moment - she supposed someone like Wood would say it was like catching the Golden Snitch.
Crabbe came to stand beside her with his partner Miss Parkinson, and while she tried to smother her need to glower, she knew that during the dance, it would be easy as pie to discreetly lob the small bubble containing the Permanent Hair-Loss Potion into his hair.
The bubble would burst upon impact, the potion would immediately sink down into his skin, and from there spread to all the cells in his body , rendering him bald as an egg over his entire body within 48 hours.
And she couldn’t help smiling at the thought of how strange Crabbe would look without hair on his head, eyebrows, eyelashes or for that matter the ability to grow a beard.
Whimsically, she answered Oliver Wood: “Oh, I wasn’t really aware of it at the time, but he did call on me when I was under McGonagall’s care, and then we danced twice at the Yule ball. So perhaps he did court me.”
The shock on Oliver’s face couldn’t help but make her laugh.
Xxxx
“I hope your wife will save me a dance,” the Minister commented, coming to stand beside Severus.
Schooling his face, not letting his surprise show, Severus muttered: “I’m sure she will, Master. That will be an honour.”
“She’s an interesting creature. Did you set her up to all this, or did she do it herself?” Tom Riddle seemed to be watching the room, but Severus knew that he was also scrutinising Severus’ reaction.
This time, however, he was genuinely nonplussed, not understanding the Minister’s question. “Do … what, exactly?”
“The little revenge she’s executing. It seems like messieurs Crabbe and Goyle will have considerable discomforts and surprises over the coming days, perhaps of the long-lasting kind. I’m excited to see what she has planned for young master Malfoy. Very clever, if I must say so,” the Minister said, turning fully to Severus.
Severus blinked. Apparently, he hadn’ been watching his wife enough if he had missed something momentous like that, even though he felt like he had barely taken his eyes off her.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said slowly, wondering what fresh hell would come out of this. The Minister wasn’t one to forget anything, and he was no stranger to blackmail and extortion.
“Oh, I don’t think anyone but me knows,” Riddle explained, rocking slightly on his feet, like he was pleased with himself as usual. “Even I wouldn’t have noticed, if it wasn’t for the wards alerting me that something was going on. This has been most interesting. Look, there she is, she’s going to pass close to Malfoy and his fiancee this time.”
Severus fixed his eyes on his wife. Her eyes were tuned in on Mulciber’s feet - no wonder, the man was prone to stumble over his dance partner - and if he hadn’t stared at her, unblinking, he would have missed the moment when she looked away, her eyes calculating, flicking something - a faint swirl of grey mist, a spell cloaked in a spell, very clever - right at Draco Malfoy, just as she passed him in the turn of the dance.
Nothing happened, nothing at all, and Severus shook his head. The spell could have been almost anything, hidden as it was.
“I think I have an inkling as to what this is,” the Minister said slowly, a smile broadening on his face. “Quite clever, that Cloaking spell, but I saw a glimpse as it hit him. This … should be interesting. Take note of what young Malfoy is doing. Don’t worry, I will not tell Lucius about this. This is far too amusing for him to interfere.”
The Minister strode off, interrupting the dance between Mulciber and Hermione, and took his wife’s hand like this turn had belonged to him all along.
And something acidic seemed to grow in Severus’ stomach. Didn’t she trust him to protect her honour? Wasn’t he enough for her, did she think that he wasn’t worthy of a girl like her as his wife? Didn’t she need his help - or didn’t she want it at all?
He swallowed, trying to tamp down on those familiar thoughts of not being good enough. No, the truth of the matter was that she had, in fact, needed his help - or perhaps, she was brilliant enough that she only needed a helping hand. He could provide that, couldn’t he? He could be better, being her steady support, letting her shine in her own right beside him, allowing her to be all that she was. Like he would have done for Lily. And then his reward would be to continue basking in the blinding light of her smile.
Xxxx
The Minister towered high above her, and Hermione had barely hid her surprise as he had literally shooed Mr. Mulciber away from her.
“I promise I won’t step on your feet,” Tom Riddle said with a faint smile, like he was aware of her shock.
“Oh, I didn’t think that, Sir,” she said. Even though he was the host, she was sure that his behaviour against Mulciber was to be considered quite rude.
