A law to herself

Hermione had no reason to feel nervous about New Year at the Malfoys, something she kept telling herself very firmly, in the hope that if she reminded herself of this fact every day of the holidays then perhaps she would come to believe it.

It wasn’t as if she were going on her own. Severus had arranged to pick her up just after lunch – so he could avoid another meal with her parents – and take her on to the Manor. This time he was going to Apparate into the spare bedroom rather than the front room, and would hopefully avoid startling her mother.

The Boxing Day visit had not begun well when Severus had Apparated straight into the lounge, making her mother drop her favourite vase. A quick Reparo had sorted that problem out, but her mother had been annoyed by the incident, as had Severus who thought it unreasonable of people to get upset just because someone popped into existence just in front of their nose without warning when the arrangements for that persons arrival had been communicated well in advance.

However, her father had warmed to Severus upon opening his Christmas present, and the two of them had quickly disappeared into the study – a grand name for a spare room in which they kept a pile of books and an old computer – to try out the contents of the bottle and give Mrs Granger a chance to calm down.

Hermione didn’t know what they’d talked about, and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to know what they’d talked about.

She imagined that most married couples looked on their first Christmas with their in-laws as being a bit fraught. How much worse was it when the marriage concerned was not merely arranged, but forced? Her parents had to assume that it had been consummated at some point, though they very carefully didn’t ask, which added a whole new dimension to an already volatile situation. Fathers weren’t keen on thinking of their daughters having sex at the best of times, and this certainly wasn’t the best of times.

Once you factored in the capacity of Severus Snape to be awkward…

The day had been something of a success though. Severus had been civil, her parents had been polite, and somehow they’d muddled through the day without hexes or Obliviates, only a couple of sarcastic comments, and no blood on the carpet.

Overall, though it had been a subdued Christmas.

Hermione had spent her first few days at home trying to relax. She’d become expert at shoving whatever drama was going on at Hogwarts to the back of her mind during her holidays. She had determinedly ignored Severus and the Malfoys, and tried to slip back into the old routines of a family Christmas.

She had had only limited success.

It had been odd, going shopping on Oxford Street, and seeing all the Muggles crowded together, and realising that calling them Muggles already meant that she was distinguishing herself from them as a group. They were so drab and uniform: all dressed in jeans and trainers, with some sludge-coloured jacket on top. She’d felt out of place in the Muggle world, just as much as she did in the Wizarding World. She recognised none of the bands being advertised on the posters, and only some of the films that were being released on DVD. Only in the bookshop had she felt any sense of connection to this world that she’d left behind at eleven.

Her parents had teased her about the number of books that she’d bought – more books than the presents she’d set out to buy – but they had had spent a pleasant time squabbling over who was going to read them first.

The real difficulty in pretending that nothing was going on in her life had been the coming trip to Diagon Alley to buy robes. Lavender had turned out to be a good choice for the role of style guru though, managing to get Hermione kitted out with three sets of robes that were, to her admittedly untrained eye, both elegant and demure. There was no reason for her to feel uncomfortable at the thought of spending the weekend at Malfoy Manor now. No reason, but that didn’t stop her worrying about it. So much was riding on her ability to schmooze a man who hated Mudbloods and who she had actually hexed once. It was too much to hope that he’d forgotten about that. Should she mention it? Should she just ignore it? Should she apologise?

She could just imagine that conversation. “I’m sorry, Mr Malfoy if, during the course of our last disagreement, I inadvertently caught you with a very nasty curse, and I hope it didn’t scar you too badly. Still, you were trying to kill me at the time, so perhaps we could put that behind us and work towards freeing Muggleborns from slavery?”

Even the most optimistic Gryffindor would have to admit that wasn’t likely to get the desired results. No, appealing to Lucius Malfoy’s better feelings – always assuming that he had some – wasn’t likely to be the most productive approach.

On the other hand blackmail and death threats might well be, if she could sound convincing enough.

She was resolved that whatever deal she struck with Lucius, it wouldn’t involve her getting done over. Obviously he’d try to get more out of this than a simple collaboration. He’d always be looking to turn the situation to his advantage, no matter how much pain and misery it would cause someone. He was someone who’d heard of ethics, but discarded them a long time ago as being something of a hindrance in his rise to power. It was what he did. It was his nature. You didn’t have to know about the fable of the scorpion to know that.

