A law to herself

And that was that.

Technically she was Mrs Snape now, although she didn’t feel like Mrs Snape and he definitely didn’t feel like Mr Snape. Which was really rather the point.

The boys had been outraged when, in the first potions class after their wedding day, he’d deducted 50 points from Gryffindor; the bulk of them from her. She’d just shrugged; she’d expected it. “He’s just showing us all that he’s as big a bastard as ever,” she’d explained. “He wants to be sure that no one is going to be looking for favours in class.”

“But that’s daft,” replied Harry. “Of course we wouldn’t do that.”

“I know that. I suspect he knows that as well. It’s just, he can’t afford to take chances.”

The boys had shrugged, baffled by the workings of Snape’s mind, and happy to remain that way.

And it did seem that nothing had changed between them, that things were back to normal, but every once in a while Hermione would find herself looking at Snape across the Great Hall and wonder what he was thinking, and what he was feeling. Sometimes he would look up, and their eyes would meet, and there would be an instant of recognition. Some common understanding had been formed between them, and it couldn’t be dissolved merely because they were no longer talking to each other.

Autumn passed into winter, and there was no communication from the Ministry. She had left to Severus the business of registering their Marriage with the Ministry. Occasionally it was convenient to hide behind their Neanderthal – they weren’t even modern enough to be called Victorian – attitudes and allow The Man to deal with the nasty things.

She may be able to change spark plugs and remove her own spiders from the bathtub – even if they were the size of Aragog – but, just for once, she was going to play girly and let Severus deal with the incompetent wankers. It wasn’t cowardice, she assured herself, but rather a desire not to spend the rest of her life tucked up in Azkaban. She couldn’t trust herself not to hex someone.

Some of her more pleasant dreams these days revolved around subjecting Fudge to a brisk round of Crucio.

She began to hope that she was going to get away with it, a hope that was dashed over breakfast one December morning.

Another Owl came swooping into the Hall, to deliver a letter to Ron. It didn’t occur to her that it had anything to do with her – well, why should it – and was watching Ron turn bright red with some amusement, until he handed the letter over to her without a word.

She thought she would hate Owls before this bloody business was over, didn’t they ever bring good news?

It was a letter from Percy at his pompous best.

Dear Ronald,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that you are working hard at your exams. Good qualifications are essential if you are to find a job with the Ministry; I assume that you will be sensible and choose to follow my good example rather than the rather erratic path of your more irresponsible elder brothers.

You will be pleased to hear that the Minister reposes complete trust in me, and has placed me in charge of ensuring that the Marriage Act is adhered to fully by all its participants. It never fails to amaze me the number of people who think that they can get round its provisions, and the lengths that they will go to, to avoid something that is clearly for the benefit of all.

Some, it appears, have even tried to contract Muggle marriages to avoid its provisions, and I am now engaged in visiting those couple to ensure that those marriages are valid. So often, they ignore the fact that these marriages have to be consummated in order to be valid and recognised in our world. Then it is a simple matter of a court hearing, the muggle marriage is annulled, and the errant parties then have to enter into a proper Wizarding Marriage under the new law.

I find it reprehensible that so many should try to evade the law in such a way, and it is the duty of all members of the Wizarding World to try to stamp this selfish element out.

I expect to be in the vicinity of Hogwarts next week, and shall look forward to seeing you.

With regards,

Percy Weasley

Under-secretary for Marriage Law affairs.

“The bastard, the absolutely sodding bastard. How can he be involved in this… this… this filth?” Ron hissed, trying to keep his voice down so that others wouldn’t hear.

“Don’t be daft,” said Hermione. “It’s a warning, don’t you see? He’s saying he’s going to be in Hogwarts next week – who else do we know that has had a muggle marriage round here? It’s a warning that they think they’ve found a way round what I’ve done, and that they’ll be here next week. If I’m not careful, it’s going to be a quick trip to the Wizengamot, followed by a proper ceremony, and a kiddy on the way as soon as I leave school.”

Hermione felt sick. There was only one thing to be done. Shag Snape. Shag her Potions Master. Whilst still at school. And he wasn’t going to take the news well. They’d always known that a shag was on the cards at some point, but she expected that he, like her, had shoved that thought firmly to the back of his mind under the heading of ‘Best Left Alone.’

Ron was looking at her in horror. “You mean you’re going to have to sleep with him?”

“Yes, thank you very much, Ronald,” snapped Hermione. “Thank you very much for bringing that to my attention. I would never have guessed otherwise.”

“’Ere, don’t have a go at me. I’m not the one who’s brought in this dafty law.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just … can you imagine how I’m going to tell Snape about this.”

The three of them looked at Professor Snape and pondered.

“If I were you,” said Harry, “I’d send him a note.”

“Don’t you think that’s the cowards way?” asked Hermione.

