A law to herself

He kept reminding himself that it could be worse as he prepared for his execution. Although he wasn’t to be married in his robes, he still took extra care in dressing that morning. To do less would be discourteous to his betrothed and her family; the family that would soon hold the title deeds to his cottage.

He was sipping on his morning tea, pretending that he didn’t have butterflies in his stomach, when a knock at the door and made his nerves spike.

He was almost relieved to see it was Minerva.

“Poor Severus,” she said. “You do look worried. Expecting someone else?”

He narrowed his eyes at her and glared.

She ignored him. “I thought it might be better if the little marriage party used my floo to travel to the Grangers. You can meet uere.ere.”

“Very true. We wouldn’t want the students to get any ideas would we? You might find yourself being besieged with admirers. You never know your luck, you might get a couple of offers yourself.”

Minerva glared at him. “Oh very funny.”

“I thought so.” In fact, as far as Severus was concerned it was the only enjoyable moment he was likely to have that day. Bugger. Why on earth had he allowed himself to be talked into this?

“Has the condemned man eaten a hearty breakfast then?”

Severus grimaced. He had in fact eaten a substantial breakfast, rather than his usual simple cup of coffee, and it was sitting heavily in his stomach. Not that he was nervous, no.

Minerva took pity on him. “Look on the bright side, Severus. At least it isn’t a full-blown wedding with hundreds of guests and lots of speeches. It’s just fifteen minutes in this Reggie Office and lunch with the Grangers. Then you need never talk to any of them ever again. Come on. I’ll see you there in about ten minutes, and try not to scowl. You’ll put Miss Granger off, you know.”

“If only it were that easy,” he sighed after she had left.

He surveyed his quarters. It was only a matter of time before Hermione would be forced to move in here – the Ministry would insist on it, he was sure – and he would lose his precious privacy. She would be noisy; he knew it. And probably want to talk first thing in the morning. And hog the bathroom. And that was before you even considered the fact that this afternoon would see him handing over his cottage to his father-in-law for safe keeping.

Oh bugger. Bugger. Bugger.


Miss Granger was suffering from nerves too it appeared. She was white-faced, almost green even, and was cag fug fulminating looks at the boys who were being their usual boisterous selves.

“Now, now Miss Granger. Why do you look so green and pale on what you did so freely?” he said softly, so the others couldn’t hear.

He was rewarded by a faint smile. One of few positive things he could find about this whole damned mess was that Hermione was at least sufficiently well read to pick up on most of his references, and there were encouraging signs of a sense of humour which was surprising in a Gryffindor. Minerva certainly didn’t seem to appreciate his gallows humour; perhaps you needed to have been on the gallows – and it couldn’t be denied that this was had more in common with an execution than a wedding - to appreciate it.

“Right, you two,” Hermione said crisply. “Stop buggering around, and let’s get on with this. The sooner it’s done with, the sooner we can have dinner.”

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Oooh, will your mum be making roast potatoes? They’re my favourite.”

Harry nudged him – hard – in the ribs. “For heaven’s sake, Ron, stop thinking about your stomach all the time. This is serious.”

Hermione smiled at Ron. “Don’t worry. I’m sure mum has made plenty of roast potatoes. She knows how much you like them.” Ron nudged Harry back, and muttered something about ‘so there’. Severus felt a flash of irritation. They were supposed to be there to offer Hermione support, and they were still behaving like teenagers. He decided not to think too hard on the fact that they still were teenagers, and he was marrying someone young enough to be his daughter.

He offered her his arm – he had manners, even if no one else did – and said, “Shall we?” If her grip was a little tighter than was strictly acceptable, he let it pass.

The two boys went first. A flash of powder, the firm announcement of “The Granger household”, and they were gone.

Minerva moved forward as if to hug Hermione, but contented herself with patting her on the shoulder. “Good luck, dear.”

Hermione bit her lip, and Severus wondered quite what it was that she was so determined not to say, and who it would have been directed at.

