Chapter Text
The room was colder than she expected, even in the middle of summer. She rubbed her arms, trying to chase away the chill that seemed to leak from the walls. It wasn’t just the room, it was the entire house. Cold, silent, as if it were holding its breath.
Her suitcase sat at the foot of the bed, still unpacked. She stared at it, reluctant to open it. Unpacking felt strange, as if it would make the unfamiliar room her own. The space felt hollow, as if forgotten for years. A simple twin bed pressed against the wall, stiff sheets, a wooden nightstand, and a worn dresser, all framed by muted walls that leached warmth from the air. It was meant to be a guest room, but lacked the warmth such a label implied. To her, it felt like a placeholder, a reminder that this house wasn’t hers.
She sighed and knelt beside her suitcase, beginning to unpacking. As she slid her clothes into the dresser, the drawers resisted, creaking loudly in protest. Everything seemed reluctant to cooperate.
She had never imagined this would be the price of returning to the magical world. She didn’t remember it this way so oppressive, so dictatorial. Or maybe she had simply been a child back then, too young to see it for what it truly was. Her father, a muggle, had pulled her out of it after her mother’s death during the beginning of the war, determined to protect her from the dangers that had claimed his wife. He continued to raise her like a Muggle, insisting she build a life away from magic. And for years, she did, until now. Her messy breakup left her searching for something to distract herself, something new, something different. And then she felt the need to reconnect with the magical world, to reclaim the part of her past she had been forced to abandon.
Not long after, an owl struck her dorm window at dawn, three sharp raps of its beak against the glass. Marya jolted awake, the motion too sudden, knocking her tea over an open book. The bird glared through the wondow, its yellow eyes unblinking, with a scroll lashed to its leg by a Ministry red ribbon.
The ribbon slithered free like a living thing, coiling around her wrist as she unrolled the parchment.
POPULATION RESTORATION MANDATE - NOTICE OF SPOUSAL ASSIGNMENT
Marya Ivy Hale (DOB 21 June 1982) is hereby required to—
The words blurred, and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus.
That’s me. But that’s not—
Her fingers traced the parchment. The Ministry of Magic’s official seal gleamed at the bottom, just above Kingsley Shacklebolt’s signature, which pulsed faintly beneath her touch.
Required to marry. Required. Required.
The owl hooted softly, as though waiting for her to accept the impossible.
This can’t be real. Marriage? The words pulsed in her mind burning and unyielding. She laughed, though it came out as a shrill broken sound. “They can’t require marriage. This isn’t… not like this. I’ve never heard of anything so insane.”
Her phone buzzed, interrupting the madness. It was her dad’s morning text: “Made it to Berlin safe. Conference all week. Love you.”
She stared back at the owl, then back at the parchment. Her hands trembled slightly, but she wasn’t sure if it was from disbelief or something deeper.
This must be a mistake.
The moment she had stepped into the Ministry, she had hoped to resolve the situation. The gold walls seemed to press inward as Marya approached the clerk’s desk. The man didn’t look up from his paperwork, quill scratching rhythmically. His robes were crisper than fresh parchment, silver Ministry pin gleaming like a shard of ice.
This is a mistake, she told herself for the hundredth time. They’ll see I’m barely competent at magic anymore. They’ll let me go.
“Marya Hale,” she announced, chin lifted. “There’s been an error with my summons.”
The clerk produced a file without glancing up. “No errors. Your bonding ceremony is scheduled for this afternoon at—”
“I’m not getting married!” Her voice cracked. Three witches at a neighboring desk turned to stare.
The clerk finally met her eyes. His gaze stoic “The grace period for voluntary compliance ended three weeks ago, Miss Hale. Your file indicates zero courtship petitions submitted.”
“I didn’t know about any petitions! I’ve been living as a Muggle since—”
“Irrelevant.” He slid a file across the desk. The metal clasp clicked open with a sharp snap as he pushed it toward her. “Your assigned match has already signed the Marriage Certificate, and a representative from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will—”
She didn’t hear the rest. The name burned her eyes.
