Ten Things I Hate About You (3/6)
Sep. 9th, 2010 02:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
redorchidsChapter 6 – News
Pregnant.
She looked again. There was no mistaking it, the crystal clearly glowed blue when she put it on her stomach. She sighed and held it out before her, not sure of what she felt. It had been three weeks since her marriage, and when her period hadn’t come three days earlier, she had become suspicious. Now she had proof. She found she was shocked but not really surprised. She was seventeen after all – at her most fertile – and she’d been having sex daily for the past three weeks. It would have been a surprise if she hadn’t got pregnant. She sighed again. The Ministry would be happy. This was, after all, the reason they’d come up with the inane law. Question was only, was she? And what would her “husband” (she still had problems with calling him that without flinching) think about it?
She put the crystal in her pocket and leaned back in her chair, looking out the window. She was up in her old dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, only it’d been shrunk now that she was the only one living there. She liked to come up here to think, to get some space and to be alone. The past three weeks had gone by in a haze. It felt completely unreal. Normal life seemed like a lifetime away. Everything was upside down. She’d hardly talked to her friends since the Marriage Law was passed – everyone was just so busy worrying about their own problems. She hadn’t even told her friends she got married yet. She wondered if they’d be upset when she did. It wasn’t that she was afraid to tell them, she just felt like her married life was so completely separated from everything else that it felt weird acknowledging it as a part of her reality. Plus, she didn’t know where to start, and she knew all her friends would be very upset and express how sorry and disgusted they were for her sake. She wasn’t sure she wanted their sympathy and a litany on the flaws of Severus Snape. She knew about them already. Heck, she’d even written a list.
She popped a chocolate from a box on the floor in her mouth and thought about the past weeks. The only thing she could say for certain was that she was very confused. After their conversation the morning after their wedding, she’d concluded that perhaps the Perception Potion really was a good idea and decided not to drive herself crazy thinking about it anymore. It had worked for a little over two weeks, during which they hadn’t really seen each other much, except for in the bedroom and in other places suited for bedroom activities. It had been fun, she had to admit it. Fun and very satisfying. She found that with a good lover, sex really could be a great way to spend your time. She closed her eyes and remembered they way he would slide along her body, touching her everywhere, driving her crazy with need before finally entering her, thrusting hard, making her his…
There it was again, one of the words that had bothered her so much lately – “his”. She couldn’t explain it, but every time they were together, she felt so possessed by him, like clay in his hands, waiting for him to shape her. She didn’t like it in the least, because it went against all her thoughts and principles about relationships, and what she hated most was how much she liked feeling this way when she was in the middle of it. With Ron, she’d never felt that way. She had been his girlfriend, but she’d never been his, not the way she was with Severus. It was amazing that a man she didn’t even like could make her feel this way. Amazing and worrisome. She felt emotionally drained by him, as though he was taking her soul along with her body.
The other thing that had bothered her over the past week was that the potion seemed to be losing its effect. Not in the sense that the sallow-skinned, greasy-haired Potions Master was reappearing, but in the sense that the blue-eyed, handsome man in his stead didn’t appeal to her as much as he had in the beginning. It just felt shallow, all of it. It was too perfect, too beautiful, too sexy. His skin was smooth, his features flawless. His body held no secrets, no stories of things it’d been through in the past, no clues to who he was as a person. She found it very frustrating.
He’d been right, her desire for him was real, and she’d come to accept that. It wasn’t his body she desired though, not really. It wasn’t his strong arms and hard stomach that made her all hot and tingly - it was the way he moved against her, the way his hands caressed her skin. It wasn’t those incredible blue eyes that made her want to rip his robes off and take him to bed, it was what she saw in them, that burning look that told her he wanted her. And even though his short hair was gorgeous, she had a feeling that she wouldn’t much care what it looked like when she entered it with her hands to grab the back of his head and pull him closer to her in ecstasy… She’d thought a lot about it and figured out that if she hadn’t known about the other reality (the one she’d seen for close to seven years), or if she’d been an outside observer of someone else in her shoes, she would have decided that the potion was a very good invention. She actually agreed with Severus, that was the most confusing part. She agreed with every argument he made in favour of the potion and had come to accept the point of view that reality, like beauty, lay in the eye of the beholder. But she couldn’t stop the little voice in her head that was telling her that she was living a lie. She couldn’t smother the yearning for something “really real”. She knew she was being inconsistent and that her logic was flawed, but somehow, her body didn’t seem to care about logic. She just wished… she didn’t know exactly what she wished for.
She wondered if he felt the same, or if he was perfectly happy with shagging her curvy, silky-haired, redhead self every night. She supposed he was; dating Ron had taught her that men valued looks as one of the higher qualities in a girlfriend. To be honest, she’d always, on some level, expected that Ron would one day dump her for someone prettier and felt that she was more of a stand-in than an actual girlfriend to him. She’d always denied those feelings when they were going out, but now that it was all over, she saw things more clearly. He’d loved her, no doubt about that, but she suspected that it had been more of the love for a friend, with the added benefit of regular sex. She didn’t much care anymore, but wondered if Severus was the same. Sometimes, she got the feeling that there might be something more, sometimes when he looked so deep into her eyes that she felt like he was looking into her soul. She knew he needed his wand for Legilimency, so she didn’t worry that he was spying on her thoughts, but still… there had been a searching look in his eyes, like if he too was looking for the person beyond the face.
Someone knocked on the door and she turned her head in expectation, calling a “come in” to whoever was behind it. Ron, Harry, Ginny and Neville all entered, each carrying food and drinks in their arms. At her questioning glance, Harry said something about the kitchens and a trip to Honeydukes, after which they pulled up some chairs and a table, setting their booty down and sinking down into their chairs.
***
“What are you guys doing here?” Hermione asked, a little surprised to see them all at once after weeks of almost no interaction.
“Well,” Ginny said, “we thought we should come and see you. It’s been awhile since we last had a proper talk.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, “I just realised today that I hadn’t really talked to you in over three weeks. I don’t know how that happened.”
“I do,” inserted Ron, “we’ve all been going crazy from all this marriage stuff – teamed with the worries for the upcoming NEWTS, I might add. It’s been just nuts, Hermione, I’m sorry. And sorry I ran away like I did last time we talked,” he added, twirling a chocolate frog between his fingers nervously.
“It’s alright, Ron,” she replied, “it was completely understandable.”
“Still,” Neville cut in, “we should have realised that you too needed some love and support. So here we are.”
“Thanks guys,” she said, feeling her throat thicken a little at the gesture. It was nice to know that your friends were still there for you. “So, tell me, what’s going on? Ginny, how are you and Justin getting along?”
“Oh, quite fine actually. I don’t turn seventeen until August, you know, so I don’t have as much pressure on me as you guys do. We’re mainly getting to know each other better right now, and it’s going well. I think I’m even falling for him a little. He’s really sweet.” She smiled, and Hermione could see that she looked rather happy.
“Well, I’m glad for you,” she said, smiling back at her friend.
“That reminds me! We’re planning the wedding for this summer, August 25 to be exact, and I would like you to be my maid of honour. Will you, Hermione? Please?”
“I’d love to,” she smiled and then turned to her other friends. “And you guys, how are you doing?”
“Er,” Ron started nervously, “Katie and I are getting along pretty well, I guess. We’ve mainly been playing Quidditch and talking and stuff.” Hermione noticed that he didn’t quite meet her eye. She figured he and Katie were probably doing more than just flying and that Ron was feeling guilty talking about it in front of her. She searched her feelings for jealousy but found that there was none. Again she asked herself if what she’d had with Ron had really been love. It seemed to have died awfully quickly and without much pain…
“That’s great,” she said, getting a surprised look from Ron, who also looked a little dismayed at her calm, she thought. “What about you, Neville?”
“Well, Maria is really nice,” he said, hesitantly. “I like her. I’d like to spend more time with her before getting married, but I think it’ll be fine. She’s training to be a Herbologist and we’ve spent most of our time together out in the greenhouses where she works. It’s really amazing. I’m going to join her there as soon as we graduate. I’ve wanted to do the same thing for ages so it really fits. I think the Ministry quill might have been right,” he finished, blushing a little.
“And you, Harry?”
“I don’t know. I just feel lost. You all have been told who you have to marry. I’ve only been told that I have to marry and that I only have another five weeks to make my choice. You got a month, I have two, but I have to find someone in that space of time. I hate this whole thing,” he said bitterly, looking down at his butterbear.
“So there’s no one you fancy?”
“Sure there is,” Ginny cut in, “Harry just refuses to admit it.” Harry shot Ginny a deadly look.
“Who?” Neville wanted to know.
“Cecily Triton, you know the blonde girl who asked McGonagall a question when she read the law to us. She’s in my year, my dormitory actually, and she’s really nice.”
“Is she the one who’s a quarter mermaid?” Ron wanted to know.
“Exactly, though not one of the ugly ones we have here in the lake at Hogwarts. Apparently, her grandfather met one when he was in Greece on vacation. Oh come on, Harry!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes at Harry’s ugly looks. “You like her and you know it. Ask her out before it’s too late. One of the Ravenclaw seventh-years has also got his eye on her, and unless you want a repeat performance of your fourth year, I suggest you get things going.” Harry just stared down at the table.
“Anyway,” Neville said, trying to change the subject. “Maria and I are getting married next Saturday at St Paul’s chapel outside London. Her parents are Muggles so we’re having a Muggle wedding, and I have to wear something called a frock coat. Do you know what that is, Hermione? She tried to describe it to me but I just don’t get it.”
“Well, it’s a bit like robes if you cut them off at the top of the thigh and made them fit closer to your body. Wait a second and I’ll draw you a sketch.” She summoned a quill and parchment from her desk, then remembered something. “Or actually…” She went over to her nightstand and looked inside one of the drawers. At the bottom, under a stack of Ars Alchemica was a battered old bridal magazine. It was one she’d bought when she’d first started going out with Ron and was entertaining silly fantasies about possible future romantic weddings. She brought it over to the table and flipped through the pages. Finding what she was looking for, she pushed the magazine over to Neville. “There, that’s a frock coat.”
Neville, Ron and Ginny looked fascinated at the pictures, flipping through the magazine and commenting on the different crazy ideas Muggles came up with to wear. They all agreed that the frock coat was acceptable though, and Hermione saw Ginny look longingly at some of the gowns. She especially seemed to like the veils, and explained that witches didn’t wear them at weddings.