“How long before we can expect an effect?” he asked, cocking his head. “Don’t feign innocence, I saw what you did, and … colour me intrigued.”
Somehow, Hermione realised that it would be useless to lie to him, because he’d know. Perhaps he was a Legilimens too.
“Not long,” she replied, her voice very low. “Just so that I wouldn’t be standing next to him. I wouldn’t want to be caught up in …that.”
“Very sensible,” he chuckled. Arrogantly, he added: “I’m even going to forgive you for causing a scandal in my house. You see, at the moment, anything that causes discomfort to the sisters from the House of Black is welcome. A very fortuitous timing for you to execute your little plot. Still, the next time, I might not be so accommodating.”
Hermione blinked, not quite sure what the Minister referred to, but then her Curse took hold:
There was a sudden commotion in a corner, and Draco Malfoys voice rose, ringing out loud over the general din in the ballroom: “I don’t care that you'll be my mother-in-law, you’re still a stupid sow and can fetch your drinks yourself, you know that? You’re in it for the money and my title, aren’t you? It’s not like the Greengrasses are anything but stuck-up farmers! And your silly little daughter, I bet she’ll cry when I fuck her, but that doesn’t matter as long as I can breed her. I hope it’s soon enough, because when it’s done, I’ll install quite a few mistresses in the house!”
There was a brief, shocked silence, and then Lady Greengrass screamed.
From the other side of the room, Lucius Malfoy’s voice thundered, his face paling like he had been run through by a ghost: “Draco! Have you lost your mind?”
“Bravo,” Tom Riddle murmured. “The Impolitio always sets a certain flavour to one’s parties. A very interesting Curse, when used sparingly. I suppose you’ve reached your goal: Ruined the Malfoy reputation and caused pain and humiliations to the messieurs Goyle and Crabbe. Very interesting, m’ dear. As birthday gifts go, this was one of the more amusing. I’m delighted that my right-hand man has such a … resourceful wife. Quite unusual, as witches go, but this might come in handy later on, I believe.”
Hermione looked over at her husband, meeting his black eyes. For a moment, they were as blank and impassive as they had ever been in class.
As Lucius Malfoy escorted his crying wife and scowling son out of the ballroom, a Silenced Draco still mouthing what had to be obscenities, a bell started tolling.
“Look, you have mistletoe over your head,” the Minister said, his eyes dancing with mischievous laughter.
Involuntarily, Hermione took a step back, casting a nervous glance at the Minister. She certainly didn’t want to…
Upon seeing her shock, the Minister’s lips quirked and he shook his head, beckoning her husband over.
“I’ll leave that for you, my friend,” he said, pointing at the crawling plant that seemed to hone in on her again. Before he sauntered off to the centre of the room, he quipped over his shoulder: “To be honest, Severus, I’m not sure if she was ever in need of charity.”
“I’m impressed,” the Headmaster said slowly, his hand coming slowly around her waist, like he thought she’d be spooked. “You … did this all on your own, this revenge. I should have known, you really are the brightest witch your age, my little wife. But you should know, I’ll always protect you. Just ask, my dear.”
Hermione gasped in shock and surprise, mind reeling: He approved, her husband knew about her revenge and he approved of what she had done, even though this was not how any decent witch should behave.
Something crinkled at the corners of Severus’ black eyes, like he knew what she was thinking, and he leaned in to give her a kiss - here, in public, the stern and proper Headmaster declaring himself for her, like he cared, like she wasn’t merely a stray he took in out of mercy, suffering her to be in his life.
And a warm, soft feeling seemed to unfurl inside her, as she realised that her husband wasn’t angry with her. Instead, he was proud of her.
Xxxx
They stumbled through the Floo and into the breakfast room, early on the morrow, the ball having lasted until morning.
“We had unfinished business here,” he muttered, a half-smile around his lips, and to his secret amusement, his young wife blushed. Oh, he had wanted her all night, not letting her dance a single dance after midnight, keeping her close to him, holding her arm as they strolled through the room, introducing her to everyone that was someone. At one point, he had even earned an appraising nod from Augusta Longbottom, his mother’s friend, and by that he knew he was doing something right as a husband.
Pushing her back against the table, he lifted her up, settling her bum on the table top.
