A law to herself

The days passed, and nothing happened, and Hermione gradually moved from gloating to feeling smug. It wasn’t that she doubted that there would be more battles to come, but she was determined to enjoy this victory while it lasted, and she felt that with Snape by her side the other battles would be won – not necessarily easily – but won nonetheless. She’d been a little surprised that the boys weren’t as impressed with Severus’ actions as her, and they were so consistently and persistently pessimistic about what was going to happen next, but had chosen to ignore them in favour of the rosy glow that enveloped her.

She asked Ginny what was up with them one afternoon when the boys were at Quidditch practice, leaving the Common Room almost empty. Ginny suggested that they were annoyed that Professor Snape had headed off Umbridge, rather than them dashing to the rescue.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Hermione said, thoroughly exasperated. “That was precisely the sodding point of marrying him! That he would be able to sort things out in a way that a couple of schoolboys couldn’t.”

Ginny shrugged. “No one said that they were very bright.”

“Well, they’re getting on my nerves. I’ve no intention of spending the rest of my life worrying about what Umbridge is up to, just to make them feel better. I’m going to want their help, of course I am, but they’re going to have to get used to the fact that Professor Snape is going to be involved as well. There’s no point letting all that experience going to waste; he knows so much about the Pureblood world, and they’ll take him seriously where they’ll just ignore me.”

Ginny couldn’t argue with any of that. She could see that Professor Snape could be helpful; it’s just that she couldn’t understand why he would choose to be. And that worried her. “I don’t think they expected you to get on so well with the Professor, you know,” she suggested.

Hermione smiled. “I didn’t expect to get on with him so well either. He’s surprisingly reasonable when you get to know him. I just hope he’s going to be reasonable about letting me go to Hogsmeade.”

“What’s it got to do with him?”

“Professor McGonagall says that I have to ask him to sign my permission slip, nowt I’t I’m a married woman. Apparently the old one won’t do any more.”

Ginny goggled at her. “Oh, that’s ridiculous.”

Hermione shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me, but there it is. No slip; no Hogsmeade. I thought I’d slip along this afternoon and ask him. That way I can try and pass it off as asking for extra help on my essay. People will think I’m potty, but it’s the best I can do.”

“Well, you seem to have the knack of managing him. What do you do? Flutter your eyelashes?”

“Don’t be daft,” Hermione said in exasperation. “I don’t manage him, as you put it, at all. Can you imagine what he’d do if I turned up and fluttered my eyelashes at him? It’d be a snotty query as to whether I was feeling alright, and sent to the Infirmary to have my eyes checked.”

Ginny giggled. “He would too, wouldn’t he? And deduct points for wasting his time.” She turned a couple of pages in the book she was very obviously not reading. “You like him don’t you?” sskedsked, as casually as she could manage.

Hermione looked at her suspiciously. What was she getting at? “I’ve always had the greatest respect for Professor Snape.”

Ginny pursed her lips. “Come off it, Hermione, we’re talking about a bit more than respect. You’re practically kissing his feet in gratitude every time he walks past, you’re getting the boys to behave in classes; it’s unnatural if you ask me.”

“Professor Snape has bloody well done his best for me,” snapped Hermione. “There’s nothing wrong with showing him a bit of appreciation, you know. P’raps if others tried the same tactics, he wouldn’t be such a prickly sod.”

“If you say so, Hermione,” Ginny said, and let the matter drop in a very irritating way, that showed she hadn’t conceded the point at all, whatever that point was.

Hermione would have continued the argument – she respected Snape, but they couldn’t be called friends, not whilst she was at school and the teacher/student divide still lay between them – but she knew she was heading into dangerous waters. She couldn’t offer an explanation as to why Snape had decided to help her, because she hadn’t got a clue. He’d enjoyed getting one over on Lucius and Albus, and he’d certainly enjoyed getting one over on Umbridge, but his reason for helping her had to run a bit deeper than that.

She did occasionally, late at night, wonder what was going through that labyrinthine mind of his but wtenttentative conclusions she’d drawn she was keeping to herself. It wasn’t just that she’d promised that she’d keep the details of their relationship private, but that she liked the idea that she knew something about him that no one else did. Nor did she want the boys barging in with their size twelve boots to disturb the delicate balance she was negotiating in their not-quite-friendship; not until it was more secure.

It wasn’t as if she was blind to his faults, whatever Ginny was hinting. This friendship didn’t prevent him from deriving great enjoyment from her predicament, certainly over more trivial matters.

It was a very disgruntled Hermione who gathered her notes together, and went in search of Professor Snape, very pointedly ignoring Ginny and her whispered ‘Good Luck’.