“Oh yes,” said Ron. “That doesn’t stop it being a bloody good idea though.”

Which seemed to Hermione to be a bloody good point. So she simply put the letter back in its envelope, addressed it to Professor Snape, and gave it to a house elf to deliver.

It was going to be a long day.

He caught up with her at lunch, after a morning of hell. Her concentration was shot, and she’d very nearly failed to Transfigure her bowl into a hedgehog. There had been the faintest hint of willow pattern about his spines.

The boys scattered before Snape’s glare; they had no wish to hear about Snape and sex. She only wished she had the same luxury.

“Tonight?” he asked. There was no need to say more.

She nodded. It had to be done; there was no way out of it.

“Your rooms, or mine?” she asked softly.

“Mine,” he saarsharshly. “It’s bad enough to … with a pupil, but I’m damned if I’m doing it in the Head Girl’s room.”

She could see his point; there was no need to rub his nose in the fact that he was going to have sex with a pupil. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep easily in the room afterwards either. He had to feel the same way about his own room; perhaps there was another way. “Isn’t there a guest room or something, for visitors?”

“Neutral territory, you mean?” he said thoughtfully. “That would be …preferable. I’ll have a word with the house elves and find out.”

Hermione flushed scarlet at the thought of the house elves knowing what they were about to do, her only consolation was that Severus seemed almost as flustered as her. “I’ll send a note telling you the arrangements,” he said abruptly, then bolted down the corridor.

The note was waiting for her after classes. There was no point going to dinner; she wouldn’t be able to eat anything. She sent the boys down without her, immensely grateful that they didn’t have the nerve to ask what arrangements had been made, and resigned to a long wait with nothing to do but think. For once, she wished she could turn her brain off. She spent the agonising hours till 10pm – the assigned hour – worrying about what to wear, whether she should be early or late, and wondering what on earth she would say to her husband.

In the end, she decided to be slightly early so she would have the advantage of undressing and getting into bed without an audience. There didn’t seem much point in wearing anything to bed, only to have to struggle out of it, but she remembered her promise about the school uniform. She would wear muggle clothes, just in case.

She had a bath, partly to pass the time, and partly because it seemed the right thing to do on your wedding night, no matter how bizarre that wedding night. She would be clean and pleasantly scented as a courtesy, if nothing else.

Right. There might not be time to slip back to her rooms before tomorrow morning, so she would need tomorrow’s clothes, some toiletries, a dressing gown, just in case, definitely her toothbrush……

That seemed to be it.

No point putting things off any longer.

She walked down the corridor feeling as if there was a large sign pasted to her back saying, “Hermione is about to have sex with Professor Snape.” She tapped on the door; there was no answer.

She must be there first.

She slipped inside, and busied herself putting her things away in the wardrobe. She could do this, she told herself firmly. Lots of women, all over the world, had to do this - not everyone was fortunate enough to marry for love – and they survived. It wasn’t the end of the world. After all, how long could it take? Previous experience suggested ten minutes, tops. Probably less since she had already dispensed with her underwear, and it was the undoing of the bra clasp that had occupied most of the fifteen minutes of her previous foray into the world of sex.

She undressed quickly, not wanting to be caught in the middle of the process, and got into bed.

She could do this. She could do this. She could do this. She could.

And then she was going to make the bastards pay. Oh how she was going to make the bastards pay. Crucio was too good for them. She was running through the more advanced hexes she knew, and wondering whether it was worth breaking into the Restricted Section in order to expand her knowledge, and really make the bastards pay when there came a tap at the door.

Severus didn’t wait to be invited in. This was just as well; as Hermione’s throat was so dry, she doubted she could have spoken. What had seemed so easy before – ten minutes of lying back, letting Snape work his will, and the resulting sticky mess – had now taken on all the magnitude of facing Lord Voldemort.

Don’t exaggerate, Hermione, she thought to herself severely, more like Newts. Something unpleasant to be endured, but which would open up the whole magical world to her. Presumably this time there wouldn’t be any assessment – no marking.

The thought made her smile. She noticed that Snape relaxed minutely when he saw her expression.

Abruptly she was flooded with sympathr hir him. He may have had a choice about this, but he also had to feel uncomfortable at the thought of …. copulating …. with a student. He may be a volunteer, but that didn’t mean that he viewed the prospect with any enthusiasm. Judging from the way he was looking at her, he clearly expected her to make a break for the door or start screaming for help at any moment.

He stood, uncertainly, by the bed. He looked smaller somehow in his shabby green dressing gown. Perhaps it was deliberate, he was a subtle man after all, an attempt to make her feel more at ease. Or perhaps, freed from the necessity of projecting an image, this was the true, private Severus.

