Augury & Ardor

Severus and Hermione awakened simultaneously to a sharp rapping on the door, she lifting her head from the pillow and he from his folded arms. Rising from the table, he gestured toward the wardrobe and a black silk robe flew into his hands. As he belted it, he shot Hermione an enigmatic glance, then walked to the door. He’d hardly dropped the wards and turned the knob when two crones pushed into the room.


In answer to his cold look, they cackled and gestured at Hermione. “We came to see if you managed to plow this row last night.”


Hermione’s face flushed with mortification and she hugged the covers tighter to her chest. She’d awakened disoriented and had just recalled the events of the previous night when the witches made their crude remark. But for the hard gleam in their eyes and cruel cast to their mouths, they could have passed for someone’s elderly grandmother.


Snape’s mouth curl in disdain and his voice was chilly as he addressed them, “What do you want? I’ve no patience for your infernal cawing this morning.”


The two women stopped laughing to glare at the wizard before them. “The Dark Lord wants to know if the girl is pregnant.”


“Then do what you must to determine that and be gone.”


Without ceremony, the two women sailed to the bedside and stripped the sheet from Hermione. Before she could protest or cover herself, one restrained her while the other murmured a spell and held a diviner over her abdomen.


“Impregnated or not, you’ve certainly been at her,” the one snorted, her eyes running over Hermione’s taut body. Hermione burned with mortification and struggled against the harpy’s hold to no avail.


Giving up the fight, she turned her head and caught Snape’s hooded gaze on her. His eyes were as dark and intense as they’d been the previous night as they traveled over her body, and she shivered in response. A small inner voice mocked her, Is that a shiver of revulsion or desire? It certainly wasn’t revulsion last night. Rather than watch him looking at her, she squeezed her eyes shut.


The diviner, shaped like a large, metal teardrop, moved in ever-widening circles until it spanned the distance between Hermione’s hips. Then, as frenetically as it had gained momentum, the instrument swayed to a stop.


The witch with the instrument caught the dark-haired wizard staring and smirked nastily. “Your seed did not catch.”


Before Severus could respond, the door flew open wider and, to Hermione’s horror, Draco and Lucius Malfoy entered the room with a number of other men following behind. The witch who had been holding Hermione lost her grip and the frantic girl scrambled to her feet to dash behind the only cover nearby: Snape. She missed the look of fury that crossed his features but gratefully accepted his robe when he shrugged out of it and handed it back to her.


“You act as if you care for that filthy Mudblood,” Draco sneered, irritated that he hadn’t gotten a better look at Granger. When they’d walked in, he’d been aware she was sprawled nude on the bed, but had seen nothing more than a flash of legs and arms.


“The girl is mine,” Snape replied, his voice soft and sinister, “and, as such, not for the lustful eyes of a puppy like you.” He lifted his gaze from Draco’s and met Lucius’ as well. “Nor anyone else’s, for that matter.”


“We came for proof of her virginity,” Voldemort said, his followers making way for him as he swept in. “We understand from Draco that she may have been rutting with a Weasley.”


Hermione glared at the arrogant blond Slytherin, but looked away when he met her angry gaze with one of undisguised lust. As much as it pained her to seek protection from Professor Snape, she was glad of his presence in her current, vulnerable state.


The witches stripped the bottom sheet off the bed and raised it for the small crowd’s inspection. A noticeable smear of dried blood lay at its center. A smile that caused a shiver to run up Hermione’s spine appeared on Voldemort’s face. “That is good,” he replied, nodding at Severus in approval. “It is as prophesied, then.”


“But she’s not pregnant, my Lord,” the one witch announced, hurriedly, shooting a smug smile at Snape.


“Then, by all means, let’s leave the newlyweds alone,” Voldemort said in an icy chuckle. “Have clean sheets and breakfast brought.”


The room emptied, Draco the last to leave. Before pulling the door shut behind him, his pale eyes passed over Hermione and flashed with a cold promise that the older wizard missed.


Severus glanced down at Hermione, studying her face. He was well aware of the humiliation she’d just experienced and was about to advise her to ignore Malfoy’s baiting. However, no sooner did the latch click on the door behind them than she dashed to the bathroom and slammed the door. He stared at the closed portal for a moment before discarding the notion of following her.


Hermione leaned against the bathroom door and covered her face with her hands. The events of the past twelve hours taunted her to try and ignore them. Her carelessness and stupidity had landed her where she was, and no amount of pretending differently would make it so.


If it wasn’t bad enough that she’d fallen into the power of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, she’d been forced to marry her Potions master, the imposing, taciturn man who had intimidated her since her first year at Hogwarts.


She lifted her left hand and gazed, in revulsion, at the silver band there. She was married to Severus Snape, the man who mocked her, Harry and Ron at every opportunity. A man twenty years her senior. The man who murdered the wizarding world’s most beloved, Albus Dumbledore.


Last night, that same man had taken her virginity and, instead of fighting him, she’d submitted. Not just submitted, the treacherous voice inside her head insinuated, you were enjoying it there for a while, weren’t you?


“Miss Granger.”


At his call, she jerked away from the door and lunged for the faucet handle. If she was one thing, it was a quick study. Last night had proved he had little patience for her dallying. Without a reason for being in the bathroom, he wouldn’t allow her to remain in it. Hadn’t he brought her back into his bed the night before, when she’d retreated to that one haven?