Hermione was still slightly peeved about her promise to cut down on her homework: she was finding it really difficult to get all of the information that she wanted into her essays. He’d returned the first scroll – written in tiny, crabbed handwng -ng - after the Umbridge Affair with a scrawled comment that ‘This isn’t in the spirit of the agreement, Miss Granger’.

He had a point; the next scroll was dead on target and written in normal-sized handwriting, but didn’t even begin to touch on the deeper implications of the uses of Periwinkle. It was annoying. She tried to convince herself that she was becoming more succinct, but deep down she knew she was skimping on the topic.

And she could tell from the smirk on his face when she handed her work in, that he knew just how much it irritated her. So, no, she didn’t ‘manage’ him at all; she very carefully tried not to manage him, as she couldn’t think of anything that was likely to irritate him more. You asked him for what you wanted, and, if you were lucky, he’d do it. Just because she’d been lucky so far, didn’t mean Professor Snape had changed his fundamental approach to life, which was to annoy as many people as possible.

She just wondered what he was going to ask in return for signing the slip.

Professor Dumbledore insisted that all teachers had an open door policy for several hours a week, to answer any queries that students might have. Professor Snape had announced this to his classes at the beginning of year, and made it clear that he didn’t expect anyone to avail themselves of this privilege. It was probably the first time in his time of teaching that a Gryffindor had voluntarily turned up at his office, and, from the look of surprise when he opened the door, she could well be the only student ever to trouble him other than for detention.

Professor Snape, predictably, found the whole thing immensely amusing. “The Headmaster does have these old fashioned ideas about women obeying their husbands.” She was fortunate – according to Professor Snape – to be allowed to go. “I’m not sure that it’s suitable for my wife to be gallivanting around Hogsmeade being frivolous, you know.”

She sighed. “What do you want this time? I’m not reducing my essays any further.”

“Of course not, Miss Granger. I’m surprised that you should try and use your position to wriggle out of Homework in that way.”

She was becoming used to his odd sense of humour – the secret was not to rise to the bait – and simply waited for him to come clean.

“Cockroach clusters. A half pound bag, I thin

She’d proffered the form; he’d signed it, and that was that.

How could she explain that to anyone? Professor Snape and a sweet tooth; they’d never believe her.


The boys had been relieved when she’d shown them the permission slip, having had visions of Hermione being forced to stay behind and clean cauldrons. Which was pretty silly really. Professor Snape would far rather she were out of the castle – and his hair – than stuck within 400 yards of him.

The boys had rushed through breakfast on the morning they were due to go to Hogsmeade, clearly determined not to waste any time that could be better spent staring at Racing Brooms. A new Nimbus was to be revealed to an admiring world, which meant that most of the students were discussing the finer points of the new-and-improved-charms which made it faster, and more manoeuvrable. Purists were objecting to the addition of golden highlights on the stick, and were listening to complicated explanations from the Muggleborns about go-faster stripes.

At least this would give her the chance to sneak off to Honeydukes without explanation.

Professor McGonagall had drawn the short straw, and had been delegated to oversee the trip. The younger children were milling around in the courtyard, full of anticipation at their first visit to the village, and refusing to stand still. “No one,” said the Professor, “will be allowed to leave the castle until I have order.” Hermione and the other Prefects began chivvying the Third Years into a crocodile for their better supervision. Once order was restored, Professor McGonagall had gravely accepted Hermione’s permission slip, and then the convoy had formed up behind her and begun its stately progress to Hogsmeade.

Seeing the enthusiastic Third Years rushing round, shrieking with excitement, and pointing things out to each other, just in case they’d missed something, reminded her of her first time. Then, she too had been entranced by it, by how different it was: all the oddly dressed people, and the ramshackle houses that were clearly held up by magic. She’d been filled with a desire to show that she belonged here, in this new world. She couldn’t put her finger on the moment it had all changed, because now, well, now she wasn’t sure it had been worth it.

She didn’t really like Hogsmeade very much any more. She didn’t like the sweets, was indifferent to Quidditch supplies, and the bookshop was wholly inadequate for her purposes; she’d been ordering her books from the bigger Flourish and Botts in Diagon Alley for years. It was more than that though; somewhere along the line she’d stopped being impressed by the Wizarding World

It wasn’t just the Marriage Law – though that had been the last straw – but the willingness of Dumbledore to use Harry as a pawn, without a hint of conscience, and all the petty power struggles between him and Fudge. It wasn’t that life was necessarily fairer or safer in the Muggle world, just that they at least believed that the world should be fair and safe.

It was a bit like one of those Regency Romances. It was fun to read about heaving bosoms and handsome bucks, but when it came right down to it, did you really want to live there. Fantasy was one thing; reality was another.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Ron asked, nudging her firmly in the ribs. “You’re a bit quiet today.”