“So, Ron, when are you and Katie getting married?” Hermione asked, tearing her eyes away from the pictures in the magazine. But not fast enough. Ginny turned the page and there it was, her dream gown, the one she’d been looking at for hours, even transfiguring the model in the picture to look like her from time to time. It was a simple gown with an empress cut, full skirt and short trail; it was sleeveless and with a pretty pattern of pearls and silver at the top and along the hem. She’d pictured herself wearing it with a short veil and orchids in her hair. Now that dream looked very distant. She swallowed hard.
“… nothing fancy,” she heard Ron say and realised that she hadn’t been listening. “Hermione, are you alright? She heard his voice again, sounding worried. “You look so pale.”
“I’m fine, she stammered, reaching across the table to grab some more fudge. The sudden movement made the crystal slip out of her pocket and Ginny picked it up.
“What’s this?” she asked, looking at Hermione. “It looks like…” The voice died in her throat as she met her friend’s eyes.
“What is it?” Ron asked, leaning across. Ginny looked at her uncertainly, keeping the crystal in her hand. Hermione felt herself draw a deep breath.
“It’s a Conception Crystal,” she said, taking it from Ginny and putting it down on the table. “I’m pregnant, I just found out.”
The room went very silent. All three boys were staring at her. Ron looked as though he’d been hit with something heavy over the head.
“B-but h-how?” he spluttered. “H-how is that possible? I mean –”
“It’s not that difficult,” she said in a tired voice, strengthening herself with a big piece of fudge for what she knew she would have to tell them next.
“B-but,” Ron continued, “You can’t be! I mean, we used protection charms and stuff!” She stopped chewing mid-bite.
“Ron-”
“God! What am I gonna tell Katie?! Bloody hell, Hermione, how is all this gonna work out now?”
“Ron, wait, it’s –”
“And the bloke you’re marrying, how’s he gonna take it? The Ministry’s gonna go mad! Fuck! I can’t believe this is happening to me…”
“Ron!” she almost shouted, “Shut up and listen to me!” He did, as well as the other ones who were just starring at her in disbelief. She reached inside the neck of her robes and pulled out a thin gold chain, reminiscent of the one she’d used for the Time-Turner in her third year, and showed them the thin gold band hanging from it.
“I’m married. It’s not your baby, Ron.”
The looks of disbelief now changed into pure incredulity. Ron was gapping like a fish, clearly at loss for words. Harry was the first to speak:
“When? And why didn’t you tell us?”
“And who are you married to?” Ginny added, taking the ring in her hand and looking it over.
“Three weeks ago, the Saturday following the engagement announcements,” she started, uncomfortable. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I didn’t want it to feel like a real wedding and I thought it would be easier if no one I knew was there.”
“But, Hermione,” Ginny interrupted, “you’ve been dreaming about your wedding since you were little. I know you have. We used to talk about what kind of flowers we would have and where everyone would sit at the reception! Why would you throw all those fantasies away?”
“Maybe she just couldn’t wait to marry the bloke,” Ron said, a flustered look on his face. “Maybe they were already seeing each other before the notices came, maybe that’s why it had to be so quick. Three weeks seems like an awfully short time to get pregnant, eh Hermione?” His ears were red and she felt her anger rise as well. The cheek of him!
“Or maybe,” she answered in an icy voice so very like that of her present husband, “maybe I didn’t want to make a mockery out of my dream by using it with somebody I didn’t love. Maybe I just wanted to get it over with so that I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. Maybe I didn’t tell you because I was trying to tell myself that it wasn’t real!”
She stood up, swaying slightly and shaking with repressed anger.
“Do you want to know what name was on my scroll, Ron?! Severus Snape, that’s who! I’m married to our dear Potions professor and knocked up as well. Do you really blame me for being in denial? For not telling you guys? For not having a big, romantic wedding where I could wear a beautiful gown and promise my undying devotion to a man I hated?!”
“Snape?!” four voices cried in unison. “Please, please tell me you’re kidding,” Neville added.
“I’m sorry, Neville, but I’m not. I’m married to Snape and, believe it or not, it’s working tolerably well. We both dislike each other and stay out of the other’s way as much as possible,” she replied tiredly.
“B-but you’re pregnant,” Ginny said in a small voice. “You have to… ew!” She looked positively revolted and Hermione felt an odd pang of anger at her expression.
“It’s not that bad,” she retorted, wanting to take that look of disgust and pity off all of their faces. “He being a Potions Master helps things along quite nicely. And,” she added, seeing Ron’s revolted face and feeling something snap inside of her, “he happens to be just as good in bed as he is with a cauldron. Judging from the amount of time we spend having sex, I would be highly surprised if I didn’t get pregnant within a few months. I guess three weeks was just me getting lucky,” she finished sarcastically, stood up and walked out of the room, leaving her four friends sitting around the table with shocked expressions on their faces.
***
She almost ran down the stairs, wanting to get away from her friends, from her life, from everything. She rounded a corner and suddenly collided with a tall body. Looking up, she saw the familiar face of the man responsible for her current emotional turmoil.
“Miss Granger, please try to look where you’re going.” He made a point of maintaining the formal ways of address outside their private chambers and insisted she’d do so as well.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbled, trying to just brush past but felt his hand on her arm, blocking her escape.
“And where would you be off to in such a hurry?”
“Well, I figured I’d had enough of this and was just heading to the Astronomy Tower to kill myself,” she said, the sarcasm left in her voice from earlier.
“Then, by all means, don’t let me stop you,” he said with a smirk, letting go of her arm. She felt anger rising to the surface again and reached into the pocket of her robes.
“I’m pregnant,” she said, shoving the crystal into his hand before stalking off down the corridors. There, that would shut him up.
Chapter 7 – Memories
He caught up with her in the Entrance Hall and almost dragged her down the stairs to the dungeons. With a firm hold on her upper arm, he pushed her through the door of their bedroom and into one of the chairs by the fireplace. He then took a seat across from her and looked at her expectantly. She looked back, partly angry, partly bewildered. They just stared at each other for several minutes before Hermione broke the silence.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, I suppose you have something you want to tell me since you practically dragged me down here?”
“Not at all, I simply thought you might need some time to cool down. On closer consideration, having my pregnant young wife jumping from the Astronomy Tower could reflect rather poorly on myself. The Prophet would revel in the “terrible tragedy” for months and I would be most inconvenienced. Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?” He pulled out his wand and waved it, making a kettle, two cups and a bottle of Firewhiskey zoom to the table from across the room. On a second thought, he also lit a fire in the hearth, which soon filled the room with a warm glow.
“Nice to know that at least some parts of this crazy world stay the same. For a minute there, I almost thought you might actually care about me or your future child,” she said sarcastically. He grinned.
“Never,” he said, pouring two cups of tea and a rather large whiskey, which he pushed over the table to her. “Here, it’ll calm you down.”
“I can’t drink alcohol when I’m pregnant!” she said with incredulity, pushing the tumbler back and taking the cup of tea.
“Why not? There’s a perfectly good potion which protects the foetus from injury. There’s no reason you should be more miserable than you have to be when carrying it around.”
“Still…” She weighed the glass in her hand, remembering everything she’d heard on alcohol and pregnancy and how dangerous it was to drink while pregnant. She put it back down with a resolute look on her face. “…I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied, taking the glass and sipping the liquid with a look of pleasure on his face. “Ah, this is nice.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So, what is your reaction to having a baby?” she said, a bit nervous, half-wishing that she’d actually taken the drink.
“Well, I’d be lying to say that I’m pleased, but I figure that the sooner we get it over with the better. The Ministry has decided that we need to produce at least two offspring before we’re eligible for a divorce, and at this rate, we could be rid of each other in less than three years,” he said simply, sipping his drink as though they were talking about nothing more dramatic than the weather.
“And then what? You’re just going to throw me and the children out and go back to living a normal life?” She felt her anger starting to rise again, fuelled by his calm appearance.
“Pretty much, yes,” he affirmed, raising an eyebrow at the look of pure fury she shot at him. “You didn’t actually think we’d be a happy family, raising our perfect little normal kids together, did you?”
“Well, no… but-”
“Hermione,” he said with a sigh, putting his glass back down on the table, “you should know me better than that by now. You’ve seen me teach for seven years. I think your silly little brain should have deduced by now that I do not like children. As a matter of fact, I hate children, and more so the younger they are.”
“But this will be different, they’ll be your children. You’ll be a father, it will change you, it will-”
“That’s just things otherwise intelligent people tell themselves to keep from jumping off a bridge when they find out they're pregnant,” he interrupted her firmly. “I’ve never wanted to be a father, I don’t know how to be one and I don’t particularly wish to learn. Before this inane law, I was actually rather happy with my life. I don’t wish to disrupt it further than the Ministry already has.”
“I’ll prove you wrong,” she said with conviction, locking eyes with him. “You’ll see.”
“Is that so?” he said with a smirk.
“Yes.”
They looked into each other’s eyes, both trying to stare the other down, both faces growing grimmer, more determined.
“Come over here,” he said softly, his lips curling into a rather unpleasant smile. She just raised her eyebrow and walked over to him, accepting his challenge without any signs of fear. He pulled her down in his lap and opened the top buttons of his robes, placing her hand inside to rub across the skin like he’d done the morning after their wedding.
“Here, what do you feel?” he asked, placing her fingers above his heart.
“Apart from your skin and the beating of your heart, nothing,” she answered, trying to sound bored. He grabbed her hand and guided the fingers to trace the scars he had there, circling each one slowly.
“Every circle your fingers trace bears witness of a lesson in childrearing that I was taught by my father. He liked burning cigarettes the best because of the smoke and the smell that flesh and blood create when singed by the fire. This one,” he moved her finger around the one most to the right, “I got when I was five, because I fell down the stairs and disturbed him when he was reading. This one,” he moved her fingers to a larger one, closer to his heart, “he worked on for quite some time. He used to say that nothing was more satisfying than opening old scars and making them bleed again. Always go for the sore spots if you really want to cause pain, Hermione, that’s what he would tell you.” He looked up at her and noticed that her eyes were becoming slightly shiny and that she was trembling. He moved her hand a little higher. “And here,” he said, keeping her fingers in a strong grip, “you have his masterpiece – a mark made by no fewer than five cigarettes, a hot iron poker and, of course, his favourite knife. He gave me that when I was thirteen, the same night he finally killed my mother. Now, Hermione, you know as well as I do that people tend to become like their parents. So answer me this: Do you really want me near your children?”
