Chapter Text
Prompt 54
“Why does it always have to be you?”
The Ministry owl crashed into the morning pastries.
“Good shot, James!” Sirius Black burst up from the bench and added a whoop, burning sparks spiralling from his wand.
“Utter shits,” Hermione muttered under her breath and eased a calming spell over the panicking bird. She drew the owl to her, stroking soft feathers and willing the poor creature to still. It tucked its large, soft head into the crook of her elbow. A quick series of muffled clicks followed.
Hermione looked up to the Head Table. But there were no censorious looks from their Head of House, nor even the slightest of frowns from the Headmaster. Yes, for seven long, long years Potter and Black and their scrofulous hangers on could do whatever in the Seven Hells they liked.
Bastards.
She stood, stepped over the bench and headed towards the few breakfasting professors. Thankfully Flitwick kept his usual hours, even on a weekend…and Kettleburn didn’t. Gods, she wouldn’t trust any creature—living or dead—to the current, practically limbless Magical Creatures professor.
“Sir, sorry to disturb, could you please look at this owl?”
Flitwick’s dark eyes flicked to her, then narrowed on the still-manic Gryffindor table. “Of course, Miss Granger.” He conjured a soft nest from an empty platter and she set the quiet owl down.
The owl clicked its beak and pressed its head into her palm.
“I would let it stay in Gryffindor Tower, to recuperate but…”
Her glance back found Potter and Black haranguing a fifth year by bouncing cuts of sausage off his head. Potter was the bloody Head Boy. His girlfriend, the Head Girl, and his hanger on, Lupin, a prefect, continued to breakfast without a care.
Hermione’s mouth pressed together, hard. More than one familiar had…vanished. And it was a pain under her heart that she couldn’t risk the care of even the smallest animal, never mind this owl.
“It would not be safe.”
“No,” Flitwick agreed softly. “No, it would not.”
His magic wove over the bird, gold and silver runes curving over tawny feathers. Echoes of shock rose up through the spell, ebbing away from the owl…and nothing else. Hermione let out a breath. No physical damage.
“Your letter packet, Miss Granger.”
The professor untied the shrunken sheaf of papers and pressed them into her palm. The spell broke and Hermione scrambled to hold onto the sudden stack of parchments.
“Why is the Ministry writing to me?”
“You are seventeen, are you not?”
Hermione blinked. How did he know? “Yes, today?”
Flitwick gave her a soft smile. “Happy Birthday.” He pointed to the pile of papers. “You are of age. Inheritances, rights, gifts and anything that is due to you that the Ministry has in hand, is now yours.”
Hermione frowned. “But I’m a muggleborn.”
Flitwick shrugged and his dark eyes sparkled. “Miss Granger, we all know that he Ministry is…infallible.”
She snorted.
He flapped his hand at her. “Go. I will take this fellow to my office to rest. And inform the Post of his…attack.” His gaze slid to the Headmaster and his Deputy and his muttered, “Much good it will do” was offered before he waved her away again. “Go.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
She turned and caught Severus’ eye. She flicked her gaze to the open doors of the Great Hall and he nodded. Wrapping up his breakfast and syphoning tea into a conjured flask, he followed her out.
Severus caught up with her on the way to their room. The abandoned office beyond Transfiguration. “Happy Birthday, Hermione.” He smirked at her. “I’d give you your present, but your hands seem to be full.”
“The Marauders are complete shits.”
“Yes, that is a given.”
“They shot down an owl. An owl. And nothing. Not even a…a blink from bloody Dumbledore.”
“Also a given.”
Hermione glared at him and his smirk deepened.
“Both their families are ancient and obscenely rich, Hermione.” Severus stopped before a shadowy alcove. A flick of his wand and the wards thinned. The narrow little door to their hideaway swam into view. Opening it, he waved her inside. “Dumbledore, for all of his power—both ministerial and magical—is not wealthy. And he’s a half blood.”
Wards snapped back and Hermione let out a long breath.
Their old office, set off a transfiguration classroom left to decay for more than a century. Bare stone and high oak panels, a vast open fireplace, where Severus sparked a fire. Its golden glow warmed worn tapestries and the deep couch she’d poured spells into every year. The scent of stone and wood, wool and myriad potion ingredients from Severus’ experiments eased through her.
Yes, this was the room in which she could breathe. No marauders, no having to live on the edge of her skin because idiots in her House believed that she really shouldn’t be best friends with a Slytherin. She watched Severus set out his pilfered breakfast things on the low table before the couch. And this Slytherin in particular.
He dropped down onto the magically plumped cushion beside her. “What is that?”
The heavy pile of parchment now sat on her knee. “No clue. Flitwick said because I’m…of age…that the Ministry can now plant stuff on me.”
“You’re muggleborn.”
She gave him a snippy smile. “Exactly what I said.”
“Maybe there is a lost relative.”
The theory that people loved to throw at her because she was so powerful. Some wizard or witch in the distant past that would make the pure bloods feel better about being trounced by her…
Severus held up his hands in defence. Oh, he was well aware of her thoughts on the matter.