“I need to get some Potions books,” she said. “For research purposes. I’m just wondering which ones would be best.” That should see the boys running in the opposite direction as quickly as possible, leaving her free to sort out Snape’s order and avoid another long discussion with Ginny.

“Oh. Research.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “About contraceptive potions?” He blushed red. “Do you want us to help?”

Harry looked horrified at the thought of spending a precious afternoon in a bookshop, but seconded Ron’s offer nonetheless.

Hermione was surprised by a rush of affection for the pair of them; she couldn’t ask for better friends. “Don’t be silly,” she said gruffly, giving the pair of them a hug in turn. “It shouldn’t take me that long, and I know the pair of you are dying to look at the new racing broom. Why don’t we meet outside Honeydukes, in about an hour?”

“Get off,” Harry said, wriggling free, with a broad grin.

“See you lateRon Ron grabbed Harry by the arm, and they hurried off to admire the new broom.

She watched them go fondly, then, as soon as they were out of sight, headed off to purchase Cockroach Clusters.

Honeydukes was packed, and she had to elbow quite a few of the younger students out of her way to get to place her order. She decided to get a pound of clusters, just in case the Professor placed a second order, and some chocolate frogs for Harry and Ron. She was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of nostalgia for her childhood, when things were simpler. Every Sunday she’d been allowed some sweeties, provided she cleaned her teeth thoroughly afterwards. She’d sit in front of the telly, watching Dr Who or something with her parents, and eating chocolate. She didn’t suppose that Honeyduke’s would have them, but it was worth asking, and maybe she could persuade them to order some in for her for next time. “I wonder,” she asked, “do you have any Muggle sweets?”

“Yes, Miss. We do carry a limited stock, as a sort of novelty item. We don’t put them on display, because some of the more old-fashioned element disapprove.” The assistant scrabbled around under the counter, and then bobbed up again, a list in her hand. “We’ve got dark chocolate, milk chocolate bars, something called Maltesers, and boxes of chocolates. What did you have in mind?”

Hermione grinned; suddenly the world seemed a better place.

In the end, she didn’t buy the entire stock of Muggle chocolate, but it was a close run thing. She had planned to nip into the bookshop – even a bad bookshop was a good bookshop in her eyes – but she’d spent so much time in Honeydukes she didn’t think she’d have the time to make it there and back before the boys turned up.

So she sat herself down on a convenient bench, pulled out a book she’d thoughtfully provided, and settled down to wait. It was bloody chilly, and it was hard to concentrate on boo book when she was beginning to lose all sensation in her toes. A shadow fell across her book, and she looked up, expecting o beo be the boys. Words of greeting died in her mouth, as she stared into the unfriendly face of Umbridge.

This could not be good.

“Good morning, Mrs Snape.” It was all she said; it was all she had to say.

Shocked gasps came from behind her; it was clear they’d been heard. If she was lucky, it would be a Slytherin, who would be so in awe of their Head of House that the mere threat of his displeasure would be enough to keep their mouths shut. The luck wasn’t with her; it was Lavender, a girl who could be relied upon to spread the news faster than the Hogwarts Express, and who couldn’t be stopped from doing so, short of an Obliviate.

Well, she wouldn’t give the bitch the satisfaction of seeing her flinch, so she smiled politely – barely more than stretching her lips – and calmly said, “Shall I give my husband your regards?”

Umbridge really wasn’t very good at this sort of thing, Hermione reflected. She had all the subtlety of a lump hammer, and you could tell what she was thinking – if so basic a function could be dignified with the name thought – by her expression, which made it really easy to know when to strike for the jugular.

Hermione was uneasily aware that she’d been spending too much time with Snape, because she was starting to think like him, and how she wished he was here to back her up, or even the boys. She pushed that to the back of her mind and concentrated on the personage in front of her who seemed to have mastered her irritation long enough to make another attempt at causing trouble.

“You don’t fool me for one second, putting that brave face on.” Umbridge’s face was mottled in rage, with two prominent patches of red on her cheeks. “Now the whole school knows your dirty little secret.”

Hermione rose to her feet, forcing Umbridge to take a step back. “Oh, that was Dumbledore’s idea, something about keeping it quiet for the sake of school discipline. Now, at last, we’ll be able to come out into the open, and it’s all thanks to you. I’m certainly not ashamed of being married to Professor Snape, on the contrary. As I’m sure you know, he’s something of a catch, isn’t he Dolores?”

Umbridge looked uncertain, until she caught sight of Lavender, surrounded by a group of girls, talking nineteen to the dozen and throwing surreptitious glances over at them, and a truly nasty smile appeared. “Let’s see what your little chums think of it, shall we?” She turned on her heel, and stalked off, nearly bowling the boys over in her eagerness to spread her poison elsewhere.