“Come along Miss Granger. We wouldn’t want to be late on your important day.” There was no doubt who that glare was directed at, or what she would have liked to say, but her determination not to let him get away kept her silent. At least for now. He had a nasty feeling that things would change once his ring was on her finger.

He didn’t think he would ever get used to Muggles. Mr and Mrs Granger looked very surprised at their arrival, despite the fact that they were expected and that the boys had arrived in the same manner only a few minutes before.

“Oh, Hermione,” her mother said, wrapping her arms round her daughter in the way that Professor McGonagall had obviously wanted to.

“Mum,” came a stifled voice from the region of her mother’s shoulder. “I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry dear.” Mrs Granger released her daughter with obvious reluctance. Severus wasn’t surprised to find that both Grangers were giving him a rather frostier reception than last time. They had obviously had time to think about things, and realise just how unhappy they were about the situation.

He wasn’t exactly bleeding ecstatic himself.

“We’ve got an hour or so before we have to leave,” Mrs Granger said. “Time to get changed, and have a cup of tea. We’ve hired you a suit, Severus, on the measurements you gave us. I only hope it fits.”

Harry and Ron were obviously amused at the thought of Snape in Muggle clothes, but sensibly allowed Mrs Granger to shepherd them into the lounge and settle them in front of the TV, leaving Harry busily showing Ron the arcane arts of the remote control.

“I’ve laid out your clothes in our bedroom, Severus. Robert will show you the way, and if you need any help…..”

Severus nodded and followed Robert up the stairs and into a large, airy room which had altogether too many roses in it for his liking: roses on the curtains, roses on the bedspread, and roses in a large vase on the dressing table. Mrs Granger was obviously a closet romantic. Actually, she was out of the closet; she was an unashamed romantic.

He hoped that Mr Granger had his own room somewhere else, to save him from being assaulted by this hideous pinkness. He doubted it though.

Severus had heard that married Muggles tended to sleep together in the same room, which had always struck him as odd. His parents may have been relatively poor, but even they had managed to stick to the Pureblood habit of separate bedrooms. Anything else seemed unpleasant. If you slept in the same room, you’d be breathing in your wife’s stale air. It was revolting, actually, and he didn’t know how they bore it.

He eyed the suit with a jaundiced eye. His own clothes were handmade, to his exact measurements; these were shop-bought, and not even bought at that, but hired. He shuddered at the thought of placing his own genitalia in a pair of trousers that had been close to the genitalia of hundreds of others – muggles at that – some of whom may have been in a state of less than perfect cleanliness.

He took out his wand and cast a cleaning charm on the clothes. He felt marginally better for that.

Mr Granger – Robert – was still in the room. There was no way he was getting changed in front of an audience. Robert wasn’t taking the hint though, and was giving him a very thorough assessment.

Ah, so it was to be the standard if-you-hurt-my-daughter-I’ll-hurt-you talk, so beloved of fathers everywhere, or so he’d been told. Even Lucius had been given that talk by his prospective father-in-law, despite the fact that Lucius could have sliced him into little pieces with the greatest of ease. Lucius had respected the traditions, if not the man, and not laughed in his face. Severus prepared himself to do the same.

Robert’s inspection had obviously concluded, when he asked, “Why are you doing this?” There was no hostility in his tone, merely curiosity.

“I’m buggered if I know,” said Severus frankly. He wasn’t about to enter into a prolonged discussion of his motives with anyone, no matter how good they were. Especially because they were good intentions, because the whole subject made him incredibly uneasy. He was a heartless bastard, and happy to be so.

Robert looked amused. “You mean Hermione talked you into it?”

Severus sighed. “Well, it made a lot of sense at the time.”

“I’m sure it did; it often does. You’ll have to watch that in future.”

Severus sighed again. There was no doubt about that.

“I’ll leave you to get dressed then. I’ll be downstairs when you’ve finished, and then we can see about that drink. Not tea, though; something a little stronger, eh?”