He seemed to be waiting for some sign from her; she pulled back the covers on his side of the bed. It was disturbing to think that Severus Snape would have a ‘his side of the bed’ for the rest of her married life. He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, put his wand on the bedside table, and slipped out of his dressing gown. His back was broader than she had expected, and mercifully free of hair. A quick scramble with the covers, and then he was lying next to her, staring at the ceiling.

They lay silently, side by side, for a moment. There was nothing to say, nothing that could be said to bridge the chasm between them; but something had to be done, some gesture made, to carry them through this moment.

Somehow, Hermione knew it would be up to her to make the first move. Common belief had it that men could perform to order with anything with a pulse. She suspected that this was just the usual male bravado though, and that Severus had to be just as nervous about the whole business as her, more so, in fact. He, after all, was required to perform, whereas her role traditionally required little or no active participation.

She was damned if she was going to take the traditional role.

Marriage had been forced on her by a chauvinistic and hidebound society, and she had managed to twist those rules to suit herself; this – consummation - could not be avoided, but again she could determine the manner of it.

She reached out and took his hand. He flinched and then grasped it convulsively.

“Miss Granger,” he began, and then remembered that name didn’t apply any more, and was unsuitable for the marriage bed in any case. “Hermione,” he tried again, “I will try to be as quick as possible.”

Summoning up her courage, she turned to him. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she said, “There’s no need to rush, is there?”

“Well, no, buturaturally I assumed…..,” he stammered.

Hermione put a finger on his mouth. “Don’t,” she said. “I did choose you.”

She hoped he would understand what she meant: that he wasn’t completely repulsive to her. It seemed he did, as a fugitive smile crossed his face. “So you did.”

He moved towards her, and tried to kiss her. In the ensuing scramble, they bumped noses, and Hermione giggled. Severus was nonplussed; he clearly hadn’t expected to find any humour in the situation. He smiled again, more easily this time, then tried again. This time they managed to find a suitable angle. It was pleasant, no fireworks, but she hadn’t expected that. She had once had a massage on holiday, and had found the sensation of hands moving across her skin to be oddly soothing. Severus’s movements were having the same effect, lulling her into a drowsy acquiescence.

She felt a faint prickle of something close to alarm when his hand began to drift lower, which rapidly turned into irritation when he started fumbling between her legs. It couldn’t be denied; he was clumsy and inept, whether through lack of experience or a reluctance to take liberties. At this rate, they would be there all night. Time for a helping hand of her own.

She placed her hand on his, and showed him the movements that she liked. Circular, regular, and, although it felt a little odd to have someone else perform that familiar ritual, in the end it had the usual effects. A few faint pulses of pleasure, a slight gasp, and she was done.

She nodded in response to his mute query; yes, she was ready, but she couldn’t hide the flinch when he finally moved on top of her.

“Are you …. er …um,” he said awkwardly.

“No,” she replied, “I’m not erum.”

He opened his mouth to ask something and then thought better of it.

“No,” she said, guessing what he wanted to know. “Neither Harry nor Ron - no one at Hogwarts at all.” And it had been a complete sodding disaster although, come to think of it, it was the perfect preparation for this night.

There was no discomfort as he moved into her; she tried very hard not to think about all the other terms for what they were doing, like possession, like taking, like having. It felt awkward looking into his eyes, too much like an invasion of his privacy, more so than anything physical they were doing - the eyes were the windows to the soul after all; but she didn’t want to close her eyes or turn away, that would have been a cruel rejection. She was relieved when he closed his eyes, perhaps feeling the same as her, and started to move.

He was right; it didn’t take long. He came with a few stuttering movements and a faint gasp. Hermione was torn between pushing him off her and running into the bathroom to scrub all trace of him from her, and clutching him to her in triumph: she had beaten the system and stayed in the Wizarding World on her terms. In the end, her determination to get through the night with courtesy if not affection won, and she laid a hand on his back whilst he recovered his breath.

Her touch made him jump a little, and brought him back to a sense of his surroundings. He saw her wince when he withdrew. You didn’t have to use Legilimency to know that it was unlikely that she found the sensation of his come dribbling between her legs pleasant. He fumbled for his wand and cast a quick cleaning charm.

She muttered a stifled, “Thank you”, and then her bravery abruptly ran out. She started to cry, silently at first and then with great gulping sobs. Instinct, the need for a warm, comforting body, made her turn towards him.

He patted her back awkwardly, as he tried to find somewhere to touch her that was merely soothing and not sexual. He was surprised when she moved closer to him, and buried her face in his neck. Looking to him for comfort was, in nse,nse, even more intimate than sex; it showed a level of trust that he was unused to, and found oddly touching, although he would have died rather than admit it. The sensation of her tears dripping on his shoulder was unpleasant, at least he hoped it was tears, but he subdued his desire to snap at her to get a hanky; he started stroking her hair and gradually her shaking subsided.

A muffled apology drifted up. “I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. It’s a shabby way to repay your help.”