“What’s up Hermione?” asked Harry, glaring at the departing woman’s back.

Lavender seized her chance and, before Hermione could reply, came hurrying over to ask, “Is it true then? Have you married Snape?”

“Professor Snape,” she snapped automatically. “And, yes, it’s true.”

“Bloody hell. When was this, and why didn’t you tell anyone?” Lavender was breathless with excitement; this was the most interesting thing that had happened all term.

“Because it’s none of your business, Lavender Brown,” Ron said, getting all indignant on Hermione’s behalf.

“There’s no need for that kind of attitude, Ronald Weasley. I’m just asking.”

“Well, I’m just telling, so sod off.”

Lavender flounced off in disgust and headed back to her cronies, to pick the bones out of the news.

Harry glared at the group. He still had bitter memories of being on the receiving end of Gryffindor gossip, and it seemed that some people hadn’t learned anything at all, and were just as quick to jump to conclusions. He could just imagine the lurid tales there were concocting, and would soon be circulating the castle under the guise of truth. “Well that’s the end of our trip then,” he said. “You’ll be needing a little word with the Professor. You don’t want him to find out about this little problem from anyone else, do you?”

“Actually? I think I might.” Hermione tucked her book in her pocket, and slung her satchel over her arm. “He is not going to be pleased.”

“You’ll be alright,” Harry said. “I mean, he’s almost nice to you these days.”

“I know.” She sighed. “Well that’s about to change, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why,” Ron said. “I mean, it’s not as if it’s your fault.”

“As if that’s ever stopped Snape,” Harry said, adding wearily, before Hermione could correct him, “Professor Snape, I mean.”

“Yeah, but that was before. Now, well it’s different, isn’t it? They’re married. He’s promised to look after her. So he’s sort of got to. All I’m saying,” Ron said, “is I’m looking forward to the Potions. If one of that lot is daft enough to even think the wrong thing, well, there’ll be blood on the walls.”

Lavender was very surprised to see that the three of them were looking at her with very wide grins. If she’d had any ability to read the future at all, a chill would have run down her spine.

It didn’t take Hermione long to make her way back to Hogwarts. The boys had stayed behind to talk to the more sensible students in an attempt to head off the worst of the gossip. There was nothing like living through a war to give you a fine appreciation of why marrying Draco Malfoy was unlikely to be conducive appiappiness. Even in his present, emasculated condition, Lucius Malfoy was still someone you’d think twice before crossing.

Professor Snape was, fortunately, in his office. She certainly didn’t fancy tracking him down to his private quarters to have this discussion. There was bound to be talk enough, without her being seen spending time alone with him in the immediate vicinity of a bed. Though she failed to see why the presence of a bed made any form of misbehaviour moreely,ely, when, judging from her duties as a prefect, any surface at all would do for people determined to misbehave.

“Miss Granger, do tell me why I have the pleasure of your company on a weekend? I presume this is a personal visit, and not a professional one?”

It wasn’t the friendliest response she’d ever had, but since the only time he saw her was when she was about to ask him a favour, that wasn’t surprising. She decided to get straight to the point. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

He looked faintly amused. “The bad news, I think.”

“Umbridge has been flapping her trap in Hogsmeade. The whole school will know about our marriage by the end of the day.”

“And the good news?” He didn’t look as upset about the news as she’d expected; he seemed almost to have expected it.

“I bought you extra Cockroach Clusters.” She rummaged in her satchel, and passed them to him. He settled himself comfortably in his chair, waved her to take a seat on the other, less comfortable chair, and took his time choosing a sweetie from the large paper bag.

“It’s a disappointment, I admit. I had hoped that we would manage to keep this quiet till the end of the school year. Still,” he said, chewing meditatively on a cockroach cluster, “looking on the bright side, it’s your life they’ll be making a misery, not mine. The teachers all knew anyway – Minerva really can’t keep a secret - so they won’t say anything to me they haven’t said before, and the children wouldn’t dare say anything about it to me.”

He rummaged in the bag for another cluster, and then belatedly proffered it to her. “Cluster?”

She took one with bad grace; at least it wasn’t a sherbert lemon.

“And there’s no good glaring at me like that,” he said. “I’m impervious. If mere looks had the power to affect me, I would doubtless be plucking literal rather than metaphorical daggers from my back, or would have burst into flames, certainly if the devout wishes of Mr Longbottom were to be granted.”

“You really are impossible,” she breathed, torn between amusement and irritation.

“Indeed.” He’d managed to locate the largest cluster in the bag, to his evident satisfaction. “However, I would remind you, that you were the one who chose to marry me.”

She just looked at him helplessly; it was, after all, the truth.