Severus nodded. A stiff drink could make the whole process a little less stressful.

The muggle suit was horrid to the touch, all cheap and rough. It was even nastier to look at. The fit wasn’t that bad, he supposed. At least there wasn’t a massive expanse of sock and ankle, which he’d secretly been fearing; it was always difficult to find clothes for someone of his height.

The overall effect was bland and ordinary. He felt lost without three feet of billowing robes trailing behind him. He hated it, and he hated the fact that Harry and Ron would see him like this even more.

He really should have thought about this more and tried to bargain with Hermione for some sort of payment for his agreement to marry her. Such as making the boys behave for the rest of the year, or maybe a reduction in the length of her homework, so that she actually wrote the length called for, rather than an extra twenty feet because she was interested in the subject.

He thought that that would irritate her almost as much as these clothes were irritating her.

Too late now.

He sighed again and headed in search of Mr Granger and inferior Muggle alcohol.


Hermione hadn’t really thought what she would wear to get married. She wasn’t exactly bothered. Anything further than the happiest day of her life would be hard to find. Still, as her mother pointed out, she had to make it look good for the Registrar, otherwise they could find themselves being booted out of the place unwed.

There were moments when she thought that wouldn’t be a bad idea; then she could legitimately run away to France, or Australia, or anywhere that they didn’t have these stupid laws.

Her mother had selected a nice suit for her. Not white, thank god; that would have reduced her to hysterical giggles. It was a pleasant enough shade of cream, verging onto yellow, but without making her look like an overgrown daffodil. The skirt was long, the jacket nipped in at the waist, and it made her look older. The impression of a young woman, rather than schoolgirl, was completed when her hair was arranged in a smooth French pleat, with the odd tendril framing her face.

She was quite pleased with the effect, and wondered what the boys would think of it.

Not a lot, was the short answer. They were much too interested in the telly. Ron was entranced by the chance to see a program about football, so he could see what this West Ham business was all about.

“Hermione,” Ron said excitedly. “Look at this. Muggles are playing something that looks a bit like Quidditch, but on the ground. Isn’t it funny?”

There was a moment while the silence congealed to the consistency that could be cut with a knife. Even Harry, who was hardly the most tactful person on the planet, could sense that Ron had put his foot in it.

“Erm, you look nice,” Harry said, clearly trying to change the subject. His heart wasn’t in it though, and Hermione felt a little of her confidence drain away.

“Well at least you look old enough to get married now,” Severus said, from the doorway. He was clutching a glass of what looked like her father’s best whiskey.

“Dutch courage?” she asked, taking the glass from his hand, and draining it in one gulp.

Severus smirked. “I need it, to go out dressed like this.”

“You do look awful,” she said. “Normally you’re so swishy, and now, nothing. You look like a peeled turtle; I’m not marrying a man who looks like a peeled turtle.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that this means you’re going to let me off the hook?” he asked sourly. He knew he looked odd, there was no need to rub salt into the wound.

She grinned up at him, unrepentant. “Bloody right. We’ll just have to think of something to give you your swish back.”

“Swish?” asked Mrs Granger, with only the slightest quaver of a laugh.

“Well he wears these long robes at school,” replied Ron, determined to won the award for Most Tactless Remark Ever. “And he stalks around in them, and they swish behind him. I think that’s what she’s talking about.”

Everyone in the room looked at Professor Snape and pondered the issue of Swish, and where to get it.

“e’s e’s always Dad’s long winter coat,” said Hermione. “We could make it a bit longer. That might help.”

The winter coat was fetched from the cupboard under the stairs. It was black, which was good. It was long, which was good. It didn’t fit properly, but that was easily overcome with a few flicks of Hermione’s wand.

Severus took a few experimental steps. The coat wasn’t as good as robes, but, with a discreetly applied Billowing Charm, there was just a hint of swishiness. It did make him feel better, and a little less like a peeled turtle – and that wasn’t a description he was going to raise with Minerva if he could help it. He made a mental note to have a quiet chat with the boys about the matter, and pondered which threats were likely to be more effective.