She tried to remove her hand but he wouldn’t let her, holding it in an iron grip, tracing the scars over and over. He knew she couldn’t feel them but he didn’t care. He wanted to scare her, scare her enough so that she would take whatever children they had far away from him. He’d never wanted to be a father and he certainly never wanted to turn into his own. When a Death Eater, he had found that the darker, violent side of him was very present, and he’d revelled in the sensation of causing other people immense pain. He’d enjoyed their pleading and screaming, their tears and their shame. He’d done things that would make her sick, and he’d been proud of them, becoming a little more of a monster every day. He’d wandered further and further down the path of destruction, until that day…
“I can feel it!” she suddenly sobbed, bringing him back to the present. Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she traced each scar over and over without his guidance. “God! I can actually feel them… the skin has changed… God, how can anybody be so cruel?” she cried, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly, her tears wetting the top of his robes. He was shocked by her reaction - she was supposed to be halfway to Gryffindor Tower right now, not holding on to him like this, not acting like… like she actually cared. He moved his hands to her sides, preparing to push her away, when she moved her face away from his neck and looked down at him, face streaked with tears, eyes big and blue and full of empathy. He felt a strange tightening in his chest and started pushing her away. He didn’t want pity, especially not from her, a seventeen-year-old Gryffindor. He opened his mouth to say something scathing, something that would hurt her, something that would turn her away. And then she kissed him.
For the second time in just a couple of minutes, he was taken by surprise. He tried pushing her away, but her arms were so tightly wrapped around his neck this proved a most difficult task. He felt like he was drowning - her tears were everywhere and her mouth was on his so hard he couldn’t breathe. He was drowning, and he was burning; every touch of her lips, every tear that touched his skin, every bit of him that came into contact with her went through him like liquid fire. Not the glowing, deep-red kind that they had wielded together for the past weeks, but the searing, white-hot flames of pure agony. She was feeding him goodness and compassion and it choked him. Every comforting caress was torture, and why, why were his hands snaking themselves around her back, pressing her even closer against him, holding her so hard he could feel his knuckles go white? The pain was spreading through his body, growing, fading, making him think he would lose his mind, when suddenly, it all soared into his chest and was concentrated into a single point, like someone had just put a burning iron to his skin.
He cried out and pushed hard, sending her sprawling to the floor. In a second, he was on his feet, grasping his chest and breathing heavily. His scars, over which she’d placed a soft hand, were burning worse than ever. He looked over at her limp form where she lay on the floor. She’d fallen hard onto the merciless stone and was clutching one of her wrists in pain. From the expression on her face, her cries and the limp way she was holding it, he concluded that it was probably broken. Memories flashed before his eyes - memories of his mother crouching like that, crying like that, holding her wrist like that after he’d found her in a limp pile at the bottom of the stairs, and he felt a jolt of undiluted fear run down his spine. Suddenly, he was transported seventeen years back in time, to the day when he had looked in the mirror the morning after a very bloody mission and realised that he’d killed the man he most hated only to take his place in the world. He’d seen his father staring back at him through the glass, the same vile, sadistic pleasure shining from black eyes that held no pity. He’d gone to Dumbledore the very same day.
And now, Hermione -his wife- was lying in a broken heap at his feet, crying from the pain that he’d caused her. Almost in a trance, he pulled out his wand and watched the limp body levitate off the ground, just like he had so many times in the past. He placed her gently on the bed and muttered the spells to heal her broken bones - spells he’d learnt long before even coming to Hogwarts, taking the long delicate willow and unicorn wand from his mother’s trembling hand when the pain made her unable to heal her own injuries. He remembered how helpless he’d felt back then, as he’d pressed icepacks to her face to calm a swelling or a black eye. Noting that there was such a swelling forming at Hermione’s left temple, (she’d undoubtedly hit her head when she fell) he conjured just such an icepack and pressed it gently against her head. Her eyes were closed and she moaned softly, her face pale, her body unmoving. Without thinking, he raised his other hand and stroked her cheek softly, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. Drawing a shuddering breath, she opened her eyes and he noticed that the sapphire blue had been replaced with a honeyed brown. Little specks of green and gold were scattered in them and the ring around the iris was a deep, almost blackish brown. He watched them widen and felt again the soft touch of her hand on his face. He resisted the impulse to pull away as she ran her fingers across his eyes, along the length of his nose and into his hair, twirling a long strand and wrapping it around her index finger. Then, as soon as it had made contact, the hand was withdrawn and he saw a shadow of fear pass across her eyes. Muttering a charm to keep the icepack in place, he stood up.
“I trust you understand now why I should never be a father, and why I should never have become a husband in the first place. Trust me, Hermione, the sooner we disappear out of each other’s lives, the better it’ll be for both of us.”
And with that, he left the room.
Chapter 8 – Violence Within
Three weeks went past in which they hardly saw each other. They occupied the same space during lessons and mealtimes but didn’t much look at each other. He avoided her and she did the same, though why she could never quite figure out. She walked around in an almost dreamlike state, not really caring about everything that went on around her. She’d been to Neville’s wedding and to Ron’s, which had only made her feel even more detached. The time when she’d shared everything with her friends, the time when they’d been close, seemed suddenly so very far away. Ginny and Harry tried to talk to her sometimes but she found she didn’t really know how to talk to them about herself and her feelings. She just felt… cut off.
Mainly, she thought about her husband. Their last conversation and what happened after it had replayed in her mind almost constantly since he left her that day. She just couldn’t stop thinking about it – the things he’d said, the things he’d done and, most importantly, how she’d reacted to it all. She’d gone over her feelings again and again, trying to make some sense of them, trying to see the situation from an objective perspective. It wasn’t easy.
The scene had made her realise things about herself that weren’t very pleasant. She remembered when she’d first felt – really felt – the scars on his chest, the ragged edges of the deep cuts and burns. She’d felt such pain, both for him and, strangely, for herself. Feeling the evidence of his pain had brought back memories. Not like the ones he must have, of course - she’d never been physically abused by anyone - but memories of different kinds of mental abuse she’d had to bear over the years. Little snide comments that she pretended didn’t bother her, but which pricked her deeper than she cared to admit. The laughter behind her back, people abruptly going silent as she walked into a room, the loneliness she’d often felt, even when she had friends all around her. Little tiny drops of water that together carved deep into the stone, and into her heart. All this had come swirling back to her, opening that big hole inside her that she tried to pretend didn’t exist, and she’d been desperate to hang onto something, distract herself from the pain, convincing herself that there was someone in the world who wanted her, who cared for her. And so she’d kissed him.
She still couldn’t understand how her brain had suffered such a complete meltdown. Clearly, her reason had evaporated altogether when she made that decision. She reminded herself that she didn’t like him, that he didn’t like her and that he was the last person who would give her the things she craved. Still, she’d kissed him and clung to him so hard she thought she would break from the tension. When he’d tried to push her away, she’d only clung to him more, not able to take rejection from him then, trying desperately to feel something, to connect, to ease her own pain by trying to ease his. He’d given in and pulled her to him, and she’d felt, for a few glorious moments, a genuine connection. It’d been dark and painful, but it had been there. And it had been powerful. She had felt it while she was assaulted by a multitude of emotions, as they clung to each other in mindless… whatever it had been. In that moment, he was no longer connected to everything she hated about the teacher who was now her husband. None of it mattered as they kissed, connecting for the very first time through their mutual pain. And then, she’d ruined everything…
She’d moved a hand down to his heart, wanting to brush away the pain, the scars, the memories. She’d felt such strong emotion right then, like she would do anything to help him, anything to make him heal, anything to make him need her, want her, crave what she had to give. She’d touched him and he’d reacted as though she’d sliced his chest open all over again. She hadn’t even have time to react before she hit the stone, falling on her arm, hearing a cracking sound and then… blackness for a short while before she came back to her now double pain. She’d been too preoccupied to realise what was happening and only vaguely noted that she was floating, that the pain in her arm stopped and that something cool was pressed to her pounding head. When she felt the fingers softly caress her cheek, she’d somehow known that it was him, even though it made no sense and despite the fact that her eyes were still closed. When she’d opened them, she’d had a small shock: his face was back to the way she’d known it for almost seven years. Instead of disappointment, she’d felt a strange joy, tracing his features, twisting a strand of the hair she used to find so disgusting around one of her fingers. It didn’t strike her as gross anymore, because this was real, this was him, and he belonged to h-
Suddenly, a piercing fear had gripped her heart, making it beat fast and hard in her chest and she’d recoiled. The implications of the thoughts and feelings she was having had hit her like a lightning strike and she’d felt her breathing stop short in her chest. What game was her mind playing on her? Where did those spine-chilling thoughts come from? Confused and scared, she tried to calm down, to reason with herself. She was vaguely aware that he was talking, but the blood pounding in her ears blocked out all sound. She wanted desperately to reach out to him, at the same time as another part of her wanted to run away and hide. She struggled to find something to say, something to do, something that would put things back to the way they’d been before she’d thrown herself at someone she loathed just to escape from being alone.
Before she’d been able to think of anything, he’d left the room.
***
A clock struck midnight somewhere in the castle. She counted the twelve heavy clangs as she lay in her old bed in Gryffindor Tower, unable to sleep. She’d started sleeping there again when he hadn’t come to bed two nights in a row. Seeing as she was now pregnant, they weren’t obligated to have sex anymore, and so they hadn’t, for three weeks. She figured she should be relieved, but she mainly felt… empty. She’d got used to curling up against his back to sleep, (he always turned away from her to sleep on his side) and, frankly, she missed having him touch her. What had been a sort of girlfriendly duty when she was with Ron had transformed into something she looked forward too, longed for even. She hated to admit it to herself, but she actually missed him.
In only a few days, the NEWTS would start, and so she’d spent virtually all of her time studying. It helped take her mind off things, but she found she wasn’t as concentrated as usual. Potions revision, especially, went rather badly. She started to feel like she had in her third year: stressed and tired. She didn’t get much sleep, and what little she did get was disturbed by dreams she never could remember when she woke up, but which left her with a feeling of unease that lasted most of the morning. Oh, and she was experiencing the female delight of morning sickness as well, a joy not to be forgotten.
This was no good. She’d been lying awake for over an hour now. With a sigh, she slid out of bed, put on her slippers and a dressing gown and walked over to the fireplace. She picked up the pot of glittering powder placed on top of it and weighed it in her hand for a long time. Finally, she reminded her self that if she was to pass the NEWTS with top marks, she needed some peace of mind. With a trembling hand, she threw a pinch into the fire and stepped into the glimmering emerald flames.
***
She found her husband sitting in one of the chairs by the fire as she stepped out of the flames. If he’d been surprised at her entry, he’d been able to hide it well in the few seconds it took her to wipe the dust off her clothes. Slowly, she raised her head and looked at him.
“Hermione, what are you doing here?” His voice was low and sounded slightly guarded.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she answered truthfully.
“And so you came down here. Why?”
“Because you’re the reason I couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah,” he said with a small smile, “you’ve come to face your demons. How original.”
He still hadn’t moved. She was starting to feel nervous again.