Severus Tobias Snape.
Suddenly, her mind snapped back to her Hogwarts trunk. Third year. That time he’d loomed over her cauldron, sneering about her Shrinking Solution’s abysmal viscosity. The way his robes had smelled, with dried herbs and something acrid underneath.
“This…this is illegal,” she whispered. Her tongue felt numb. “You can’t force me to marry my former professor.”
“Article 12-B of the Population Restoration Act permits matches between consenting adults regardless of prior—”
“He’s twice my age!”
The clerk’s quill paused mid stroke. “Wizardkind’s average lifespan is 137 years. A twenty two year age gap falls well within statistically normalized parameters.” He said as though reading from a textbook. “Will there be anything else?”
Her anger flared, desperate, better than the fear. “What if I refuse?”
He met her eyes, his voice smooth, almost idle. “Then you’ll join the three percent sent to Azkaban for reproductive enforcement. I imagine the dementors are quite efficient if you consider terror an acceptable delivery method.”
And so, she found herself here, in this cold guest room, staring at a life she never thought she’d have to live.
As she continued unpacking, the memory of last night clawed at her like an unwelcome intruder. She tried to push it away as she unpacked, but the edges of it pressed in. No matter how hard she focused on folding her clothes or arranging them neatly in the drawers, she couldn’t escape it.
He had barely spoken to her after they had awkwardly gone through the Ministry’s bonding and dictated vows earlier that evening. The ceremony had been as cold and detached as he was. And it was the first time she had seen him in years. His presence was even more imposing than she remembered, his tall lean frame wrapped in layers of dark heavy robes.
His hair was longer now, falling in unkempt strands around his face, shadowing his sharp, hollowed features. The collar of his coat was high and stiff, wrapping tightly around his neck.
The years hadn’t softened him. They had carved him into something harder, colder, and more distant. He didn’t meet her eye, not even once. His gaze fixed ahead as though he was entirely alone.
When it was done, he took her to his home, if you even can call Spinner’s End home. She was now to live there with him as part of this Ministry’s Marriage Law. She felt so out of place, so disoriented. Everything was happening so fast, her mind still reeling from it all. She even couldn’t bring herself to speak. It was as if the world had rushed ahead without her, and she was just along for the ride.
Her suitcase felt heavier in her grip as she followed him, leading her deep inside through the dark hallway into the staircase. His footsteps echoed softly against the worn wooden floor, his dark robes whispering against the still air. He didn’t look back at her and when they stopped at a door, he opened it without hesitation, stepping aside to let her in.
She hovered for a moment at the doorway, her chest tightening as she glanced inside, staring at the simple, impersonal bed. The rush of the evening had left her breathless and it all felt like it had happened in a daze. Is this our room now?
She took a shaky step inside, brushing her fingers against the edge of the doorframe. The realization felt surreal, the idea of sharing a bed with him.
“You will stay here,” his flat voice cut through her thoughts.
She froze. Stay here. The words hung in the air, slowly sinking in. It’s a guest room.
Heat rose uncomfortably in her face. Why had I even assumed—
Of course they wouldn’t share a room. Of course they wouldn’t act like a real married couple. This wasn’t a real marriage, this was an obligation. It was a duty, a contract, a cold, inescapable arrangement dictated by law.
She clenched her fingers around the handle of her suitcase as she stepped further into the room. “Right” she murmured barely above a whisper. Behind her, he lingered in the doorway for a moment before the door clicked shut. The sound sent a shiver down her spine, made her want to disappear. But there she was in a room alone with a stranger.
She cleared her throat softly trying to cut through the suffocating tension. “So… what now?”
He barely glanced at her with his unreadable face and his icy, detached tone. “Lie down.”
Those two words hit her harder than she expected. She knew tenderness would be out of the question, but the utter lack of humanity in his voice made her chest ache. Still, she obeyed, moving stiffly to the bed. From the corner of her eye, she saw him pull something small from his robes. A potion, perhaps, to expedite the process.