She just wouldn’t agree to anything until she’d discussed it with Severus first. It was about time he made himself useful. At this rate they’d still be married in ten years, let alone at graduation, and his chances of a blonde, young witch were receding rapidly.

And where was he? It was five minutes past the hour already, and normally he was so prompt.

It was another ten minutes before a sharp crack heralded the arrival of her husband.

“You’re late,” she said crossly, as he came down the stairs carrying his bags. He always seemed too big for her parents’ house. She was so used to seeing him at Hogwarts with its tall ceilings that he dominated the smaller scale of the suburban setting, an effect exacerbated by his position on the third stair up. He was probably doing it on purpose.

“I was worried,” she offered, in an attempt to soothe his ruffled feathers. About her, not him, went without saying. She was struck by how much her attitude to him had changed, and how much like a normal couple they were being at the moment. How many husbands and wives were waiting for their spouses with tapping feet, and a sense of irritation?

“Albus wanted a word.” It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was an explanation, and rather more than she was used to getting.

She grinned, which did nothing to improve his mood. “And what is amusing you, Miss Granger?” he said, still very much on his dignity.

“I was thinking that we sounded like an old married couple,” she said. “Before you know it, I will be nagging you about leaving your dirty socks in the floor and complaining that you never give me flowers any more.”

“I can’t imagine that there will ever be circumstances under which I will present you with flowers,” he said. “Not even in the event of our divorce, happy though that day will be.”

“I shall expect champagne at the very least,” Hermione said over her shoulder, whilst disappearing back into the lounge to fetch her luggage. “Mum,” she called out. “I’m off now. See you later.”

Mrs Granger came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and followed Hermione back into the entrance Hall where Severus was now waiting for them. “Severus, nice to see you again.” He acknowledged her greeting with a nod, anxious not to get involved in some long conversation. He didn’t want to be any later to Malfoy Manor than could be helped, and Mrs Granger seemed to take after her daughter in her ability to talk for hours without stopping. “Now, have you got everything dear?” she said to Hermione.

“I think so, Mum.” Hermione kissed Mrs Granger on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a couple of days, ok?”

“We’ve only been invited for the weekend,” Severus said, looking at her luggage. There were only two bags, but one of them was rather large, and dwarfed his black trunk. “Surely you don’t need so many clothes?”

Hermione and Mrs Granger exchanged a look. How often had Mr Granger been heard to make the same complaint about packing to go on holiday? “Oh, only the small one is clothes, the other one has a couple of books for me to read,” she said.

“A couple?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t imagine,” she replied, “that many people will want to talk to me. So I’ve made sure I’ve got enough reading material to tide me over.”

She had a point, he realised, so he couldn’t order – suggest strongly rather– that she leave some behind. Draco and Pansy wouldn’t be company for her, and Narcissa would be satisfied once she realised that there were no sordid details of their marriage about which to gossip. Nor could he point out that Lucius has a well-stocked library and suggest that she borrowed some reading material – that was likely to prove disastrous. He could only imagine the titles she would choose, and his nerves weren’t up to watching Hermione reading increasingly advanced books on sex magic in front of the other guests. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Very well,” he sighed, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

“Now we really do sound married,” Hermione said, grasping the proffered limb. “Just be grateful I didn’t keep you waiting.”

A flick of Severus’ wand corralled the luggage into a neat group, and they Apparated away leaving Mrs Granger feeling foolish as she tried to wave goodbye to empty space.


Malfoy Manor wasn’t what Hermione had been expecting. It was old, certainly, and grand but fell short of the large Palladian mansion she’d imagined. It was Tudor in style, and reminded her of all the mock-Tudor houses that lined the suburbs in a pastiche of this style. She wondered what Lucius would think of that, if he knew.

“It’s quite small,” she said, looking up the long drive to the house framed by a pair of ancient oaks.

“Only on the outside,” Severus replied. “The Malfoys built the place around the time of Henry VIII and have added entire wings and a ballroom since then, but they kept the exterior unchanged so that the Muggles didn’t get curious. Something to do with tax, I believe. I wouldn’t mention it if I were you. Lucius has a tendency to wax lyrical on the injustice of him being forced to live in something that looks like a hovel due to bloody Muggles though that isn’t precisely the term he uses.”