“Well, I just think we should talk about what happened, that’s all.” He let out a snort.
“Oh, yes, the healing magic of talking,” he drawled sarcastically. “Where we talk about our precious feelings and then share a big hug.” His voice dropped and gained an icy quality as he continued, “Well, think again, Hermione. I’m not a love-sick little Hufflepuff. I won’t be playing your games.”
“Well, that’s not what I meant, I just thought –”
“What? That I should apologise to you? That I should get down on my knees and swear it won’t happen again, that I didn’t mean it and that I’d never purposefully hurt you? Is that what you want?”
“No,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, “that’s not what I meant. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have touched you like that, I –” She was abruptly cut off as he launched out of the chair and caught her arms in an iron grip, his black eyes glaring down at her.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t tempt my dark side this way. Don’t invite me to hurt you again.”
“B-but, I-I’m not -” she stammered, feeling tears rise in her eyes and trying to push them back down.
“Yes, you are,” he said firmly, tightening his grip even more, making her whimper. “I know the signals all too well, Hermione. I studied the signs and the patterns for years, desperate to find a way to break them but I never could. It was always the same. He would apologise, she would forgive and make excuses, accepting the blame to make his life easier. And he would strike her again, harder this time, because she would let him, forgive him and make more excuses. In the end, he stopped apologising and just put the blame directly on her. And she would accept it and apologise for having angered him. And the more she did that, the more faults he would find in her that warranted punishment. Until he killed her.”
“But I’m not like that!” she protested, tears in her eyes now. “You’re not like that! You risked your life for the Order, you helped destroy Voldemort! You’re not evil.” He growled and gave her a hard shake.
“Don’t pretend to think that you know me, Hermione. You have no idea what motivated my actions during the war. I can cause pain, believe me. And I enjoy it. There is no sweeter feeling than revenge, the delicious power that flows through your veins as you see another person suffer at your hands…” He moved a hand to her face and caressed her cheek slowly, then cupped her chin, tilted her head back and held it firmly as his eyes bored into hers, the other arm sliding around her back, pulling her close. “And you, my dear,” he said, pure silk in his voice now, “have all the makings of a broken woman. I sensed it already in your first year: desperate for attention, too eager to please, far too grateful for any little crumb of praise that would fall from the teachers’ table. I watched it develop as you grew, along with your arrogance. Yes, arrogance,” he repeated sharply, as she opened her mouth to protest. “Your outer confidence grew, you enjoyed showing off, you revelled in the success of your studies as well as the little missions you and your moronic friends went on. And I watched you and I knew that it was all on the surface, that the illustrious Miss Granger was still just an insecure little girl who could easily be broken by the right man. You’re weak, Hermione. I could break you in very little time.”
She stood so still in his arms, her eyes lowered, her breathing barely noticeable. He was rather surprised at this reaction. He’d have thought she’d deny it, get angry, try to fight him even. Instead she just stood there, unmoving. He wondered how much of this she’d already known about herself. In all likelihood, not too much - perhaps this was her way of reacting to shock…? Just as he thought this, she stirred in his arms.
“You’re right,” she whispered, so quietly it was hardly audible. Gods, you’re right! It all makes sense…” she started to cry uncontrollably, mumbling words he couldn’t make out through her sobs. He felt revulsion rise within him along with a mounting anger at her display of weakness. He wanted to push her away, to shout at her, to hurt her. His hands tingled with the need to slap her, to choke her, to make her stop this sickening flaunting of her feelings. He’d always despised people who couldn’t control themselves, who wore their hearts on their sleeves and thereby unconsciously instructed people on how to hurt them the most. He wanted to hurt these people, to punish them for being weak, for giving up control and power so willingly. He wanted to hurt Hermione now, hurt her utterly, watch the blood run from her nose as he broke it with one swift punch, watch her cry out as he threw her against the wall, pounding her head against it, again and again... Hurt her until the growing pain went away in his own chest. But he knew that that would be the beginning of the end and that he would end up breaking the only promise he’d ever truly made: to never become his father.
So instead, he gathered all his self-control, took some deep breaths and forced the anger back. He moved the trembling hands that wanted to strike her up to carefully caress her face and silenced the hurtful, scathing comments that demanded release by taking her lips in a soft kiss. He held himself in such check it hurt, willing his anger to ebb, stopping his teeth from biting down and drawing blood at the last moment. His breath became ragged as he fought to keep his restraint, and he concentrated on the feel of her, on her soft lips, on her face under his hands. She started to respond and he deepened the kiss, looking for something to distract him, to replace the destructive feelings that threatened to overcome him. He found it as she moaned softly and moved her arms around his neck, pressing closer against him. The kiss became more heated, more desperate, each seeking escape in the other’s touch. With a groan, he picked her up and carried her to bed.
***
Hermione awoke late, or so she figured. Since the bedroom didn’t have any windows she couldn’t tell the time by looking at the sun, (not that she’d ever been very good at that) but from the feeling in her body, she concluded that she must have slept long. She felt truly rested for the first time in weeks. She rolled over and found the other side of the bed empty. She figured Severus was probably in class since only the fifth- and seventh-years had these last few days before exams off. Stretching languidly, she let the memories of the night before wash over her.
Their coming together had been an act of desperation, of trying to hold on to something in a world falling apart. It’d been harsh and painful and exhausting, but afterwards, she’d felt a hundred times better, as though the emotional and mental tension had been released along with the physical. She’d felt drained but oddly at peace. They’d collapsed from exhaustion, still in each other’s arms, and she’d slept better than she had in a long time. She got out of bed and walked into the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror. Several deep-red and blue love bites adorned her neck and upper chest and she touched them gingerly with her fingers, wondering whether a Concealment Charm would be enough to cover them up. Since it was almost summer, she couldn’t really wear a scarf around her neck…
“I see you got marked from last night as well,” a voice suddenly sounded behind her. She spun around, coming face to face with Snape who was just getting out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist.
“How…?” she managed, looking bewildered.
“Silencing Charm, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I thought you would be in class.”
“I will, in a few hours.”
“What? What time is it?”
“Six thirty,” he answered with a shrug, moving over to the mirror to comb out his hair. “Move over a little, will you?”
She stepped to the side and watched, mesmerised, as he pulled the comb through the long dark strands. His hair really wasn’t that bad, she thought, at least not now that it was newly washed. She put a hand on his shoulder and ran it along his arm without thinking. She felt his muscles tense and half withdrew it before his other hand came down on hers, holding it in place. She looked up and met his eyes in the mirror, unsure of what to do next.
“Continue,” he whispered, letting go of her hand and picking up a razor from the stand. He started putting shaving cream on his face as she watched, again moving her hand along his arm and shoulder.
He was very tense and she noticed that his hand trembled slightly. Every now and then, he would pause with the razor and draw some deep breaths. She didn’t know what was going on but kept stroking him the way he’d asked. Stepping close, she let one hand caress his back and kissed his shoulder tenderly. He almost jumped and let out a swift curse. She threw an eye at the mirror and saw blood sipping from a cut on his cheek. He looked furious. Again she drew back. His voice stopped her.
“No, Hermione, continue. …please,” he added as an afterthought. “I need this, I need to test myself this way.”
She complied and took a step closer, moving her hands over his back and placing little kisses along his shoulder. Moving her mouth to his back, she opened her eyes and noticed long red marks cutting across it. She looked closer. The scratches were bright red and looked fresh. She followed one of them with one finger and realisation hit. Her nails. She gasped and stepped back again. This time his face in the mirror wore a strange smile.
“I hurt you. I’m sorry,” she said, unable to pull her eyes away from the mirror.
“Don’t be. The marking was clearly mutual,” he replied, indicating the bruises on her neck. He had finished shaving now and turned around, little specks of healing salve in the places where the razor had slipped. “I have a salve in my lab that will heal those for you. Otherwise, I fear Potter and Weasley will come storming down here to hex me before noon, and I’d rather not lay eyes on their pathetic faces today. I’ll be right back.”
He walked out of the bathroom and she moved to the wash stand, threw some water in her face and then tried to get her hair to lie in place. As usual, it wouldn’t. She struggled for a while and then gave up. Maybe she should just cut it? It had grown truly wild in the last year and it seemed that the longer it got, the messier and frizzier it became as well. It also took a lot of time in the morning, just to transform the “I’ve-just-been-caught-in-a-hurricane”-look to something a little less frightening. Right now, she figured it didn’t matter, because Snape couldn’t see it anyway, but she’d have to stand in front of a whole class of first-years later that morning, and she’d prefer not to have them call her “Miss Greatpoof” behind her back. Twisting her hair into a long rope, she curled it into a figure eight at the back of her head and secured it with an extra strong Sticking Charm.
In the meantime, Snape had come back with the salve. He dipped his fingers into it and then started to massage it into her skin. He worked with calm precise movements, just the right pressure to coax her muscles to relax without causing additional pain to the sore spots. She sighed softly and closed her eyes, a smile spreading across her lips. When he’d finished, he let his hands linger on her skin for a little while longer, massaging her neck and shoulders gently.
“Thank you,” she whispered with a smile when he finally withdrew his hands. “Here, let me help you with yours.” She reached out to grab the jar of salve but he recoiled.
“No need, I’m fine.”
“Severus,” she said half-exasperatedly, “you have deep scratches on your back. Give me the salve. They will scar if you don’t attend to them.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, putting the salve away. “I doubt I will be able to even see a difference, or tell those ones apart from the others.” He turned away from her and started making his way towards the bedroom. She stopped him with a hand on his arm, the other stroking his back again. She studied him carefully but could only see the scratches she’d caused him, contrasted against smooth skin.
“I can’t see…”
“Of course you can’t. You would – quite naturally – rather feel smooth skin under your hands than a collection of scars, and the Perception Potion adjusts for your desires. You see what you want to see, I’ve already told you that.” He shrugged out of her grip and kept walking, turning to his closet and pulling out a set of black robes.
“But I see your face!” she protested. “And your chest!”
“Then you obviously have very bad taste,” he replied dryly, “either that or your Gryffindor nobility and your ridiculous notions of truth are again playing games with your mind. If you see my face the way it was, that means that this is what you most desire to see. Think about the implications of that for a while.” He smirked, donned his robes and fastened the buttons.
“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he said, opening the door.
“Severus, wait,” she pleaded, moving across the room to stand between him and the door. “Why won’t you let me help you? Just give me the salve and…”
“I don’t need your help,” he interrupted her icily. “And moreover, I don’t want your help. Last night brought some revelations, not a double lobotomy. And, may I remind you…” He stepped closer, putting his hand at the back of her head and pulling her to him in a searing kiss that left them both breathless. “…We happen to hate each other.” With a sardonic smile, he brushed a curly brown tendril from her face and walked out the door.