She slid off her knickers without a second thought and lay back as though bracing herself for a medical exam at the gynecologist’s.
The bed dipped under his weight, a slow and measured shift as his hands moved to his collar. With a sharp tug, he loosened the fabric at his throat. In that brief movement, the edge of his robes shifted just enough to expose something beneath—jagged, torn, a scar that cut dark against pale skin. The sight unsettled her, stirring something raw and unfamiliar. But before she could make sense of it, his hands moved to her thighs, making her flinch.
He parted them with the firm clinical coldness of someone carrying out a task then moved closer, positioning himself between her legs. The rustle of his robes filled the silence as fingers worked to unfasten his trousers just enough to free his cock. Already half hard, he guided himself into place and without pause he pressed forward in one unrelenting thrust wrenching a sharp gasp from her lips.
The stretch was sudden, too sharp, and her body tensed beneath the weight of him. Instinct took over as she clenched around him, muscles spasming in response to the intrusion, yet he did not slow. He drove in until he was fully seated, hips flush against hers, the coarse fabric of his robes scraping roughly against her thighs.
For a long breath they stayed locked like that, her inner walls fluttering around him while his own breathing turned ragged but remained controlled, as though he were steadying against a rising wave of disgust.
Then his hand clamped down on her hip, fingers digging into soft flesh as he began to move. At first, his thrusts were short and shallow, each one dragging his cock through her with a steady rhythm while she struggled to adjust. Her body wasn’t ready, but he gave no time. She turned her head to the side, fixing her eyes on the wall and biting down on her lip to keep from making a sound, with only the creak of the bed and the faint rhythm of his breath filling the room.
Her fingers curled tighter around the sheets as his pace quickened, and her legs began to tremble beneath the pressure building inside her. It was too deep, too harsh, each thrust landing with a dull ache that grew heavier with every movement.
He muttered something under his breath, too low for her to hear, his voice rough and strained. She wanted to ask him to stop, or at least slow down, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she closed her eyes, trying to block out the sensation of his weight pressing her down, the heat of his body enveloping hers, the overwhelming smell of sweat and stale potions clinging to his robes. He just trying to get this over with, she told herself, Just a little more.
His movements grew a little rougher, more insistent, each thrust driven by impatience and something else. His face was etched disdain, his gaze still refusing to meet hers. His hand gripped her hip tighter, holding her firmly in place. She bit her lip harder, the sharp pressure of his hands leaving her feeling trapped.
He slammed into her one final time, his release surging hot and thick, pulsing in time with the ragged growl that escaped him, a sound shaped by relief rather than pleasure. Marya went rigid beneath him, her fingers curling into the sheets as the warmth spread inside her. It felt invasive and wrong, something forced into her without care, settling deep where she didn’t want it.
Then he was gone.
He withdrew immediately, his cock slipping free with a wet sound. The sudden absence of his weight left her unsteady, her body slow to register the change. She felt his release begin to leak from her, but the disorientation remained buzzing faintly beneath her skin.
He stood by the bed, adjusting his trousers swiftly. Her body sore and her mind blank as she listened to the rustle of his robes and the soft scuff of his shoes. He didn't say a word, not even a glance in her direction, as he made his way toward the door. The soft click of the latch was the only sound he left behind.
She lay still, her body somehow heavy and weightless, like the room had consumed her completely. The silence pressed against her ears, loud in its emptiness. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t feel anything.
Her fingers started to move across the sheets without thinking, meaninglessly, just to feel something in the silence that stretched on around her. She only stared at the ceiling, lost in the nothingness.
Now, in the light of day, it didn’t feel any better as she stood in that room, the memory of it lingering uncomfortably. Was this to be the rest of her life?
There was no escaping the reality of it. She was married now. Married. She had lived a normal life only a few weeks ago. None of her friends even knew she was married now. How could they? They didn’t know about the magical world. What was she supposed to tell them? What would they think if they found out? How could she continue her Muggle life when now she had a pressing duty in the wizarding world?
