Augury & Ardor

Hermione turned from the window and the steady drift of snowflakes she’d been watching. “Is it really snowing?” she asked.


Severus glanced up from the potion he was brewing, looked at the spelled window, and then her. “Yes, it’s really snowing.”


“Can we go outside?”


“It’s icy,” he replied, his gaze already back on the cauldron.


“So melt the ice with your wand,” she returned, her tone perturbed.


“Maybe after breakfast.” He sounded distracted, as he usually did when he brewed her prenatal potion. He seemed obsessed with its modification.


Hermione sighed and went into the bathroom to take her shower. He hadn’t been joking when he said his focus would be the safety of her and the baby. Anytime she wanted to do something other than sit in the room and read, he acted as if she was asking to do a bit of dragon taming or base jumping.


Two and a half months had passed since they’d found out she’d conceived, and while she realized she was pregnant, there were no outward signs other than a bit more weight and sensitivity to her breasts. The way he acted, however, she was as big as a house and precariously close to falling over at any moment.


Glancing in the mirror, she pulled her nightgown taut against her waist and surveyed herself critically. Perhaps she had put on a few pounds, but her stomach was still flat. Even naked, she could see no real change. Not that she was naked often anymore.


True to his word, Severus had not touched her sexually since the morning the midwives had announced she was pregnant. She had a small wardrobe tucked away in the bureau and was clothed around him at all times. Although she was still not allowed to completely close the bathroom door, he no longer came in when she bathed. The one time she’d come out of the bathroom in a state of undress, not realizing he was back from an outing, he’d sharply ordered her to put something on.


She went to bed most evenings before he was finished reading and woke most mornings to find him up and already dressed. It was as if they had never shared more than a polite relationship. And that’s exactly what it had become.


When she was civil, he was polite, if formal. It was something more familiar and on equal ground than their former professor-student relationship, but something far less intimate than the passionate relationship they’d shared for nearly a month.


It was as she turned on the water to the shower, she realized she’d forgotten to take in a robe. The last thing she wanted was a cold rebuke for walking around in just a towel, as if she were trying to tempt him into breaking his vow. As if I’d want to, she thought peevishly. Even if she did yearn to be touched at times, it was only because he’d awakened her sexually. It didn’t mean she wanted him.


She was about to open the door further and step out of the bathroom when something about the tableau before her stilled her steps. Purl and Bitsy had brought breakfast in, but while Bitsy fluttered about the table, Purl was tugging on her master’s frockcoat and silently pointing to the tray, her eyes like saucers.


Immediately, he turned from the potion he was tending, and quickly crossed to the table. There, the house-elf lifted a covered dish to reveal a piece of folded parchment. He nodded to her silently, and was reaching out for it when a knock sounded on the door. Severus immediately snatched his hand back, moved back to the fire, and gestured for the elves to answer the door.


“The Dark Lord wants a word with you.” Hermione heard the voice, but didn’t recognize it.


“I’ll be there momentarily.” Severus lifted the cauldron from the flames.


“He wants you now.”


Hermione could read the impatience in every line of Severus’ body as he curtly nodded and swept from the room. She waited the few moments it took for Purl and Bitsy to follow. Once alone, she hurried out to the table and lifted the dish. The parchment she snatched up was small, tightly folded and covered in fine, even script.


Severus,

Your present state of mind is to be understood. I’m truly sorry circumstances have unfolded as they have, but take heart that you made the correct choice. While I agree that Hermione is young, and this burden should never have been hers to carry, I’ll remind you she’s had the heart and mind of a woman for years. Has she not fought with the courage of an adult since the onset? I’m sure she has the fortitude to make it through this despite the necessity of keeping her ignorant of the truth.

Regardless of your arguments, you must continue as you were. Her safety and yours is best secured under your present circumstances.

Albus sends a special message: All these years must not be for naught. He realizes he’s asked much of you and continues to do so, but you must appear to remain wholly loyal to the Dark Lord. The final battle is not long off, and your information, as well as the time you afford us, is integral to our victory. Albus needs more time to regain strength. I fear without him to advise us, even our best witches and wizards will be no match for the army V has amassed.