Next part
Pregnant.
She looked again. There was no mistaking it, the crystal clearly glowed blue when she put it on her stomach. She sighed and held it out before her, not sure of what she felt. It had been three weeks since her marriage, and when her period hadn’t come three days earlier, she had become suspicious. Now she had proof. She found she was shocked but not really surprised. She was seventeen after all – at her most fertile – and she’d been having sex daily for the past three weeks. It would have been a surprise if she hadn’t got pregnant. She sighed again. The Ministry would be happy. This was, after all, the reason they’d come up with the inane law. Question was only, was she? And what would her “husband” (she still had problems with calling him that without flinching) think about it?
She put the crystal in her pocket and leaned back in her chair, looking out the window. She was up in her old dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, only it’d been shrunk now that she was the only one living there. She liked to come up here to think, to get some space and to be alone. The past three weeks had gone by in a haze. It felt completely unreal. Normal life seemed like a lifetime away. Everything was upside down. She’d hardly talked to her friends since the Marriage Law was passed – everyone was just so busy worrying about their own problems. She hadn’t even told her friends she got married yet. She wondered if they’d be upset when she did. It wasn’t that she was afraid to tell them, she just felt like her married life was so completely separated from everything else that it felt weird acknowledging it as a part of her reality. Plus, she didn’t know where to start, and she knew all her friends would be very upset and express how sorry and disgusted they were for her sake. She wasn’t sure she wanted their sympathy and a litany on the flaws of Severus Snape. She knew about them already. Heck, she’d even written a list.
She popped a chocolate from a box on the floor in her mouth and thought about the past weeks. The only thing she could say for certain was that she was very confused. After their conversation the morning after their wedding, she’d concluded that perhaps the Perception Potion really was a good idea and decided not to drive herself crazy thinking about it anymore. It had worked for a little over two weeks, during which they hadn’t really seen each other much, except for in the bedroom and in other places suited for bedroom activities. It had been fun, she had to admit it. Fun and very satisfying. She found that with a good lover, sex really could be a great way to spend your time. She closed her eyes and remembered they way he would slide along her body, touching her everywhere, driving her crazy with need before finally entering her, thrusting hard, making her his…
There it was again, one of the words that had bothered her so much lately – “his”. She couldn’t explain it, but every time they were together, she felt so possessed by him, like clay in his hands, waiting for him to shape her. She didn’t like it in the least, because it went against all her thoughts and principles about relationships, and what she hated most was how much she liked feeling this way when she was in the middle of it. With Ron, she’d never felt that way. She had been his girlfriend, but she’d never been his, not the way she was with Severus. It was amazing that a man she didn’t even like could make her feel this way. Amazing and worrisome. She felt emotionally drained by him, as though he was taking her soul along with her body.
The other thing that had bothered her over the past week was that the potion seemed to be losing its effect. Not in the sense that the sallow-skinned, greasy-haired Potions Master was reappearing, but in the sense that the blue-eyed, handsome man in his stead didn’t appeal to her as much as he had in the beginning. It just felt shallow, all of it. It was too perfect, too beautiful, too sexy. His skin was smooth, his features flawless. His body held no secrets, no stories of things it’d been through in the past, no clues to who he was as a person. She found it very frustrating.
He’d been right, her desire for him was real, and she’d come to accept that. It wasn’t his body she desired though, not really. It wasn’t his strong arms and hard stomach that made her all hot and tingly - it was the way he moved against her, the way his hands caressed her skin. It wasn’t those incredible blue eyes that made her want to rip his robes off and take him to bed, it was what she saw in them, that burning look that told her he wanted her. And even though his short hair was gorgeous, she had a feeling that she wouldn’t much care what it looked like when she entered it with her hands to grab the back of his head and pull him closer to her in ecstasy… She’d thought a lot about it and figured out that if she hadn’t known about the other reality (the one she’d seen for close to seven years), or if she’d been an outside observer of someone else in her shoes, she would have decided that the potion was a very good invention. She actually agreed with Severus, that was the most confusing part. She agreed with every argument he made in favour of the potion and had come to accept the point of view that reality, like beauty, lay in the eye of the beholder. But she couldn’t stop the little voice in her head that was telling her that she was living a lie. She couldn’t smother the yearning for something “really real”. She knew she was being inconsistent and that her logic was flawed, but somehow, her body didn’t seem to care about logic. She just wished… she didn’t know exactly what she wished for.
She wondered if he felt the same, or if he was perfectly happy with shagging her curvy, silky-haired, redhead self every night. She supposed he was; dating Ron had taught her that men valued looks as one of the higher qualities in a girlfriend. To be honest, she’d always, on some level, expected that Ron would one day dump her for someone prettier and felt that she was more of a stand-in than an actual girlfriend to him. She’d always denied those feelings when they were going out, but now that it was all over, she saw things more clearly. He’d loved her, no doubt about that, but she suspected that it had been more of the love for a friend, with the added benefit of regular sex. She didn’t much care anymore, but wondered if Severus was the same. Sometimes, she got the feeling that there might be something more, sometimes when he looked so deep into her eyes that she felt like he was looking into her soul. She knew he needed his wand for Legilimency, so she didn’t worry that he was spying on her thoughts, but still… there had been a searching look in his eyes, like if he too was looking for the person beyond the face.
Someone knocked on the door and she turned her head in expectation, calling a “come in” to whoever was behind it. Ron, Harry, Ginny and Neville all entered, each carrying food and drinks in their arms. At her questioning glance, Harry said something about the kitchens and a trip to Honeydukes, after which they pulled up some chairs and a table, setting their booty down and sinking down into their chairs.
***
“What are you guys doing here?” Hermione asked, a little surprised to see them all at once after weeks of almost no interaction.
“Well,” Ginny said, “we thought we should come and see you. It’s been awhile since we last had a proper talk.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, “I just realised today that I hadn’t really talked to you in over three weeks. I don’t know how that happened.”
“I do,” inserted Ron, “we’ve all been going crazy from all this marriage stuff – teamed with the worries for the upcoming NEWTS, I might add. It’s been just nuts, Hermione, I’m sorry. And sorry I ran away like I did last time we talked,” he added, twirling a chocolate frog between his fingers nervously.
“It’s alright, Ron,” she replied, “it was completely understandable.”
“Still,” Neville cut in, “we should have realised that you too needed some love and support. So here we are.”
“Thanks guys,” she said, feeling her throat thicken a little at the gesture. It was nice to know that your friends were still there for you. “So, tell me, what’s going on? Ginny, how are you and Justin getting along?”
“Oh, quite fine actually. I don’t turn seventeen until August, you know, so I don’t have as much pressure on me as you guys do. We’re mainly getting to know each other better right now, and it’s going well. I think I’m even falling for him a little. He’s really sweet.” She smiled, and Hermione could see that she looked rather happy.
“Well, I’m glad for you,” she said, smiling back at her friend.
“That reminds me! We’re planning the wedding for this summer, August 25 to be exact, and I would like you to be my maid of honour. Will you, Hermione? Please?”
“I’d love to,” she smiled and then turned to her other friends. “And you guys, how are you doing?”
“Er,” Ron started nervously, “Katie and I are getting along pretty well, I guess. We’ve mainly been playing Quidditch and talking and stuff.” Hermione noticed that he didn’t quite meet her eye. She figured he and Katie were probably doing more than just flying and that Ron was feeling guilty talking about it in front of her. She searched her feelings for jealousy but found that there was none. Again she asked herself if what she’d had with Ron had really been love. It seemed to have died awfully quickly and without much pain…
“That’s great,” she said, getting a surprised look from Ron, who also looked a little dismayed at her calm, she thought. “What about you, Neville?”
“Well, Maria is really nice,” he said, hesitantly. “I like her. I’d like to spend more time with her before getting married, but I think it’ll be fine. She’s training to be a Herbologist and we’ve spent most of our time together out in the greenhouses where she works. It’s really amazing. I’m going to join her there as soon as we graduate. I’ve wanted to do the same thing for ages so it really fits. I think the Ministry quill might have been right,” he finished, blushing a little.
“And you, Harry?”
“I don’t know. I just feel lost. You all have been told who you have to marry. I’ve only been told that I have to marry and that I only have another five weeks to make my choice. You got a month, I have two, but I have to find someone in that space of time. I hate this whole thing,” he said bitterly, looking down at his butterbear.
“So there’s no one you fancy?”
“Sure there is,” Ginny cut in, “Harry just refuses to admit it.” Harry shot Ginny a deadly look.
“Who?” Neville wanted to know.
“Cecily Triton, you know the blonde girl who asked McGonagall a question when she read the law to us. She’s in my year, my dormitory actually, and she’s really nice.”
“Is she the one who’s a quarter mermaid?” Ron wanted to know.
“Exactly, though not one of the ugly ones we have here in the lake at Hogwarts. Apparently, her grandfather met one when he was in Greece on vacation. Oh come on, Harry!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes at Harry’s ugly looks. “You like her and you know it. Ask her out before it’s too late. One of the Ravenclaw seventh-years has also got his eye on her, and unless you want a repeat performance of your fourth year, I suggest you get things going.” Harry just stared down at the table.
“Anyway,” Neville said, trying to change the subject. “Maria and I are getting married next Saturday at St Paul’s chapel outside London. Her parents are Muggles so we’re having a Muggle wedding, and I have to wear something called a frock coat. Do you know what that is, Hermione? She tried to describe it to me but I just don’t get it.”
“Well, it’s a bit like robes if you cut them off at the top of the thigh and made them fit closer to your body. Wait a second and I’ll draw you a sketch.” She summoned a quill and parchment from her desk, then remembered something. “Or actually…” She went over to her nightstand and looked inside one of the drawers. At the bottom, under a stack of Ars Alchemica was a battered old bridal magazine. It was one she’d bought when she’d first started going out with Ron and was entertaining silly fantasies about possible future romantic weddings. She brought it over to the table and flipped through the pages. Finding what she was looking for, she pushed the magazine over to Neville. “There, that’s a frock coat.”
Neville, Ron and Ginny looked fascinated at the pictures, flipping through the magazine and commenting on the different crazy ideas Muggles came up with to wear. They all agreed that the frock coat was acceptable though, and Hermione saw Ginny look longingly at some of the gowns. She especially seemed to like the veils, and explained that witches didn’t wear them at weddings.
“So, Ron, when are you and Katie getting married?” Hermione asked, tearing her eyes away from the pictures in the magazine. But not fast enough. Ginny turned the page and there it was, her dream gown, the one she’d been looking at for hours, even transfiguring the model in the picture to look like her from time to time. It was a simple gown with an empress cut, full skirt and short trail; it was sleeveless and with a pretty pattern of pearls and silver at the top and along the hem. She’d pictured herself wearing it with a short veil and orchids in her hair. Now that dream looked very distant. She swallowed hard.