Severus found that his opinion of Hermione had shifted again: at the beginning of term she had been an annoying irritant; when she had made her proposal he had felt a reluctant respect for her determination; and now he realised just how much physical courage it had taken to go through with this, and yet she was still showing concern for his feelings. Hermione Granger was a thoroughly decent human being.

“Your wedding night should have been an act of love,” he said softly.

She gave one more, horribly wet sniff, and then mumbled into his shoulder, “It was in a way.”

The hand stroking her hair stilled in surprise, he was torn between denial and a sudden thrill at the truth of that. He had done something for a fellow human being, with no thought of return for himself, that was love of a sort; he hoped no one would find out, or he would find himself drummed out of Slytherin house. He found the suggestion that he wasn’t the completely heartless bastard everyone thought him to be vaguely unnerving.

He found he had nothing to say, and, indeed, no one to say it to: Hermione was fast asleep. He kissed the top of her hair lightly, shifted a little to get more comfortable, and then settled down to sleep; he would enjoy the novel sensation of a woman finding comfort in his arms for this one night.

When she woke the next morning, he’d gone. She was grateful for his understanding, though there was probably an element of self-interest in it. He had no wish to deal with a snivelling girl, and she had no wish to deal with a prickly, difficult man when all she wanted to do was sink into a bath and scrub her self clean whilst plotting revenge on Fudge.

When she arrived at breakfast the boys said nothing about the previous night. She flicked a glance up to High Table, where Severus was glaring at his coffee as if it had personally insulted him. No change there then, she thought, almost fondly.

Harry poured her a cup of tea. Ron passed her some toast. They then applied themselves to breakfast as if it were the most important thing in the world. Eventually there was no more room for food, and the issue had to be faced.

“Alright?” asked Harry, a world of meaning in the question.

Hermione nodded. “Fine.”

Ron patted her hand. “At least you don’t have potions today.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “I imagine I’m not the only one who’s grateful about that.”

Ron snorted. “Come off it Hermione. It’d be like the day after you got married, only worse. It’d be points deduction into triple figures.”

Hermione shook her head. Severus wouldn’t do that, couldn’t do that, there was no way to rescue the student-teacher relationship and re-establish his authority by simple taking points away. Things had changed between them for good, and there was nothing to be done about it. All she could do is make sure he understood that neither she nor the boys were going to take advantage of that change. “And I want you two to promise me that you’ll be on your best behaviour in potions tomorrow.”

“But Hermione,” whined Ron. “You can’t expect us to treat the Greasy Git any differently. Not just because you’ve… erm … you’re married.”

“Yes I can,” she said levelly. “If it helps, you can think of him as my husband, Mr Granger, if you like, rather than Professor Snape. You’re not being nice to the Greasy Git; you’re being nice to the man who saved me from Malfoy. Besides, it’s just one lesson. After that you can go back to normal.”

Harry looked up at the teachers. Even he could tell that Snape looked a little out of sorts. Perhaps it would be the sensible thing to let a week go by before hostilities were resumed, just in case he really lost it. Detentions with Filch weren’t so much fun that he wanted to spend the rest of his school year having them.

He caught Ron’s eye, jerked his head significantly, and watched him come to the same conclusion.

“Alright, then, Hermione, we’ll try to be good for a week,” Harry said. Ron nodded his agreement.

They were as good as their word. It was a very subdued Harry and Ron that sat in Potions, which unnerved Snape more than any misbehaviour would have done. He was just on the point of snapping at them, and telling them to stop being so bloody respectful because it was getting on his nerves, when there was a knock at the door.

He snapped a demand to enter, and descended on the hapless student in a flurry of robes.

“Excuse me, Sir. But the Headmaster would like to see you and Miss Granger in his office right away.”

Hermione was sure that Snape flinched at the news. She wasn’t exactly happy about it herself. Why on earth did the Headmaster have to drag them out of lessons? It was hardly discreet. Still sulking about being turned down?

“Very well, Stebbins. Tell the Headmaster we will be along in a minute.” Snape turned on the class, instantly silencing the chatter that had broken out as the children speculated on what was happening.

“I can’t trust any of you to continue in my absence, certainly not with Mr Longbottom in the class, so the lesson is over. Homework will consist of four and a half feet on the proper brewing of this potion, and we will try it again next week, if the Headmaster sees fit to allow it. You will dispose of your feeble attempts at the potion in the fume cupboard in an orderly fashion. Mr Malfoy will oversee the process, and be warned boy that I will hold you responsible for any accide no no matter the cause. Miss Granger, if you would….. I find myself agog to find out what you have been up to that requires you to be plucked from my lessons at such short notice. Stealing from my stores again, perhaps?”


Bastard. Though, on second thoughts, he had covered their tracks nicely. Hermione followed Professor Snape through the door, head bowed, and giving every impression of a worried student.

It was easy enough. She was a worried student.