“Would your birthday present help?”
She lifted an eyebrow. Not the arch he could achieve, but a credible effort. “It might…”
Severus dug into his robes and pulled out a thin scroll. He handed it to her, then turned to pour tea into a conjured cup. A line of pink topped his cheeks. Gods, he was sweet…something no one seemed to see. Not anymore, anyway.
Hermione shoved all thoughts of Lily Evans out of her head.
And stared at the open scroll. Her mouth fell open and her eyes burned. The print blurred through the fall of tears. “Severus…”
He twitched a smile and buried his face in his mug. “They…offer it now. I, well, suggested it. In the summer. I was there, collecting raven feathers and Mr Aurelius was bemoaning his fall in sales.” Severus placed his mug on his knee and his mouth thinned. “He also knew why. So, I offered to buy…an agreement.”
“Severus, it’s more than that…”
More pink suffused his pale cheeks. “I had one of your books on me, so I magnified—”
“My smell?”
Severus huffed. “I’m a wizard…and these are magical creatures. Your signature.”
Hermione’s own face was now hot.
She looked to the scroll again. There was a…a contract for a half-kneazle, his moving image caught on the parchment. A grumpy little thing, possibly ginger, and the promise that, the wizarding shop, Magical Menagerie would care for and feed—Crookshanks. What kind of name was that for an adorable kitten?—until the end of the academic year.
Keep him safe.
“He can be with you next year. The Marauders will be gone.”
Hermione dumped her ministry pile of papers, her scroll, took Severus’ cup and planted it on the nearby table—and threw herself at him.
He held her tight and she sighed as he buried his face in her hair. She pressed a kiss to his jaw and his chest lifted under her. There was an…understanding between them, an inchoate bond, but Severus—ever careful—didn’t want anything to show in their magic.
Not yet.
Hogwarts—the safest place in Britain—was simply too dangerous. For either of them.
“Thank you, my lovely man!”
Severus huffed a laugh. “Hardly.”
Hermione drew back and held his gaze, her lips pressed.
This had cost him. Gods, money was always tight for him and now the price of buying…Crookshanks, his feed, his board— Oh…oh. Her Slytherin. He had suggested the idea…and very likely brokered a deal in his favour.
The twist of guilt eased. No, she wouldn't argue against it and embarrass him.
“Lovely,” she insisted.
A smile caught him. “How can I argue with such a brilliant witch?”
“Clever, too.”
He laughed. “Look at your papers, witch. Then we can have breakfast, and hunt out more interesting reading.”
Hermione groaned. She took a last look at her scroll, at her quite lovely kitten and tucked the parchment into her school bag. “Do you think I can visit him at half term?”
“You can take him home, if you like.”
And she was hugging Severus again, squeezing him half to death.
His gasping laughter broke her free.
Hermione drew in a long and exaggerated breath. “All right. The ministry stuff.” She dragged it from the table and plopped the pounds of paper back onto her knee. She frowned at the topmost letter. “Why is it always me?”
Severus grinned at her, a gleam in his dark eyes that skittered her heart. “You are chaos.”
She huffed at him. He lifted his eyebrow, that envied perfect arch and her shoulders slumped. No, he wasn’t wrong. If it was weird, or odd, or unlucky, it would find her…
“‘Dear Miss Hermione Granger, on this day, 19th of September 1977, you come of age. This fact has unsealed records and legacies pertaining to you. As a descendent of Thomas Riddle of Little Hangleton—”
Who?
Severus stole her words. “Who’s Thomas Riddle?”
Hermione shook her head. “I have no idea. Or where Little Hangleton is.”
Severus flicked his wand and a shadowy map of Britain floated before them. It flickered and pulsed, narrowing in… “A hamlet south of Middlesbrough, apparently.”
She blinked. And again. His ease with magic was sometimes simply extraordinary. “Thank you. All right, Mum had family in the North East. Not talked about much. If at all.”
Hermione shifted through the pile, her frown deepening. “There’s…land. A house—a bloody Hall—and cottages. A tally of rents.” She looked up to Severus. “What? Why?”
Severus matched her frown. “Riddle is not a wizarding name, but the Ministry has all of this. Something’s off.”
“Perhaps because I’m a witch? Transference from muggle to magical because I’m me.” She flicked over more pages and her breath caught on the financial statement. Her heart turned over. Thoughts spiralled. “And money,”—so much money—“Gods. But surely my mother should have this?”
“Of course.” He winced. “Magic trumps muggle.” Severus held up his hand. “It’s not right or fair, but we are always, always set first.” He stilled and swore under his breath. “Dumbledore saw you get this pile of papers.”
“Fuck. Fuck.”
She was wealthy. Maybe not pureblood wealthy, but enough to have the Headmaster twinkle at her if Severus’ theory of his avarice was true. And she trusted her not-quite-a-soul-mate's theories over solid facts any day. Dumbledore had the political pull to find the truth about her inheritance if he suspected it. More fucks.
She needed a lie.
A convincing one.