It was a foolish risk, your showing up in Hogsmeade, disguised or not – one I will not have you repeating. Meeting in person is far too dangerous. I’ll not risk your safety by sending another correspondence in this manner either, but the state of mind in which you left concerned me deeply. I felt I must reassure you once more -- you have our full support. We all are called to sacrifice in these grim times. I trust whatever damage may be done has been done for the greater good, and we all will come out on the other side standing. We must hold on to that!

Yours in the Order,

Minerva McGonagall


Hermione swayed on her feet, her mind reeling. Dumbledore was alive!


She re-read the parchment once more before the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted her. Quickly replacing it beneath the covered dish, she ran into the bathroom. She stripped out of her nightgown with trembling hands and stepped into the shower. Her thoughts raced, swirling and ebbing almost as quickly as the water.


Dumbledore was alive. Severus had not murdered him – had not betrayed him after all. Severus was not a loyal Death Eater, but Dumbledore’s man after all, just as the Headmaster had sworn.


But why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t he confided in her? Why was she meant to be kept ignorant? Her mind raced through their conversations, but nothing in any of them hinted he was anything other than a man loyal to Voldemort. Why hadn’t he, in the privacy of his rooms, told her what was happening - why he had to take her virginity? Why hadn’t he assured her - obtained her willing compliance? Had he thought she wouldn’t be able to pretend the part of frightened captive in front of Voldemort and his followers?


The repercussions of his actions on the prophecy vied for her scrutiny. She’d been scared out of her mind by Voldemort, as well as disoriented when it had been read to her. Now, she was unsure of its exact contents. Was the child she carried going to raise Voldemort to power? How could Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall find something positive in that? Was it possible that the prophecy was nullified because Severus Snape was not a loyal Death Eater?


With a hiss of frustration, Hermione wracked her brain for the wording. Had it specifically said Death Eater? No, it didn’t seem like it to her. Something about a Slytherin marrying her or, at least, an implication that it be a Slytherin. Damn it! She couldn’t remember specifically.


“Hermione!”


She jumped at the sharp, impatient call. “W-What?”


“The potion is cool. I imagine the water in which you’re standing is also. The days of you hiding in the bathroom had past, I thought.”


The water had begun to cool, but she’d hardly registered it for the frantic rushing of her thoughts. She’d done nothing but stand under the water, lost in her fractured ruminations. “I-I’m almost finished,” she called out, and winced at the inevitable knotting as she quickly washed her thick mass of hair.


While drying off, she realized she’d never gotten the robe that had prompted her to leave the bathroom – the robe that had caused her to stumble on the note instead. She would have to walk out into the bedroom in a towel, which she knew would irritate him.


Squeezing the excess water from her hair, she froze and frowned as she considered all that had transpired in a new light. From what she’d read in Professor McGonagall’s note, he was upset by what he’d had to do. Yet… She blushed as she remembered a few of the ‘lessons’ he’d taught her. When he touched her, he’d never appeared tentative or doubtful. Well, maybe the first night. He’d looked pensive and tense as she recalled; unhappy with the idea of bedding her, but after that he’d taken her with no hesitation. He’d taken her a number of times with apparent relish.


Yet… She tugged her lip through her teeth. From the moment the crones had announced she was pregnant, he hadn’t touched her. He’d fulfilled his obligation and now was being… Noble? Was that why he became so surly when she was anything but extremely modest? Did he want her, still? Had he ever really wanted her, or was she merely a convenient outlet for a normal male urge?


“Miss Granger!”


“C-coming,” she stammered, startled out of her considerations by his short-tempered bark.


Sure enough, his features tensed and his mouth became a thin line when she walked out wrapped in nothing but a towel. “Where is your robe?” he snapped, only to gesture at her abruptly when she started to look for it. “Never mind that right now. The potion has almost been sitting for too long. Drink it immediately, before it loses its usefulness.”


She accepted the cup from him and tipped it to her lips, draining the thick liquid as quickly as she could. He’d done something to it since the last time, to improve its taste. As she lowered the cup, she licked the residue from her lips. This one tasted of bananas.


When she handed him back the cup, his expression was even more forbidding. It took her back to her days in Potions class, when she was desperate to answer a question and he was determined not to notice her hand. With a flush of mortification, she wondered if he still viewed her as a bothersome distraction.