And her father… She winced at the thought of him. After everything he had sacrificed to keep her safe, how could she have betrayed him like this? He would be furious, devastated even, if he knew she had returned to the magical world. Let alone the fact she had been forced into marriage with a man old enough to be her father and expected to carry his child.
Her hands tightened on the edge of the dresser as the weight of it all pressed down on her. How had her life spiralled so far out of her control? She just had wanted to reclaim her magical heritage, to find a sense of belonging in a world that had once been hers. But instead, she had been thrust into a nightmare.
Was she supposed to inform him about her every move? Pretend they were a real couple? Of course not. This marriage was a duty, not her life. She was still going to live as she had before—go to university, see her friends, and continue working toward the future she wanted. Maybe she’d have to hide the fact that she was married, living a kind of double life, but she could handle that. What she wasn’t sure she could handle was him, or the inevitable. She couldn’t be a mother. Not now. Surely he wasn’t thrilled about the idea either.
There had to be a way around it. A way to delay it, at the very least. But how was she supposed to bring it up when he was nowhere to be seen? He had spoken no more than five words, fucked her, and left.
The suitcase lay empty now, but the room still felt unwelcoming. Marya looked around, arms crossed, unease crawling over her skin. She couldn’t stay here, not in this room, not with these thoughts pressing in on her. Her fingers drummed against her arm, debating what to do. She needed to act, needed to do anything to stop herself from spiraling.
With a sharp breath, she decided she couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to find him. If she was going to get through this they needed to talk. About… anything.
She stepped into the narrow hallway, her feet brushing the cold and uneven floorboards. The house was dim, even in the middle of the day. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the walls felt closer than they had any right to.
Marya followed the faint, lingering scent of something medicinal—potions, she thought. It led her down the hallway and toward the staircase that groaned under her weight. She winced at every sound, as if the house itself was warning her against her intrusion. Slowly, she descended.
As she entered the living room, the curtains were drawn tight against the outside world. The room felt cramped, its walls lined with towering bookshelves filled with timeworn books. The furniture was an old sofa, an armchair and a rustic table that stood nearby with a couple of half burned candles.
She glanced toward the kitchen though the open doorway in the living room. It was simple, sparsely furnished, and smelled faintly of something stale, but she didn’t see Snape there either.
"Where the hell are you?" she muttered, more to herself than anything. But then her thoughts were abruptly cut off.
Boom!
A sudden loud explosion from somewhere deep in the house sent her heart racing. Without thinking, she spun around and followed the sound through the living room and into the hallway. The sound had come from the far end, from a door she had barely noticed before.
She crossed the hallway, her steps cautious as she made her way to the door, which led to a narrow staircase. She hesitated before descending, the thick air and acrid scent of something burnt tugging at her senses. His study, she guessed. Or perhaps some kind of workshop.
She descended and at the bottom, a potion’s room stretched out before her, thick with the smoke of something recently exploded making the air heavy. The stone walls lined with shelves of jars and bottles containing unidentifiable, strange substances. Several cauldrons bubbled ominously, some glowing faintly, others releasing thin trails of colored vapor that curled through the air.
Her feet were careful with every step she took. She scanned the room briefly, searching for Snape, but the smoke obscured much of her view. Her gaze flickered to the desk, and, without thinking, she moved toward it slowly.
Her fingers brushed against the edge of a notebook resting on top. The neat cursive handwriting drew her in and she leaned closer, scanning the page. It was filled with intricate diagrams and notes, lines of text that were half in shorthand and half in terms she didn't fully understand. Yet despite herself, she found it hard to look away.
"What," a cold irritated voice growled behind her, "do you think you're doing?"
Marya nearly jumped out of her skin, her fingers jerked away from the notebook as she spun around. He was there, standing just behind her, looming like a shadow. His imposing figure darkened further by soot and faint scorch marks on his robes. His black hair clung to his face, damp and disheveled, and his sharp, piercing eyes were alight with anger.
She froze, her heart hammering in her chest. The proximity of his body and the faint, acrid scent of potions lingering on his robes flooded her senses, pulling the memory of the night before, but she quickly pushed them away.