The sound of a horn outside heralded the arrival of the taxi.

“Right. So we’re ready then?” asked Mrs Granger inght,ght, determined tones reminiscent of Hermione bullying the boys into doing their homework. “I’ve got all the paperwork here. All we need is a bride, a groom, and a wedding ring.”

Ah.

“Erm,” said Severus. “On the matter of the wedding ring?”

He swore that Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “You didn’t bring one, did you?”

“It wasn’t on my list of Things To Do,” he snapped. How was he supposed to know that he’d been expected to bring a ring, if no one told him? He was hardly experienced at getting married, and who knew what Muggles got up to? He was braced for Hermione to express her disapproval, and preparing to speak his mind at length in reply, but the expected strop didn’t materialise.

“Bugger,” said Hermione, quite reasonably. “So it didn’t. Sorry. It just slipped my mind.”

“I suppose there’s my mother’s wedding ring,” offered Mrs Granger. “But….”

Hermine shook her head. She didn’t want to use the nearest thing they had to a family heirloom on this farce.

“Or a curtain ring,” Harry said. “One of those nice brass ones over there would do.” He pointed at the lounge curtains – Roses again, Severus noted. It appeared to be something of a theme with the Grangers.

It took a couple of minutes to free a ring, and then another couple of minutes to shrink it to fit Hermione’s finger and then change its colour to gold. “Hang on,” said Hermione. “If I wear the sapphire ring you gave me for my sixteenth on this finger, it looks like an engagement ring. That’s better.”

Mr Granger headed into the kitchen to check the back door was locked. “All set?”

“Just a minute,” Severus said. A little embarrassed at the gesture, but feeling it was called for nonetheless, he conjured a small posy of cream roses for Hermione. He supposed she’d like roses just as much as her mother.

She blinked a little, before saying, “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

He offered her an arm to escort her to the car. These little courtesies were becoming easier. He supposed thfterfter twenty years of marriage they would become automatic. He winced. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d kill Fudge himself before he let it drag on that much. It would be a public service, after all, not merely selfish self-preservation.

He hated the car on sight, and nothing about the journey in the metal monster changed his mind. It was cramped, it was smelly – though that might be due to the presence of two teenaged boys – and it was noisy. The only positive thing he could see about it was that it was black and large.

Hermione was pressed up against him, with Harry on her other side. Ron was sat opposite, on a peculiar fold-down seat, peering out of the window in great excitement at the Muggle world. Hermione’s parents were following in their own car.

He couldn’t help flinching every time the car changed gear, went round corners, pulled away from traffic lights, or stopped suddenly. Hermione was clutching a piece of paper, which she was trying to read in between sudden lurches to the left or right.

“What’s that?” he asked, in an effort to distract himself from his impending death.

“It’s a little brochure that my parents found on what’s involved in the ceremony..”

“You really do like to plan ahead, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I don’t like making mistakes. Its important that nothing goes wrong today.”

“And ou pou plan to let your bridegroom in on the proposed order of events?”

She handed him the list. “As far as I can tell, all we really have to do is say yes at the appropriate intervals. It doesn’t look difficult.”

“It depends what I’m saying yes to,” he said darkly. “The devil is in the detail.”

It didn’t seem that complicated, she was right about that: a simple statement that there was no reason that they couldn’t be married, and a declaration that they wanted to get married. It was nothing like the Pureblood contracts that he was used to. There were no provisions for the devolution of property on the death of either party, nothing about devolution of property on divorce, nothing about property at all. It was all very odd.

The taxi came to a sudden halt, nearly precipitating him into Hermione’s lap.

“We’re here,” she said.

The building was quite impressive, all Victorian municipal grandeur, and lots of stairs leading to a wood-panelled room. They were five minutes early – as directed in the pamphlet – allowing Hermione time to hand over all sorts of documentation to the waiting clerk.