Her breath came fast and heavy as he reached down to stroke her stockinged legs, spreading her out, before he dragged a chair to him.
Sitting down by the table, he looked straight to the apex of her thighs, the crease between her legs shadowed by the bunched up fabrics, but still in full view for him.
“So pretty,” he mumbled, “such a delicate little cunt, and it’s all mine. Let’s see if we can make you glisten, shall we?”
And by that, he swooped in, his face landing between her legs, his beak of a nose almost smushed against her nether lips, dragging in the sweet, rich scent coming from her core. His wife let out a muffled shriek of surprise, but he was already getting busy, his tongue stretching out to lap at her folds, searching between them, teasing her opening.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, her head half raised, looking at him with eyes that were half hooded with lust, and half shocked, like he had done something unspeakably strange, and yet delicious.
“What does it look like?” he grunted, “I’m going to lick my wife until she screams for me, right here on the table, and then I’ll fuck you till you can’t stand.”
She was writhing in his grasp, and he pinned her down, holding her hips still, but still she was undulating, her hips almost thrusting against his tongue. Her breath came in great gasps, like her corset was too tight for her movements, but her core was getting slicker by the minute, his face almost soaked by the wetness pooling from her. At the front, there was a tightening, a small nub protruding and getting harder, and as he concentrated on this newfound element to his wife’s private parts, it seemed like this sort of attention was what she wanted too.
Hi cock was desperately standing to attention, pressing uncomfortably against his trousers, and he knew the damned thing was trying to escape, the head poking up behind his belt, straining against his stomach.
Her back arched, like she was trying to fly off the table, her mouth opened in a silent scream as her legs kicked out, and suddenly, her folds were trembling rhythmically against his lips, her opening clenching around nothing as he continued to lave at her nub.
Sinking back, she suddenly gasped: “Too much, no more, it’s … oh, please…”
Realising that she had come for him - he had managed to make her come again, his pride rearing - he rose, unbuttoning his trouser, freeing his aching cock. This time, when he slid into her, she was silky wet and warm, welcoming him home with a sigh of pleasure.
It took no more than a few dozen jerky thrusts before he was there too, spilling into her sweet hole in great spurts like she had somehow Cursed his stamina, gasping and panting as a white light filled his vision, his heart hammering in his chest, like it too wanted to escape his body, pounding its way out, breaking him open, laying his beating heart open for her to capture.
He sank down on her, lying heavily over her chest, until she chuckled slowly. “I’d like to have breakfast before I go to bed, but I suppose the Elves should change the tablecloth after all this.”
“They should,” he panted, feeling his heartbeat return to normal as his cock softened inside her, “though I’ll always prefer this for breakfast. You’re such a delicious little thing, you know that?”
“Not just an annoying Know-It-All? “ she asked, her voice oddly wistful.
Severus barked a laugh. “Not only a Know-It-All, though I daresay you’ll be one til the end of your days. No matter how hard I tried to instruct you otherwise. You’re … brilliant, my dear. I’ve always known that. Truly, I am proud to be your husband.”
And the smile she gave him made sunshine ripple through his soul, like she took the light to the darkest corners of his mind.
Xxxx
She felt oddly light in her body and mind, even though she had been up all night. He was proud of her, their marriage wasn’t just an act of charity for him, though he’d saved her. She had a feeling something strange had happened inside herself too, like it wasn’t necessary to force herself to feel gratefulness to him. She was not at his mercy, she would be allowed to be herself, a true companion by his side.
As Hermione poured tea for her husband and herself, the House clucked happily in her head.
“Congratulations on your success, ” it said smugly. “Also … something else has happened a week ago, do you feel it?”
She cocked her head, not quite sure what it meant.
“His seed has taken, and our status is on the mend,” the House crowed. “My Lady,” - the new honorific was surprising, but its voice was oddly respectful and reverent - “this is only the first steps of our path to glory. We’ll fill up both Hogwarts and my halls yet.”
Xxxx
FIN
Notes:
Answer to the question from chapter 12: She could hear Grimmauld because she has an affinity, and also because the Princes are related to the Blacks, Hermione being already pregnant.
Someone said in the comments that she's a House Whisperer. I love that name for her ability! 🖤
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