“Is there anything that we can talk about?” Hermione asked wearily.

“The weather?” Severus realised that Hermione was nervous. He wasn’t used to Hermione being anything less than wholly confident. Even when she had proposed to him, something that you would normally expect to be an occasion of nerves, she had been cool, calm and collected. He realised that he was supposed to say something that would make her feel better. This was difficult. He was unused to the role of offering encouragement, and, besides, the situation was rather bleak.

He could say that nothing nasty was going to happen to her, but she had the sense to realise that anyway. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he replied, deciding that the truth was the best option. “I don’t think there is anything that you could say that would make Lucius decide not to do something that he had already decided to do. His approach will be utilitarian and not personal: he’s looking to use you and not make friends.”

Hermione understood the point. Lucius would do whatever it was he wanted, regardless of whether she was charming or not, and nothing she said or did would make any difference. That was a comforting thought: at least it wouldn’t be her fault if anything went wrong.

They moved off up the drive, their luggage bobbing along behind. The walk gave Hermione a chance to admire the gardens: formal parterres flanking either side of the large front door, an impeccable lawn, and somewhere in the distance a large pond that almost merited the name lake. There were probably peacocks somewhere.

The door was dark oak, and reminded her of the entrance to Hogwarts. It was designed to keep out a small army, and had a large brass knocker that made an impressive noise that seemed to reverberate in some large space behind the door. A House Elf opened the door, and she could see that the entrance hall had a black and white marble floor, with white walls mounted with large, ornate gilt mirrors. The effect, of their reflection echoing back across the hall, made her feel like a large and hostile crowd was watching her.

“If you’ll be pleased to be waiting here, sir and madam, I shall be fetching the master,” the Elf said, before disappearing – literally – in search of Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione surveyed the room and felt badly out of place. This was the kind of house she’d been taken round by her parents on wet weekends in August so that she would be cultured. It wasn’t a house for living in. It certainly wasn’t a house you could put your feet on the furniture, which she was sure would feature a Louis or two.

“I’ve always heard,” Severus said, “that when dealing with difficult people, it’s best to imagine them naked. I can’t see that making oneself feel nauseous at the thought of a naked Potter or Dumbledore is very helpful. So I have adapted the maxim by thinking of some other occasion, less wearing to the nerves, when the person in question has not shown to advantage.

“There was one happy occasion when Peeves dropped a bucket of water on Albus that has provided me with many years of stress relief when dealing with the Headmaster. I find that this helps immensely. And in your case, not only can you think of a time when dear old Lucius wasn’t looking at his best, but you have the distinction of being the author of his downfall.”

So it was that Lucius, arriving to meet his guests, found Hermione looking up at Severus with what appeared to be a fond smile, and Severus looking almost happy.

It was fortunate that he didn’t realise that the good humour was entirely at his expense. It would have annoyed him, and he had already been annoyed when the news of Snape marrying Hermione had reached him. His irritation had been worked off by arranging for the happy couple to share quarters; it would have been unfortunate if he had been presented with fresh cause for irritation.

“Ah, there you are,” Lucius said, at his most genial. “Severus, Mrs Snape.”

“Here we are indeed,” Severus replied, managing to convey by the twitch of an eyebrow his amusement at Lucius playing nicely with the other children.

“Sprotty will show you to your rooms, and then I hope you will join Narcissa and I in the Library for tea. I believe that Cook has made the chocolate cake you are so fond of, Severus,” Lucius said. “Shall we say in half an hour?”

“Yes, that should be fine,” Severus replied.

Another House Elf scurried forwards and vanished with the luggage, making Hermione jump. They still made her uncomfortable, and having so many of them popping into and out of existence around her, and tugging their metaphorical forelocks, was going to be a test of her nerves.

As he watched them follow the House Elf up the stairs, Lucius was revising his assumptions about the couple. Severus had put his hand on Hermione’s shoulder to guide her towards their rooms, and she had neither flinched nor leaned into it. To his expert eye, there was something more than the exchange of favours, yet less than sexual, between them.