“Kindly move away, unless your purpose in remaining is to drip water on my boots.”


Hermione stepped back, another flush washing over the first. Rather than let him see her discomfiture, she turned and walked to the bed where she’d left the black robe. In the bathroom, she dropped the towel and wrapped the silk around her. Belting it firmly at the waist, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. What did she do with this new knowledge? This new Severus Snape? She was unsure of him, unsure of herself and completely mystified when it came to his feelings about their relationship.


He’d been forced to marry her just as much as she’d been forced to marry him. As a Death Eater, he’d accepted her to cull favor with Voldemort. As a member of the Order, he’d accepted her to keep her safe. He’d had no choice either way. As a Death Eater, he’d had to take her virginity, but as a member of the Order, he’d tried to make it easier for her. Tried to be gentle.


She studied her pale face in the mirror, trying to sort out the twisted skeins in his double life, hoping for an insight into his true feelings. Out of habit, she reached up and touched the nest of drying snarls her hair had become. Nothing but brushing it out in Muggle fashion would correctly tame it.


It was as she was pulling the brush through the first section, her mind busily trying to sort out the complexities of his actions, that his voice interrupted.


“Breakfast will soon be inedible. If you’re truly concerned for the amount of work I force on Purl and Bitsy, you’ll refrain from requiring them to cook another breakfast to replace one that you allowed to grow stone cold.”


Her appearance seemed to do little to assuage his foul mood. “Why didn’t you dress?” he snapped in exasperation.


Normally, she put on a robe after she dried off in the bathroom, and then came out for her clothes, allowing time for the steam to clear before returning to dress. Thrown off by the note and not having her robe, she’d reverted back to her pre-pregnancy routine. “Oh, I – I forgot.” Instead of sitting as she was about to do, she straightened to find something to wear.


“Are you deaf? Sit down and eat.” His tone was so clipped that she dropped back down in the chair immediately.


Distracted by her scrambled thoughts, and flustered by his forbidding impatience, she merely sat there staring at the food, unable to proceed. She felt his eyes on her and, trying to appear normal, filled her teacup. As she brought it up to her lips, he stilled her hand.


“Are you unwell?” The snap of irritation in his voice and expression was gone, replaced by mild concern.


“I – I just don’t feel myself this morning,” she replied truthfully.


He took the teacup from her hand, and she noticed to her mortification she’d filled it with milk and sugar but no tea. He added the steaming, fragrant liquid she’d forgotten and handed it back to her, his black eyes probing hers. “Can you eat or do you feel ill?


“I can ill.” She shook her head, frowning at her inability to concentrate. “I can eat.”


“Start with something light,” he said, putting two slices of toast on her plate.


His probing eyes, warmed by concern, flustered her. Dropping her own eyes, she flushed as she reached for the toast.


She sucked in her breath as his hand reached out to cup her cheek. Lifting her eyes to his, she frowned at the distant expression on his face. Then his hand moved from her cheek to her forehead, and she realized he was testing her temperature, not caressing her. Another flush rushed blood to her face. For a moment, she’d thought he was touching her for another purpose - a more intimate purpose – and she’d felt a leap of joy.


“You’re warm,” he murmured with a frown. His hand moved down to her neck and her pulse jumped under his fingertips. “And your heartbeat is elevated.” Suddenly, he was out of his chair and leaning over her. His hand once again cupped her cheek to tilt her head back so he could study her eyes. “Do you feel dizzy? Faint?”


She did, but not because she was ill. She wanted him. Wanted him to never stop touching her - to touch her everywhere as he had months ago, but this time with hands unstained by Dumbledore’s blood.


“I-I’m fine,” she breathed out, closing her eyes for fear he’d see the desire there.


“You’re not fine,” he admonished.


“The bathroom was hot and your – your yelling got me flustered,” she said, in way of explanation. “Let me eat something; I’ll be fine.”


He returned to his chair, but his eyes remained unconvinced as she sipped her tea and nibbled the toast. “I think it best you stay inside today,” he finally concluded.


She nodded. “Fine.”


Her easy capitulation caused him to frown. “Are you nauseated?”


“No,” she replied, exasperation trickling into her tone. Her thoughts were racing a million miles a minute and she’d just wrestled with an unexpected surge of lust. For once, she wished he’d just go away and leave her alone.