Steam filled the small room and fogged the mirror long before Hermione actually stepped into the shower. For a time, she’d just stood there with her arms wrapped around herself, sick over her current predicament. Without her wand, without Harry, Ron, or any of her friends, she was helpless -- helpless to resist the terrible prophecy in which she was a pawn. Helpless to resist the man forced on her in marriage. Helpless to resist his touch.


You didn’t seem to want to resist it last night, whispered the insidious voice in her head. At least, not at first.


“Shut up.” The words left her mouth on a whispered sob, and she stepped into the shower and under the scalding hot water, intent on scrubbing away the memory of his body on hers.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


While Hermione showered, Severus cast a Scourgify spell on himself. He preferred the more traditional modes of hygiene, but the morning’s events had certainly mortified Hermione and she needed the privacy to regroup more than he needed to use the bathroom. At the small bureau mirror, he cleaned his teeth and removed the growth of dark stubble on his face with a flick of his wand. Beyond that, he didn’t bother to regard his reflection; he knew what his features looked like and had no delusions that any ablutions he attempted would make them more agreeable.


He admitted the house-elves to remake the bed and requested a light breakfast be brought. Then, he left the room, warding it well against unwanted guests, and visited the small closet he’d begun to fill with the most rudimentary potions ingredients. He cradled five jars to his chest and returned to the room only to hear water still beating against the tile from the bathroom.


Once he’d rebuilt the fire from the coals of the previous night, he hooked a small cauldron over the flames and began adding the elements necessary for the potion he wanted. So intent was he on the preparations that he scowled at the door when a knock sounded on it. His command of ‘Enter’ netted him the breakfast he’d forgotten about.
Its appearance reminded him of how long ago he’d ordered it, and a frown puckered his brow. It had been a good twenty-five minutes since Hermione entered the bathroom and the shower was still running.


With a terse acknowledgement of their service, Severus sent the house-elves on their way, left the potion to simmer and went to the bathroom door. Just beneath the steady thrum of the shower running, he could hear Hermione crying. He closed his eyes against the flare of impatience the sound sent through him, then opened the door and stepped inside. Behind the smoky glass of the shower door, he could see her standing, head bowed and arms wrapped around her ribs. Despite her violent shivering, she remained beneath the steady stream of water.


“Come out before you catch a chill.”


She acted as if she didn’t hear him and, after a few seconds, he opened the shower door and turned the water off. To his irritation, it had long since gone cold, as was evidenced by the blue cast to her lips. With a gesture of annoyance, he whipped a towel off its peg and wrapped it around her, pulling her out of the shower. She didn’t fight, but she didn’t help as he briskly scrubbed her limbs with the thick fabric. Five minutes later, he tucked the material around her, grabbed the remaining towel and used it to absorb the excess water from her hair.


Once he was satisfied that she was mostly dry, he led her out to the bedroom and sat her at the chair closest to the fire. The breakfast tea was still hot. He poured a cup, added some cream and sugar and pressed it into her hands. “Drink.”


To his surprise, she obeyed the order and raised the cup to her lips. At her first sip, she closed her reddened eyes and let out a shuddering sigh. The remainder of her tea was drunk quickly and silently after that.


Severus poured himself a cup and her another before moving back to the cauldron. Gingerly, he elevated it to let the contents cool, then joined her at the table. Because she had not, he fixed her a plate of fruit, cheese, yogurt and toast. He sat it down in front of her, met her eyes, and commanded firmly, “Eat.”


She nibbled rather than truly ate, but he chose not to quibble about it. Instead, he rose when he’d finished, moved to the cauldron and ladled out a cup of the dark green potion.

“Drink this.”

Hermione looked at the proffered cup warily, remembering the Calming Draught he’d given her the night before. It, along with the wine, had conspired to strip her of her self-control and caused her to relax enough to enjoy his touch. She was determined not to give him that satisfaction again. “I don’t want it.”


“Fighting me isn’t going to change your situation,” he replied in a level tone.


”At least I’ll have the ability to fight. That draught you gave me, last night, wasn’t to make it easier for me, it was to make it easier for you.”


He studied the mutinous set to her mouth, glad to have life back in her even if it meant her snarling at him. The dead-eyed, shivering girl he’d rescued from the shower had unsettled him. “The draught did exactly what it was meant to do; it calmed you.”


The tightening of her lips was her only response.


“If you were paying attention,” he said, “you’d have ascertained from its color and odor this potion is not a Calming Draught.”


Curious despite herself, she looked at the contents. It was, indeed, a wholly different potion in color, odor and consistency.


“What is it, then?”


“A potion to aid fertility,” he replied without inflection.


The look of revulsion that crossed her face brought a sneering smile to his lips. “Since impregnating you is the sole reason we’ll continue to share a bed, I can only assume your aversion to the draught is due to your desire to extend our physical relationship.” He watched a number of emotions war over face as she considered her options and smirked when she snatched the cup from his hands.


“There’s no Calming Draught in this?”


“No,” he assured her, going back to his breakfast when she tipped the brew to her lips. Noticing a look of distaste cross her face, he added, “I’m afraid I had nothing here to alter the taste without altering the components.”


“It’s fitting it should taste bitter,” she replied, taking the last mouthful.


He raised a sardonic eyebrow in acknowledgement of her remark, then glanced at her plate. Other than the toast, she’d touched little. “Have you finished?”


She nodded and he rang for the house-elves. “Go brush your hair and put on my robe,” he instructed, “so the elves can take the towels along with the dishes.” When she disappeared into the bathroom, he qualified, “But leave the door open. The bathroom will not become a place for you to hide from me.”