When he had heard about the marriage, he had wondered quite what his old friend was up to. Was this some romance? Perhaps Hermione had been the reason Severus had abandoned Voldemort. He’d quickly dismissed that idea. It was nonsense to think that Severus had changed sides for any reason other than realising which side was going to come out on top, and doubtless he had approached his marriage in the same calculating manner: exchanging sex for protection. It was easier to believe that Severus had suddenly developed a taste for Mudbloods, deplorable though that was, than suddenly developing a nasty case of altruism.

What if it were catching?

Hermione may have announced to the school the details of a passionate relationship – Draco was a diligent correspondent with his mother – but that didn’t mean that Severus actually liked the girl in anyway.

Still, he had supposed that if your tastes ran to the vulgar, Hermione would provide a certain amount of quiet entertainment, especially if your options were limited. Quiet, if you used Silencio, at least.

Obviously he would have the sense to limit his sexual peccadilloes to the more pedestrian end of the spectrum until she’d left school; Dumbledore would have a great deal to say if one of his pupils turned up in class battered and bruised, and unable to sit down properly.

Which was probably just as well for Severus, because, looking at Hermione’s firm chin and determined manner, it occurred to him that Draco had seriously underestimated the obduracy of Mrs Snape. She looked like just the sort of witch who would slip poison in your coffee if your attentions proved unwelcome and he probably owed Severus a debt of gratitude for stepping in as he had. Not that he intended to communicate this to Severus, or he would take advantage of it dreadfully.

Whatever their relationship was, Narcissa would get at the truth. Some people thought Veritaserum was a useful method of extracting information, others thought that torture was more fun if less reliable, but neither could compare to the efficacy of his wife asking seemingly innocuous questions over a cup of tea.

It was one of the reasons he’d stayed faithful to her for all these years.

Hermione’s unease was only exacerbated when the Elf showed her into her room. Snape, it seemed, was to be in the adjoining room, and she stifled a giggle at the sight of the connecting door. She wondered if Lucius and Narcissa had separate rooms too. She presumed so, for all those occasions when he came back late at night from whatever unsavoury task he had been performing, and didn’t want to disturb his wife. She didn’t know whether Lucius knew Legilimency – she must ask Severus – but thinking about Lucius’ sexual practices was unwise, and frankly a bit disturbing.

The room wasn’t as ornate as the entrance hall. Either she’d been placed in the second-best bedroom, or the Malfoys weren’t quite as keen on rubbing their guests’ noses into their inferiority. It was light and airy, with a cream wallpaper covered in roses – how Severus would loathe it – and rich, cream curtains at the windows and on the four poster bed.

There was also a house elf, which was bent over her open suitcase and rummaging around.

“What are you doing?” Hermione snapped, uncomfortable at the thought of a Malfoy Elf anywhere near her things. She wouldn’t put it past them to snoop.

“I’se here to helps the missis unpack,” it said.

“There’s no need,” she replied. “I’m quite capable of doing it myself. In fact, I want to do it myself.”

“But I’se sposed to do it,” wailed the elf. “Missis isn’t sposed to be doing it herselves. I’se will have to be ironing my hands.”

“Fine,” said Hermione.

The elf’s ears drooped, but Hermione hardened her heart. If you gave into the wretched things, you just encouraged them to keep being subservient. Sometimes she wondered if they nipped down to the kitchens and had a good snigger at the stupidity of their masters, before wrapping a couple of bandages round their hands and pretending that they’d been injuring themselves.

She hoped so; it was better than the alternative. When all this Marriage Law nonsense was out of the way, she was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery of the House Elves: Hermione Granger – Snape – Granger saviour of the Wizarding World.

The Elf despatched to the bowels of the Manor, Hermione quickly unpacked, putting her clothes into the enormous wardrobe. It was probably an armoire, rather than a mere wardrobe, and had some nifty charms on it that would erase creases from clothes automatically: something to bear in mind for her own home, when she got one.

Settled at last, she faced the dilemma of whether the change her robes for tea. She didn’t want to look as if she were making too much of an effort, but neither did she want to be sneered at as an unmannerly Mudblood.

Uncertain, she looked at the connecting door. She could ask Severus? He would probably dismiss her worries as being silly and petty, rather than offer useful advice, but that would probably make her feel better anyway.

She knocked tentatively at the door.

Severus opened it, looking rather flushed. “What do you want?” he hissed, sounding worried, and only opening the door a crack.