Her parents came bustling up soon afterwards with complaints of how difficult it had been to find parking, and then they were summoned into the room.

They stood side by side, in front of a kindly-looking middle-aged woman, who nodded to them both. “Are we ready to begin?”

Hermione surprised Severus by reaching out and grasping his hand; the woman smiled at such an obvious display of affection.

“Mr Snape. If you would repeat after me, I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful reason why I may not be joined in matrimony to Hermione Jane Granger.”

He dutifully parroted the words, then listened in his turn as Hermione made her declaration. He didn’t know of any lawful reason why they shouldn’t be joined, twas was true, but there was no sensible reason why they should other than the convulsive grip she had on his hand and the fact he’d agreed to this stupidity. And if nothing else he was a man of his word.

Still, he stumbled over the words where he took Hermione to be his lawful wedded wife. Hermione, it appeared had no such qualms, and firmly stated that, “ I, Hermione Jane Granger, take Severus Snape to be my lawful wedded husband."

And then they were exchanging rings, and they were man and wife, and he could kiss the bride, which neither of them were keen on, but had to be done.

There was the faintest meeting of lips in a chaste salute, and then they were signing the Register and it was over bar the ten years of bloody fall out.

They emerged blinking into the sun, and Mr Granger called for a taxi on his mobile.

It was an awkward group standing in silence on the Town Hall steps. Severus had never been one for small talk, particularly not with his students, and he had no experience of the sort of chatter that was appropriate with your in-laws. Maybe it was a skill he could acquire.

Ron, tactless Ron, broke the silence, and all those present were grateful for it. “So, Mrs Granger, what are we having for dinner?”

Mrs Granger gave him an indulgent glance. “I thought roast potatoes, cauliflower cheese, and roast chicken, and apple crumble to follow.”

Even Severus had to admit that that sounded wonderful.

The taxi journey back didn’t seem to take so long, or be anywhere near as bumpy as the journey there, and it wasn’t long before they were all seated round a large mahogany dining table, with the best linen and plates in honour of the occasion, tucking into a very fine dinner. Severus was, of course, back in his robes, though no one else had changed.

Mr Granger brought in a nice bottle of burgundy, and poured a glass for everyone, even Harry and Ron.

“I think a speech is called for,” he said, looking meaningfully at Severus.

Severus stopped his dissection of the chicken. Surely he didn’t mean that he should say something? It appeared he did. Severus thought for a moment; what on earth could he say that would be appropriate? Nothing about a long and happy marriage, that was for sure.

Inspiration struck. He raised his glass and said, “I give you a toast: to divorce!”

Severus was amused when Hermione was the first to raise her glass in response. “To divorce, and one hell of a divorce party!”

Severus was happy to drink to that. He was looking forward to meeting these blond witches he’d been promised. It might even make it worthwhile in the end. At least Hermione, of all the people who had asked him for favours over the years, had thought that there should be something in it for him.

It was a pity it was too late to mention the homework. Still, he thought, she was bound to want another favour at some point, and he could drop it into the conversation then. All was not lost.

There were worse things in life than being married to Hermione Granger; at least this way he might get a decent lunch from time to time, and the burgundy wasn’t bad either.

All in all, it was a mildly contented Severus who tucked into his dinner with gusto.

He had a nagging feeling that it was all bound to go horribly wrong at some point, but for now, well, there was apple crumble with custard.


A/N: Someone left a review querying whether Mr and Mrs Granger were allowed to be witnesses. As far as I can tell, they would appear to be, based on the information available at my local Register Office, where they suggest that parents both could and should be witnesses.

And Harry and Ron could be witnesses as well, as the age limit for that is apparently 16.

I have of course completely ignored the time required to fill in the paperwork – let’s just assume Mr and Mrs Granger had a word with Professor Snape and he borrowed a Timeturner and it was all posted on time after all.