“I—I…” she stammered, her throat tight, a rush of heat flushing her face. “I was looking for you, but then I heard the explosion—”
“And decided to snoop through my things?” he cut in sharply, his tone pure disdain.
“No! I—” She froze for a moment, flustered. She hadn’t meant to be caught like this. “I didn’t mean to, I just… I wanted to talk to you.”
His sharp gaze didn’t soften. He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “You think you can just walk in here, in my study, without permission, and start rifling through my personal notes?” His voice dripped with disdain.
“I wasn’t rifling through anything!” she protested quickly.
His voice dropped an octave, colder. “You have no business here, Miss Hale. This is my private domain, don’t venture near it again.”
She bristled at the way he said her name, his tone dripping both accusation and command. “But I need to talk to you about this”
“Talk?” His lip curled in a brief sneer. “There is nothing to discuss. It’s quite clear what’s expected of us.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not clear. We have to talk about this. About us.” She instantly regretted her choice of words. Of all the things I could have said, us had to be the one to slip out.
His lip curled as if the very word us disgusted him. He took a slow step forward narrowing his black eyes with disdain. His scent grew stronger with his proximity, and the memory of last night flickered in her mind. She pushed it away, the sensation of his touch lingering like an unwanted shadow.
“Us?” He swept past her, his robes trailing behind him as he moved toward his cluttered desk.
“There is no us, only the situation we’ve been forced into.” He began straightening the scattered parchments with deliberate, almost aggressive precision. “However,” he continued, his tone shifting from sharp to coolly matter of fact, as though addressing a particularly incompetent student, “it seems that some… ground rules need to be established. Since you appear incapable of grasping the concept of privacy, it’s evident that guidelines must be set.”
Marya opened her mouth to protest, but Snape raised a hand abruptly, cutting her off. “Later.”
Then, without waiting for a response, he turned away pacing from his desk. "Right now, you will leave. And you are not to step in here” His voice dropped further, almost a hiss. "Unlike you, I have far more important matters to attend.”
“But—”
“No,” he said dismissively, not bothering to face her again. His attention remained fixed on the papers in his hands. “Leave. Now.”
She stood frozen for a moment with frustration and humiliation, her fists clenched tightly at her sides as she stared at his rigid back. How dare he speak to me like that, as though I were some disobedient child.
“Fine,” she bit out with restrained anger. She spun on her heel and strode toward the narrow staircase. He offered her no further acknowledgment. At the top of the stairs, she hesitated, her hand lingering on the splintered doorframe. Say something, a voice in her head urged her, but there was no point. Instead, she pushed the door open and slipped out.
Once in the hallway, Marya exhaled shakily, her anger now struggling to hold despair at bay. She glanced down at her hands, still clenched so tightly her nails had left red crescents in her palms.
“More important matters,” she muttered bitterly, echoing his words. “How can it be anything more important this?”
Marya walked into the living room, arms crossed and anger simmering beneath her skin. Fine, she thought bitterly. I’ll leave your precious basement. Now what? Sit here like a prisoner all day? Her stomach twisted, how long had it been since she’d last eaten?
She walked to the kitchen and tugged open the fridge with far more force than necessary, the cool air hitting her face as she peered inside.
Only two tomatoes stared back at her.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the pitiful sight. She slammed the fridge door shut in frustration, there had to be something else.
She started rummaging through the cabinets, opening one after another, each was just as bleak. A bag of flour, some questionable looking herbs and dried beans. Who the hell has dried beans as their only backup food?
With a huff, she crossed her arms again, feeling trapped in twisted version of a cooking show. Her eyes landed on a jar of jam on the counter, as if mocking her. She half suspected Snape had emptied the kitchen just to frustrate her.
She hadn’t eaten all day, hadn’t even had the chance to make herself a proper meal since being dragged into this miserable house. “Is this what I’m supposed to live on now?” This was the kind of kitchen you’d expect from someone who had completely given up on the idea of living with any sort of warmth, comfort, or humanity.