“… nothing fancy,” she heard Ron say and realised that she hadn’t been listening. “Hermione, are you alright? She heard his voice again, sounding worried. “You look so pale.”
“I’m fine, she stammered, reaching across the table to grab some more fudge. The sudden movement made the crystal slip out of her pocket and Ginny picked it up.
“What’s this?” she asked, looking at Hermione. “It looks like…” The voice died in her throat as she met her friend’s eyes.
“What is it?” Ron asked, leaning across. Ginny looked at her uncertainly, keeping the crystal in her hand. Hermione felt herself draw a deep breath.
“It’s a Conception Crystal,” she said, taking it from Ginny and putting it down on the table. “I’m pregnant, I just found out.”
The room went very silent. All three boys were staring at her. Ron looked as though he’d been hit with something heavy over the head.
“B-but h-how?” he spluttered. “H-how is that possible? I mean –”
“It’s not that difficult,” she said in a tired voice, strengthening herself with a big piece of fudge for what she knew she would have to tell them next.
“B-but,” Ron continued, “You can’t be! I mean, we used protection charms and stuff!” She stopped chewing mid-bite.
“Ron-”
“God! What am I gonna tell Katie?! Bloody hell, Hermione, how is all this gonna work out now?”
“Ron, wait, it’s –”
“And the bloke you’re marrying, how’s he gonna take it? The Ministry’s gonna go mad! Fuck! I can’t believe this is happening to me…”
“Ron!” she almost shouted, “Shut up and listen to me!” He did, as well as the other ones who were just starring at her in disbelief. She reached inside the neck of her robes and pulled out a thin gold chain, reminiscent of the one she’d used for the Time-Turner in her third year, and showed them the thin gold band hanging from it.
“I’m married. It’s not your baby, Ron.”
The looks of disbelief now changed into pure incredulity. Ron was gapping like a fish, clearly at loss for words. Harry was the first to speak:
“When? And why didn’t you tell us?”
“And who are you married to?” Ginny added, taking the ring in her hand and looking it over.
“Three weeks ago, the Saturday following the engagement announcements,” she started, uncomfortable. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I didn’t want it to feel like a real wedding and I thought it would be easier if no one I knew was there.”
“But, Hermione,” Ginny interrupted, “you’ve been dreaming about your wedding since you were little. I know you have. We used to talk about what kind of flowers we would have and where everyone would sit at the reception! Why would you throw all those fantasies away?”
“Maybe she just couldn’t wait to marry the bloke,” Ron said, a flustered look on his face. “Maybe they were already seeing each other before the notices came, maybe that’s why it had to be so quick. Three weeks seems like an awfully short time to get pregnant, eh Hermione?” His ears were red and she felt her anger rise as well. The cheek of him!
“Or maybe,” she answered in an icy voice so very like that of her present husband, “maybe I didn’t want to make a mockery out of my dream by using it with somebody I didn’t love. Maybe I just wanted to get it over with so that I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. Maybe I didn’t tell you because I was trying to tell myself that it wasn’t real!”
She stood up, swaying slightly and shaking with repressed anger.
“Do you want to know what name was on my scroll, Ron?! Severus Snape, that’s who! I’m married to our dear Potions professor and knocked up as well. Do you really blame me for being in denial? For not telling you guys? For not having a big, romantic wedding where I could wear a beautiful gown and promise my undying devotion to a man I hated?!”
“Snape?!” four voices cried in unison. “Please, please tell me you’re kidding,” Neville added.
“I’m sorry, Neville, but I’m not. I’m married to Snape and, believe it or not, it’s working tolerably well. We both dislike each other and stay out of the other’s way as much as possible,” she replied tiredly.
“B-but you’re pregnant,” Ginny said in a small voice. “You have to… ew!” She looked positively revolted and Hermione felt an odd pang of anger at her expression.
“It’s not that bad,” she retorted, wanting to take that look of disgust and pity off all of their faces. “He being a Potions Master helps things along quite nicely. And,” she added, seeing Ron’s revolted face and feeling something snap inside of her, “he happens to be just as good in bed as he is with a cauldron. Judging from the amount of time we spend having sex, I would be highly surprised if I didn’t get pregnant within a few months. I guess three weeks was just me getting lucky,” she finished sarcastically, stood up and walked out of the room, leaving her four friends sitting around the table with shocked expressions on their faces.
***
She almost ran down the stairs, wanting to get away from her friends, from her life, from everything. She rounded a corner and suddenly collided with a tall body. Looking up, she saw the familiar face of the man responsible for her current emotional turmoil.
“Miss Granger, please try to look where you’re going.” He made a point of maintaining the formal ways of address outside their private chambers and insisted she’d do so as well.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbled, trying to just brush past but felt his hand on her arm, blocking her escape.
“And where would you be off to in such a hurry?”
“Well, I figured I’d had enough of this and was just heading to the Astronomy Tower to kill myself,” she said, the sarcasm left in her voice from earlier.
“Then, by all means, don’t let me stop you,” he said with a smirk, letting go of her arm. She felt anger rising to the surface again and reached into the pocket of her robes.
“I’m pregnant,” she said, shoving the crystal into his hand before stalking off down the corridors. There, that would shut him up.
Chapter 7 – Memories
He caught up with her in the Entrance Hall and almost dragged her down the stairs to the dungeons. With a firm hold on her upper arm, he pushed her through the door of their bedroom and into one of the chairs by the fireplace. He then took a seat across from her and looked at her expectantly. She looked back, partly angry, partly bewildered. They just stared at each other for several minutes before Hermione broke the silence.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, I suppose you have something you want to tell me since you practically dragged me down here?”
“Not at all, I simply thought you might need some time to cool down. On closer consideration, having my pregnant young wife jumping from the Astronomy Tower could reflect rather poorly on myself. The Prophet would revel in the “terrible tragedy” for months and I would be most inconvenienced. Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?” He pulled out his wand and waved it, making a kettle, two cups and a bottle of Firewhiskey zoom to the table from across the room. On a second thought, he also lit a fire in the hearth, which soon filled the room with a warm glow.
“Nice to know that at least some parts of this crazy world stay the same. For a minute there, I almost thought you might actually care about me or your future child,” she said sarcastically. He grinned.
“Never,” he said, pouring two cups of tea and a rather large whiskey, which he pushed over the table to her. “Here, it’ll calm you down.”
“I can’t drink alcohol when I’m pregnant!” she said with incredulity, pushing the tumbler back and taking the cup of tea.
“Why not? There’s a perfectly good potion which protects the foetus from injury. There’s no reason you should be more miserable than you have to be when carrying it around.”
“Still…” She weighed the glass in her hand, remembering everything she’d heard on alcohol and pregnancy and how dangerous it was to drink while pregnant. She put it back down with a resolute look on her face. “…I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied, taking the glass and sipping the liquid with a look of pleasure on his face. “Ah, this is nice.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So, what is your reaction to having a baby?” she said, a bit nervous, half-wishing that she’d actually taken the drink.
“Well, I’d be lying to say that I’m pleased, but I figure that the sooner we get it over with the better. The Ministry has decided that we need to produce at least two offspring before we’re eligible for a divorce, and at this rate, we could be rid of each other in less than three years,” he said simply, sipping his drink as though they were talking about nothing more dramatic than the weather.
“And then what? You’re just going to throw me and the children out and go back to living a normal life?” She felt her anger starting to rise again, fuelled by his calm appearance.
“Pretty much, yes,” he affirmed, raising an eyebrow at the look of pure fury she shot at him. “You didn’t actually think we’d be a happy family, raising our perfect little normal kids together, did you?”
“Well, no… but-”
“Hermione,” he said with a sigh, putting his glass back down on the table, “you should know me better than that by now. You’ve seen me teach for seven years. I think your silly little brain should have deduced by now that I do not like children. As a matter of fact, I hate children, and more so the younger they are.”
“But this will be different, they’ll be your children. You’ll be a father, it will change you, it will-”
“That’s just things otherwise intelligent people tell themselves to keep from jumping off a bridge when they find out they're pregnant,” he interrupted her firmly. “I’ve never wanted to be a father, I don’t know how to be one and I don’t particularly wish to learn. Before this inane law, I was actually rather happy with my life. I don’t wish to disrupt it further than the Ministry already has.”
“I’ll prove you wrong,” she said with conviction, locking eyes with him. “You’ll see.”
“Is that so?” he said with a smirk.
“Yes.”
They looked into each other’s eyes, both trying to stare the other down, both faces growing grimmer, more determined.
“Come over here,” he said softly, his lips curling into a rather unpleasant smile. She just raised her eyebrow and walked over to him, accepting his challenge without any signs of fear. He pulled her down in his lap and opened the top buttons of his robes, placing her hand inside to rub across the skin like he’d done the morning after their wedding.
“Here, what do you feel?” he asked, placing her fingers above his heart.
“Apart from your skin and the beating of your heart, nothing,” she answered, trying to sound bored. He grabbed her hand and guided the fingers to trace the scars he had there, circling each one slowly.
“Every circle your fingers trace bears witness of a lesson in childrearing that I was taught by my father. He liked burning cigarettes the best because of the smoke and the smell that flesh and blood create when singed by the fire. This one,” he moved her finger around the one most to the right, “I got when I was five, because I fell down the stairs and disturbed him when he was reading. This one,” he moved her fingers to a larger one, closer to his heart, “he worked on for quite some time. He used to say that nothing was more satisfying than opening old scars and making them bleed again. Always go for the sore spots if you really want to cause pain, Hermione, that’s what he would tell you.” He looked up at her and noticed that her eyes were becoming slightly shiny and that she was trembling. He moved her hand a little higher. “And here,” he said, keeping her fingers in a strong grip, “you have his masterpiece – a mark made by no fewer than five cigarettes, a hot iron poker and, of course, his favourite knife. He gave me that when I was thirteen, the same night he finally killed my mother. Now, Hermione, you know as well as I do that people tend to become like their parents. So answer me this: Do you really want me near your children?”