“Have you been cramping at all?”


“Cramps?” she echoed, brushing the toast crumbs from her fingers. “What do you mean, have I had cramps? Of course not; I’m preg -- Oh!” she breathed out, seeing where his concerns had led him. “No, no. I told you; I’m fine. It’s nothing.”


She stood and lifted her chair to carry it next to the fire so she could brush out her damp hair near its warmth. His constant, steady gaze was unsettling her.


He was on his feet immediately. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”


“Taking my chair to the fireplace so I can brush out my hair, like I always do.”


“I don’t want you lifting anything heavier than a book anymore,” he said, taking the chair from her and placing it a few feet from the hearth.


“And how am I supposed to get the chair to the fire without a wand on days you’re not here?”


“Call the elves.”


“I will not!” she snapped indignantly. “I am not helpless and I refuse to be forced into the role of an invalid because of your paranoia!” She plunked down onto the chair and glared back at him when he glowered at her in warning.


Insufferable, arrogant, domineering tosspot! She raised her brush to her hair and began yanking it through the snarled mass. Courageous, foolhardy, selfless idiot! another voice whispered in response. Tears that weren’t all due to pulling tangles rose to her eyes.


Who was the self-contained, black-haired wizard across from her? According to Harry and Ron, he’d always been a black bat -- a greasy git – someone it was necessary to tolerate, but who earned nothing more than their contempt. To most of his students, he’d been the unpleasant and oftentimes frightening Potions Master - a man to be obeyed, but thoroughly disliked.


Now, to the Ministry and the wizarding public, he was a murderer – a dangerous criminal on the loose who had to be stopped by any means. He was a Death Eater and weapon of Voldemort whose visage sneered at passersby from posters Spellotaped to the sides of buildings. He was Dumbledore’s murderer. He was reviled.


To his fellow Death Eaters, he was a contemporary with enviable influence - a competitor for a position of power in Voldemort’s ranks. To Voldemort, he was a servant and spy. He was the man who would help bring about his rise to power - a man expected to deliver his son to fulfill a dark prophecy.


To Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, he was an irreplaceable cog in the machine that would destroy Voldemort. With his ties to the Death Eaters, he was integral in defeating them. He was a spy, a man able to deliver important information concerning the plans of the enemy.


He was a willing pawn, an island unto himself, a tightly controlled man isolated from those around him. He was an enigma.


Hermione raised her head in surprise when his hand closed gently around her wrist and stilled the movement of the brush.


“Stop before you’re bald.” He took the brush from her hand and, moving behind her chair, began to patiently work out each snarl. Every time the brush stroked through her hair, she was reminded of his hands stroking over body, demanding a response. Each time he lifted her hair in his hand, she was reminded of him moving it aside, his mouth impatient to be on her neck.


It was a torture having him so close, touching her, but not touching her. By the time he’d worked every tangle out, her breathing was labored and uneven from desire.

She could admit now that she’d always wanted him. From the first moment he’d touched her, he’d awakened yearnings she’d never known were part of her. Even then, when she had no reason to suspect he wasn’t evil – wasn’t a Death Eater – she couldn’t deny her body’s clamor for his touch.


Knowing him to truly be good, however, made his touch nothing short of torture. She was aching for him in a way she never had before.


When he spoke, his voice was strained. “Get in bed.”


A tremor seized her at his words, and she came to her feet slowly, glancing back at him. Sure enough, his eyes were the deep, velvety black she’d expected. As she walked to the bed, she unbelted the robe and let it slip to the floor, then stretched out across the bedspread.


“Have you forgotten our coupling is no longer necessary?”


His words, when he spoke, were like glass ground underfoot, and her eyes flew to his in confusion. He’d ordered her into bed. “But…but you said-”


His jaw clenched and his eyes smoldered as they raked over her. “I meant you needed rest. Despite what you may think, even I don’t force myself on women who are indisposed.” They stared at each other for the space of a few heartbeats before he growled menacingly, “Cover yourself!”


Equal parts confused and embarrassed, Hermione slid out of bed and retrieved the robe she’d dropped. With jerky movements, she pulled it back on and belted it at the waist. “I thought -”


“You thought wrong,” he bit out and slammed from the room, leaving her alone once again.