She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even late. She could go out and get something, but where? She wasn’t even sure where the nearest shop was or how to navigate the neighborhood. You can deal with this.
She pushed herself upright with a sigh and turned away. She wasn’t going to starve. Pulling on a clean pair of jeans, she slid into her sneakers and tugged a loose t shirt over her head. It was warm enough outside, even if Snape’s house seemed to trap a perpetual chill. She tied a thin cardigan around her waist, just in case and slung her bag over her shoulder.
Turning away, she headed back downstairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath her. Once outside, the heat of the afternoon washing over her like a balm after the suffocating chill of the house. She could at least clear her head, figure out where to eat, and more importantly, work out how the hell to get around this area. She had lectures tomorrow, and she’d be damned if she’d show up late just because she didn’t know where to get the bus in here.
The night had settled in, and a sense of unease lingered as Marya made her way back to the house. The streets were quiet, not quite late, but there was an unsettling stillness to the air. She pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, clutching her bag to her chest while balancing a small bag of groceries in her other hand. She had no intention of lingering outside any longer than she had to.
She arrived and knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Her frustration flared again. Without thinking twice, she tried the handle and tu her surprise it was unlocked. Of course. With a mix of annoyance and resignation, she stepped inside and was greeted by the same chill air.
The house was eerily quiet. She moved toward the living room, but there was no sign of Snape. Is he still holed up in that damn dungeon of his? She let out a sigh and moved to the kitchen to put her groceries away.
She placed the bag on the counter and opened the fridge. A quick glance revealed that it was still as bare as it had been earlier, two sad tomatoes.
Unbelievable.
She took a deep breath, she wasn't about to let this get to her. As she unloaded her groceries, a low voice filled with quiet authority came from behind her.
“There you are.”
She almost jumped, spinning around to find Snape standing in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowed as usual and his expression as unreadable as ever.
“You scared me!” she snapped, hands clenched into fists. “Can you not do that?”
Snape didn’t acknowledge her reaction. “I see you’ve been busy,” he said, eyes flicking over the few items she’d set on the counter. “How resourceful.”
Marya clenched her jaw, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “Well, you didn’t exactly leave me with many options,” she muttered. “Your fridge looks like it’s been raided by rats.”
Snape’s lip curled into something that almost resembled a sneer. “I keep only what is necessary,” he replied with cold disdain. “I doubt you understand the concept of necessity. As for what you require…” His eyes moved to the fridge again, narrowing. “Strawberry milk?”
Marya’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but the irritation inside her kept her from caring. “It was either that or eat your sad little tomatoes,” she muttered. “Sorry I’m not ready to live off misery ”
“Then starve,” Snape said coolly not bothering to look at her. “Your culinary standards are of no interest to me, nor is your commentary on my pantry.”
Marya slammed the fridge door with more force than necessary. “I would’ve thought someone as… particular as you could manage more than a handful of rotting vegetables.”
A vicious and suffocating silence settled between them. His eyes pinned her in place and for a heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink, pressing the walls inward making her pulse roared in her ears. She hadn’t meant to say it. Or maybe she had.
He stepped forward, his boots clicking against the floor tiles, and even though she wanted to stand her ground, her body gave her away first. She stumbled back, her hip hitting the counter’s edge, anchoring her in place. He didn’t need to move any closer. His presence alone was a vice.
“You will not speak to me like that again.” His voice was low and each syllable cut through the thick weighted silence. Like a warning, a demand. He leaned closer, just enough for her to catch the bitter scent clinging to him like a second skin.
Then, quieter, closer, he added, “This is my house. If you are to stay, you will remember that.”
The moment stretched, pressing into the silence he left behind. Something in her chest locked up, her body remembered before her mind did—his hands, his weight, the way he had pressed her down. The ghost of it still clung to her, as if her skin hadn’t forgotten.
Suddenly, he turned away, not looking back as he strode toward the living room. “Finish what you’re doing.” His voice trailed behind. “Then we’ll discuss how things will be done.”