She tried to remove her hand but he wouldn’t let her, holding it in an iron grip, tracing the scars over and over. He knew she couldn’t feel them but he didn’t care. He wanted to scare her, scare her enough so that she would take whatever children they had far away from him. He’d never wanted to be a father and he certainly never wanted to turn into his own. When a Death Eater, he had found that the darker, violent side of him was very present, and he’d revelled in the sensation of causing other people immense pain. He’d enjoyed their pleading and screaming, their tears and their shame. He’d done things that would make her sick, and he’d been proud of them, becoming a little more of a monster every day. He’d wandered further and further down the path of destruction, until that day…
“I can feel it!” she suddenly sobbed, bringing him back to the present. Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she traced each scar over and over without his guidance. “God! I can actually feel them… the skin has changed… God, how can anybody be so cruel?” she cried, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly, her tears wetting the top of his robes. He was shocked by her reaction - she was supposed to be halfway to Gryffindor Tower right now, not holding on to him like this, not acting like… like she actually cared. He moved his hands to her sides, preparing to push her away, when she moved her face away from his neck and looked down at him, face streaked with tears, eyes big and blue and full of empathy. He felt a strange tightening in his chest and started pushing her away. He didn’t want pity, especially not from her, a seventeen-year-old Gryffindor. He opened his mouth to say something scathing, something that would hurt her, something that would turn her away. And then she kissed him.
For the second time in just a couple of minutes, he was taken by surprise. He tried pushing her away, but her arms were so tightly wrapped around his neck this proved a most difficult task. He felt like he was drowning - her tears were everywhere and her mouth was on his so hard he couldn’t breathe. He was drowning, and he was burning; every touch of her lips, every tear that touched his skin, every bit of him that came into contact with her went through him like liquid fire. Not the glowing, deep-red kind that they had wielded together for the past weeks, but the searing, white-hot flames of pure agony. She was feeding him goodness and compassion and it choked him. Every comforting caress was torture, and why, why were his hands snaking themselves around her back, pressing her even closer against him, holding her so hard he could feel his knuckles go white? The pain was spreading through his body, growing, fading, making him think he would lose his mind, when suddenly, it all soared into his chest and was concentrated into a single point, like someone had just put a burning iron to his skin.
He cried out and pushed hard, sending her sprawling to the floor. In a second, he was on his feet, grasping his chest and breathing heavily. His scars, over which she’d placed a soft hand, were burning worse than ever. He looked over at her limp form where she lay on the floor. She’d fallen hard onto the merciless stone and was clutching one of her wrists in pain. From the expression on her face, her cries and the limp way she was holding it, he concluded that it was probably broken. Memories flashed before his eyes - memories of his mother crouching like that, crying like that, holding her wrist like that after he’d found her in a limp pile at the bottom of the stairs, and he felt a jolt of undiluted fear run down his spine. Suddenly, he was transported seventeen years back in time, to the day when he had looked in the mirror the morning after a very bloody mission and realised that he’d killed the man he most hated only to take his place in the world. He’d seen his father staring back at him through the glass, the same vile, sadistic pleasure shining from black eyes that held no pity. He’d gone to Dumbledore the very same day.
And now, Hermione -his wife- was lying in a broken heap at his feet, crying from the pain that he’d caused her. Almost in a trance, he pulled out his wand and watched the limp body levitate off the ground, just like he had so many times in the past. He placed her gently on the bed and muttered the spells to heal her broken bones - spells he’d learnt long before even coming to Hogwarts, taking the long delicate willow and unicorn wand from his mother’s trembling hand when the pain made her unable to heal her own injuries. He remembered how helpless he’d felt back then, as he’d pressed icepacks to her face to calm a swelling or a black eye. Noting that there was such a swelling forming at Hermione’s left temple, (she’d undoubtedly hit her head when she fell) he conjured just such an icepack and pressed it gently against her head. Her eyes were closed and she moaned softly, her face pale, her body unmoving. Without thinking, he raised his other hand and stroked her cheek softly, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. Drawing a shuddering breath, she opened her eyes and he noticed that the sapphire blue had been replaced with a honeyed brown. Little specks of green and gold were scattered in them and the ring around the iris was a deep, almost blackish brown. He watched them widen and felt again the soft touch of her hand on his face. He resisted the impulse to pull away as she ran her fingers across his eyes, along the length of his nose and into his hair, twirling a long strand and wrapping it around her index finger. Then, as soon as it had made contact, the hand was withdrawn and he saw a shadow of fear pass across her eyes. Muttering a charm to keep the icepack in place, he stood up.
“I trust you understand now why I should never be a father, and why I should never have become a husband in the first place. Trust me, Hermione, the sooner we disappear out of each other’s lives, the better it’ll be for both of us.”
And with that, he left the room.
Chapter 8 – Violence Within
Three weeks went past in which they hardly saw each other. They occupied the same space during lessons and mealtimes but didn’t much look at each other. He avoided her and she did the same, though why she could never quite figure out. She walked around in an almost dreamlike state, not really caring about everything that went on around her. She’d been to Neville’s wedding and to Ron’s, which had only made her feel even more detached. The time when she’d shared everything with her friends, the time when they’d been close, seemed suddenly so very far away. Ginny and Harry tried to talk to her sometimes but she found she didn’t really know how to talk to them about herself and her feelings. She just felt… cut off.
Mainly, she thought about her husband. Their last conversation and what happened after it had replayed in her mind almost constantly since he left her that day. She just couldn’t stop thinking about it – the things he’d said, the things he’d done and, most importantly, how she’d reacted to it all. She’d gone over her feelings again and again, trying to make some sense of them, trying to see the situation from an objective perspective. It wasn’t easy.
The scene had made her realise things about herself that weren’t very pleasant. She remembered when she’d first felt – really felt – the scars on his chest, the ragged edges of the deep cuts and burns. She’d felt such pain, both for him and, strangely, for herself. Feeling the evidence of his pain had brought back memories. Not like the ones he must have, of course - she’d never been physically abused by anyone - but memories of different kinds of mental abuse she’d had to bear over the years. Little snide comments that she pretended didn’t bother her, but which pricked her deeper than she cared to admit. The laughter behind her back, people abruptly going silent as she walked into a room, the loneliness she’d often felt, even when she had friends all around her. Little tiny drops of water that together carved deep into the stone, and into her heart. All this had come swirling back to her, opening that big hole inside her that she tried to pretend didn’t exist, and she’d been desperate to hang onto something, distract herself from the pain, convincing herself that there was someone in the world who wanted her, who cared for her. And so she’d kissed him.
She still couldn’t understand how her brain had suffered such a complete meltdown. Clearly, her reason had evaporated altogether when she made that decision. She reminded herself that she didn’t like him, that he didn’t like her and that he was the last person who would give her the things she craved. Still, she’d kissed him and clung to him so hard she thought she would break from the tension. When he’d tried to push her away, she’d only clung to him more, not able to take rejection from him then, trying desperately to feel something, to connect, to ease her own pain by trying to ease his. He’d given in and pulled her to him, and she’d felt, for a few glorious moments, a genuine connection. It’d been dark and painful, but it had been there. And it had been powerful. She had felt it while she was assaulted by a multitude of emotions, as they clung to each other in mindless… whatever it had been. In that moment, he was no longer connected to everything she hated about the teacher who was now her husband. None of it mattered as they kissed, connecting for the very first time through their mutual pain. And then, she’d ruined everything…
She’d moved a hand down to his heart, wanting to brush away the pain, the scars, the memories. She’d felt such strong emotion right then, like she would do anything to help him, anything to make him heal, anything to make him need her, want her, crave what she had to give. She’d touched him and he’d reacted as though she’d sliced his chest open all over again. She hadn’t even have time to react before she hit the stone, falling on her arm, hearing a cracking sound and then… blackness for a short while before she came back to her now double pain. She’d been too preoccupied to realise what was happening and only vaguely noted that she was floating, that the pain in her arm stopped and that something cool was pressed to her pounding head. When she felt the fingers softly caress her cheek, she’d somehow known that it was him, even though it made no sense and despite the fact that her eyes were still closed. When she’d opened them, she’d had a small shock: his face was back to the way she’d known it for almost seven years. Instead of disappointment, she’d felt a strange joy, tracing his features, twisting a strand of the hair she used to find so disgusting around one of her fingers. It didn’t strike her as gross anymore, because this was real, this was him, and he belonged to h-
Suddenly, a piercing fear had gripped her heart, making it beat fast and hard in her chest and she’d recoiled. The implications of the thoughts and feelings she was having had hit her like a lightning strike and she’d felt her breathing stop short in her chest. What game was her mind playing on her? Where did those spine-chilling thoughts come from? Confused and scared, she tried to calm down, to reason with herself. She was vaguely aware that he was talking, but the blood pounding in her ears blocked out all sound. She wanted desperately to reach out to him, at the same time as another part of her wanted to run away and hide. She struggled to find something to say, something to do, something that would put things back to the way they’d been before she’d thrown herself at someone she loathed just to escape from being alone.
Before she’d been able to think of anything, he’d left the room.
***
A clock struck midnight somewhere in the castle. She counted the twelve heavy clangs as she lay in her old bed in Gryffindor Tower, unable to sleep. She’d started sleeping there again when he hadn’t come to bed two nights in a row. Seeing as she was now pregnant, they weren’t obligated to have sex anymore, and so they hadn’t, for three weeks. She figured she should be relieved, but she mainly felt… empty. She’d got used to curling up against his back to sleep, (he always turned away from her to sleep on his side) and, frankly, she missed having him touch her. What had been a sort of girlfriendly duty when she was with Ron had transformed into something she looked forward too, longed for even. She hated to admit it to herself, but she actually missed him.
In only a few days, the NEWTS would start, and so she’d spent virtually all of her time studying. It helped take her mind off things, but she found she wasn’t as concentrated as usual. Potions revision, especially, went rather badly. She started to feel like she had in her third year: stressed and tired. She didn’t get much sleep, and what little she did get was disturbed by dreams she never could remember when she woke up, but which left her with a feeling of unease that lasted most of the morning. Oh, and she was experiencing the female delight of morning sickness as well, a joy not to be forgotten.
This was no good. She’d been lying awake for over an hour now. With a sigh, she slid out of bed, put on her slippers and a dressing gown and walked over to the fireplace. She picked up the pot of glittering powder placed on top of it and weighed it in her hand for a long time. Finally, she reminded her self that if she was to pass the NEWTS with top marks, she needed some peace of mind. With a trembling hand, she threw a pinch into the fire and stepped into the glimmering emerald flames.
***
She found her husband sitting in one of the chairs by the fire as she stepped out of the flames. If he’d been surprised at her entry, he’d been able to hide it well in the few seconds it took her to wipe the dust off her clothes. Slowly, she raised her head and looked at him.
“Hermione, what are you doing here?” His voice was low and sounded slightly guarded.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she answered truthfully.
“And so you came down here. Why?”
“Because you’re the reason I couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah,” he said with a small smile, “you’ve come to face your demons. How original.”
He still hadn’t moved. She was starting to feel nervous again.
“Well, I just think we should talk about what happened, that’s all.” He let out a snort.