“I was wondering whether I ought to put something more formal on,” she said. What on earth was wrong with him? She’d never seem him so utterly discomposed, short of frothing bad temper and shouting.

“You’ll be fine in that,” he said in a strangulated undertone.

“OK. I’ll see you in a bit then?”

He stared at her, apparently lost for words, and then slammed the door shut in her face.

Her mother had always said that men were a mystery, and it seemed Severus was a bigger mystery than most. Mentally she shrugged; there was no point trying to work out what was bothering. No doubt he’d see fit to explain to her in detail later what precisely she had done wrong.

Reassured that her outfit was entirely suitable, she applied a little perfume to her wrists and settled down on the bed – with a book of course – to wait for her husband. She was well into the next chapter, and wondering whether the bloody fingerprint was a red herring or a vital clue – just because she was a bookworm, didn’t mean she was always reading something highbrow – when the connecting door flew open.

“What do you think you were doing?” he spluttered. “There was a house elf in my room. He heard you.”

Hermione, startled by his abrupt entrance, shot upright and dropped her book, losing her place. “I’m sorry. I don’t see why that’s a problem.”

His arm shot out, pointing behind him at the door. “You don’t see… you don’t…” He took a deep breath, and then let it out again in a long sigh. “I suppose you don’t,” he said more moderately. “I forget that Muggles are so different.”

“So what did I do wrong?” she asked patiently. “I assume I did do something wrong.”

She was amazed when Severus went bright red.

Oh.

She looked at the door, and then she looked at him, and then she looked at the coverlet. “Oh, I see,” she said. “Well actually I don’t see. The Elf was there all the time, so he knows that nothing was going on. We’re due downstairs as soon as possible, so we very clearly haven’t had the time to get up to anything.”

Severus looked at the ceiling, searching for divine support. “That isn’t the point. You knocked on the door. That’s not the way things are done.”

“I’m sorry,” she said blankly.

“It’s not for the woman to take a lead in such things,” Severus replied, taking a deep interest in the wallpaper.

Opening the connecting door seemed to be the Pureblood equivalent of standing on street corners in a short skirt with no knickers. They really were an odd lot. “You mean that when the man fancies a… wants to er… be intimate with his wife he has to knock on the door, but she’s not allowed to do the same thing? For heaven’s sake, what if the woman is feeling frisky, what does she do?”

“Traditionally, she’s supposed to leave the door ajar.”

“That’s it? Leave the door ajar? That seems a bit cold-blooded to me, and more than a little lacking in enthusiasm. I hope you don’t expect your next wife to behave like that,” she said briskly, getting off the bed and smoothing down her robes. “I’m certainly not allowing you to marry a cold fish like that.”

“You’re not?” he said, looking a bit bemused.

“Absolutely not. You may have to settle for someone who isn’t a blonde, but I’m telling you that there’ll be none of this separate beds nonsense. And if she wants to communicate her passion for your company, it’ll be by pinning you against the wall and snogging you senseless.”

Severus was a little distracted. He was trying to work out whether the advantages of not having to leave a warm and comfortable bed to return to your own chilly one in the middle of the night outweighed the possible disadvantages of snoring. And was the possibility of a morning shag worth the risk of morning breath.

“And besides,” she said, returning to the topic at hand. “I’m not sure that I wouldn’t prefer it if the other guests thought we were at it like nifflers. It could save a lot of difficulties.”

Severus didn’t know who had been invited to join them, but it was true that even the hottest head would be less likely to insult Hermione if they believed that the relationship existed on more than paper.

“I suppose so,” he said, resigned to the thought of sacrificing his reputation yet again. “Though it’s Narcissa you’ll have to watch out for more than anything. She has a very nasty habit of getting information out of you.”

“You’ve never spent Sunday lunch at the Burrow, whilst Mrs Weasley tries to find out whether you’re going out with her son, and if not, why not. After that Narcissa is going to be a doddle,” Hermione said confidently.

“Just try not to blacken my character too much,” he replied. “I have to teach their children, you know.”

“I’ll be good,” she promised.

“I wish I could believe that.”

He crossed the room to the door, and opened it courteously for her. Her grip on his arm may have been a little tighter than usual, but there was no other visible sign of her nerves.

Operation Malfoy had begun.