“Oh, yes, the healing magic of talking,” he drawled sarcastically. “Where we talk about our precious feelings and then share a big hug.” His voice dropped and gained an icy quality as he continued, “Well, think again, Hermione. I’m not a love-sick little Hufflepuff. I won’t be playing your games.”
“Well, that’s not what I meant, I just thought –”
“What? That I should apologise to you? That I should get down on my knees and swear it won’t happen again, that I didn’t mean it and that I’d never purposefully hurt you? Is that what you want?”
“No,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, “that’s not what I meant. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have touched you like that, I –” She was abruptly cut off as he launched out of the chair and caught her arms in an iron grip, his black eyes glaring down at her.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t tempt my dark side this way. Don’t invite me to hurt you again.”
“B-but, I-I’m not -” she stammered, feeling tears rise in her eyes and trying to push them back down.
“Yes, you are,” he said firmly, tightening his grip even more, making her whimper. “I know the signals all too well, Hermione. I studied the signs and the patterns for years, desperate to find a way to break them but I never could. It was always the same. He would apologise, she would forgive and make excuses, accepting the blame to make his life easier. And he would strike her again, harder this time, because she would let him, forgive him and make more excuses. In the end, he stopped apologising and just put the blame directly on her. And she would accept it and apologise for having angered him. And the more she did that, the more faults he would find in her that warranted punishment. Until he killed her.”
“But I’m not like that!” she protested, tears in her eyes now. “You’re not like that! You risked your life for the Order, you helped destroy Voldemort! You’re not evil.” He growled and gave her a hard shake.
“Don’t pretend to think that you know me, Hermione. You have no idea what motivated my actions during the war. I can cause pain, believe me. And I enjoy it. There is no sweeter feeling than revenge, the delicious power that flows through your veins as you see another person suffer at your hands…” He moved a hand to her face and caressed her cheek slowly, then cupped her chin, tilted her head back and held it firmly as his eyes bored into hers, the other arm sliding around her back, pulling her close. “And you, my dear,” he said, pure silk in his voice now, “have all the makings of a broken woman. I sensed it already in your first year: desperate for attention, too eager to please, far too grateful for any little crumb of praise that would fall from the teachers’ table. I watched it develop as you grew, along with your arrogance. Yes, arrogance,” he repeated sharply, as she opened her mouth to protest. “Your outer confidence grew, you enjoyed showing off, you revelled in the success of your studies as well as the little missions you and your moronic friends went on. And I watched you and I knew that it was all on the surface, that the illustrious Miss Granger was still just an insecure little girl who could easily be broken by the right man. You’re weak, Hermione. I could break you in very little time.”
She stood so still in his arms, her eyes lowered, her breathing barely noticeable. He was rather surprised at this reaction. He’d have thought she’d deny it, get angry, try to fight him even. Instead she just stood there, unmoving. He wondered how much of this she’d already known about herself. In all likelihood, not too much - perhaps this was her way of reacting to shock…? Just as he thought this, she stirred in his arms.
“You’re right,” she whispered, so quietly it was hardly audible. Gods, you’re right! It all makes sense…” she started to cry uncontrollably, mumbling words he couldn’t make out through her sobs. He felt revulsion rise within him along with a mounting anger at her display of weakness. He wanted to push her away, to shout at her, to hurt her. His hands tingled with the need to slap her, to choke her, to make her stop this sickening flaunting of her feelings. He’d always despised people who couldn’t control themselves, who wore their hearts on their sleeves and thereby unconsciously instructed people on how to hurt them the most. He wanted to hurt these people, to punish them for being weak, for giving up control and power so willingly. He wanted to hurt Hermione now, hurt her utterly, watch the blood run from her nose as he broke it with one swift punch, watch her cry out as he threw her against the wall, pounding her head against it, again and again... Hurt her until the growing pain went away in his own chest. But he knew that that would be the beginning of the end and that he would end up breaking the only promise he’d ever truly made: to never become his father.
So instead, he gathered all his self-control, took some deep breaths and forced the anger back. He moved the trembling hands that wanted to strike her up to carefully caress her face and silenced the hurtful, scathing comments that demanded release by taking her lips in a soft kiss. He held himself in such check it hurt, willing his anger to ebb, stopping his teeth from biting down and drawing blood at the last moment. His breath became ragged as he fought to keep his restraint, and he concentrated on the feel of her, on her soft lips, on her face under his hands. She started to respond and he deepened the kiss, looking for something to distract him, to replace the destructive feelings that threatened to overcome him. He found it as she moaned softly and moved her arms around his neck, pressing closer against him. The kiss became more heated, more desperate, each seeking escape in the other’s touch. With a groan, he picked her up and carried her to bed.
***
Hermione awoke late, or so she figured. Since the bedroom didn’t have any windows she couldn’t tell the time by looking at the sun, (not that she’d ever been very good at that) but from the feeling in her body, she concluded that she must have slept long. She felt truly rested for the first time in weeks. She rolled over and found the other side of the bed empty. She figured Severus was probably in class since only the fifth- and seventh-years had these last few days before exams off. Stretching languidly, she let the memories of the night before wash over her.
Their coming together had been an act of desperation, of trying to hold on to something in a world falling apart. It’d been harsh and painful and exhausting, but afterwards, she’d felt a hundred times better, as though the emotional and mental tension had been released along with the physical. She’d felt drained but oddly at peace. They’d collapsed from exhaustion, still in each other’s arms, and she’d slept better than she had in a long time. She got out of bed and walked into the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror. Several deep-red and blue love bites adorned her neck and upper chest and she touched them gingerly with her fingers, wondering whether a Concealment Charm would be enough to cover them up. Since it was almost summer, she couldn’t really wear a scarf around her neck…
“I see you got marked from last night as well,” a voice suddenly sounded behind her. She spun around, coming face to face with Snape who was just getting out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist.
“How…?” she managed, looking bewildered.
“Silencing Charm, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I thought you would be in class.”
“I will, in a few hours.”
“What? What time is it?”
“Six thirty,” he answered with a shrug, moving over to the mirror to comb out his hair. “Move over a little, will you?”
She stepped to the side and watched, mesmerised, as he pulled the comb through the long dark strands. His hair really wasn’t that bad, she thought, at least not now that it was newly washed. She put a hand on his shoulder and ran it along his arm without thinking. She felt his muscles tense and half withdrew it before his other hand came down on hers, holding it in place. She looked up and met his eyes in the mirror, unsure of what to do next.
“Continue,” he whispered, letting go of her hand and picking up a razor from the stand. He started putting shaving cream on his face as she watched, again moving her hand along his arm and shoulder.
He was very tense and she noticed that his hand trembled slightly. Every now and then, he would pause with the razor and draw some deep breaths. She didn’t know what was going on but kept stroking him the way he’d asked. Stepping close, she let one hand caress his back and kissed his shoulder tenderly. He almost jumped and let out a swift curse. She threw an eye at the mirror and saw blood sipping from a cut on his cheek. He looked furious. Again she drew back. His voice stopped her.
“No, Hermione, continue. …please,” he added as an afterthought. “I need this, I need to test myself this way.”
She complied and took a step closer, moving her hands over his back and placing little kisses along his shoulder. Moving her mouth to his back, she opened her eyes and noticed long red marks cutting across it. She looked closer. The scratches were bright red and looked fresh. She followed one of them with one finger and realisation hit. Her nails. She gasped and stepped back again. This time his face in the mirror wore a strange smile.
“I hurt you. I’m sorry,” she said, unable to pull her eyes away from the mirror.
“Don’t be. The marking was clearly mutual,” he replied, indicating the bruises on her neck. He had finished shaving now and turned around, little specks of healing salve in the places where the razor had slipped. “I have a salve in my lab that will heal those for you. Otherwise, I fear Potter and Weasley will come storming down here to hex me before noon, and I’d rather not lay eyes on their pathetic faces today. I’ll be right back.”
He walked out of the bathroom and she moved to the wash stand, threw some water in her face and then tried to get her hair to lie in place. As usual, it wouldn’t. She struggled for a while and then gave up. Maybe she should just cut it? It had grown truly wild in the last year and it seemed that the longer it got, the messier and frizzier it became as well. It also took a lot of time in the morning, just to transform the “I’ve-just-been-caught-in-a-hurricane”-look to something a little less frightening. Right now, she figured it didn’t matter, because Snape couldn’t see it anyway, but she’d have to stand in front of a whole class of first-years later that morning, and she’d prefer not to have them call her “Miss Greatpoof” behind her back. Twisting her hair into a long rope, she curled it into a figure eight at the back of her head and secured it with an extra strong Sticking Charm.
In the meantime, Snape had come back with the salve. He dipped his fingers into it and then started to massage it into her skin. He worked with calm precise movements, just the right pressure to coax her muscles to relax without causing additional pain to the sore spots. She sighed softly and closed her eyes, a smile spreading across her lips. When he’d finished, he let his hands linger on her skin for a little while longer, massaging her neck and shoulders gently.
“Thank you,” she whispered with a smile when he finally withdrew his hands. “Here, let me help you with yours.” She reached out to grab the jar of salve but he recoiled.
“No need, I’m fine.”
“Severus,” she said half-exasperatedly, “you have deep scratches on your back. Give me the salve. They will scar if you don’t attend to them.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, putting the salve away. “I doubt I will be able to even see a difference, or tell those ones apart from the others.” He turned away from her and started making his way towards the bedroom. She stopped him with a hand on his arm, the other stroking his back again. She studied him carefully but could only see the scratches she’d caused him, contrasted against smooth skin.
“I can’t see…”
“Of course you can’t. You would – quite naturally – rather feel smooth skin under your hands than a collection of scars, and the Perception Potion adjusts for your desires. You see what you want to see, I’ve already told you that.” He shrugged out of her grip and kept walking, turning to his closet and pulling out a set of black robes.
“But I see your face!” she protested. “And your chest!”
“Then you obviously have very bad taste,” he replied dryly, “either that or your Gryffindor nobility and your ridiculous notions of truth are again playing games with your mind. If you see my face the way it was, that means that this is what you most desire to see. Think about the implications of that for a while.” He smirked, donned his robes and fastened the buttons.
“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he said, opening the door.
“Severus, wait,” she pleaded, moving across the room to stand between him and the door. “Why won’t you let me help you? Just give me the salve and…”
“I don’t need your help,” he interrupted her icily. “And moreover, I don’t want your help. Last night brought some revelations, not a double lobotomy. And, may I remind you…” He stepped closer, putting his hand at the back of her head and pulling her to him in a searing kiss that left them both breathless. “…We happen to hate each other.” With a sardonic smile, he brushed a curly brown tendril from her face and walked out the door.
