Chapter Four

"Miss Granger, it's almost curfew."

Hermione nodded and smiled at Madam Pince, cradling her head in her hands as soon as the librarian was out of sight. She glared at the blank parchment in disgust. It seemed that rage and annoyance were two states of mind which made one unfit for… well… everything she had tried to do in the past day. How was she ever going to be able to get through classes, or worse, NEWTS?

She had scrounged the paper, quill and spare inkwell off of a Ravenclaw girl who had left two hours before. Hermione rather suspected that the girl's willingness to abandon her supplies was more due to a desperate need for escape than to pure generosity, but she wasn't going to quibble about details. She just hoped that some of her comments had made an impression on the younger muggle-born girl.

The torches began to dim around her, settling into their muted nightly glow like Hermione wished she could settle into a comforting reread of Hogwarts: A History. Whispers sounded across the room and chairs began to slide as the last few stragglers began to make their way back to the dormitories. Hermione heard smothered, cut-off laughter from the outer corridor when the door was opened. The blank parchment on the desk before her shifted with the breeze of the door closing again.

She toyed with the parchment, knowing that she should stand up and get moving. She had to check to make sure all the young Gryffindors were in the dormitories. She hoped that Harry would find it in his heart to stay abed tonight, though she didn't think he considered her responsibilities as Head Girl at all when he indulged in his nocturnal wanderings. Hermione felt a headache beginning to build even as she thought about it. Only last week she had caught him slipping by her. Had she not recognized the rather grimy heel of his muggle-style sneakers on the disembodied foot, she might very well have called the whole school, or at least Professor McGonagall, down on his head. She didn't want to consider how many times he had successfully eluded her. Didn't he realize that as Head Girl she was responsible for his safety?

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione managed a wan smile for Madam Pince, gathered her borrowed accoutrements, and slid out into the hallway. She heard the door fall shut behind her, a definitive sound that echoed down the flicker-lit stone corridors as she began to make her way back to the Gryffindor Dormitory.

She was aware of a burning anger kindling deep in her heart, an anger that made her upset over the House-Elves look pale and shriveled in comparison. It wasn't focused, like the driving need to fix things that had led to the creation of S.P.E.W., but the fury was stronger for all its scattered heat.

She was angry at the Ministry. She was angry at herself. She was angry at Ginny and Ron and any other number of people who could have stepped in and reminded her that Wizarding culture and Modern British culture had more than the simple low valleys of difference. Anything, she thought blackly as she waited for a staircase to position itself, would have been better than falling smack down into the endless crevasse of cultural nuance.

The worst was, she should have seen the intricacy of the Contract. She had been living in the Wizarding world for seven years after all, and she had learned early that when magic was involved the concept of "reasonable" flew right out the window. Everything, she groused, gripping the banister solidly as the staircase she was on shifted again—this time aligning her, thankfully, with the proper hallway—had to be so… complicated.

In the muggle world, a marriage was a marriage. A meal was a meal. The Wizarding world changed… obliterated… all the rules.

And now she was stuck with ancient, greasy, snarky Snape as a future husband. The thought made her furious, and she barely managed to keep from grinding her teeth together in sheer frustration.

"At least," she growled, slowing what had become a ground-swallowing stalk to allow a trio of Gryffindor first years to giggle inanely and try to convince the Pink Lady that they were indeed Gryffindors, "it's not Crabbe. Or Goyle. Or," here she swallowed back yet another stomach-burning swell of anger, "Malfoy." Snape, though older than she, meaner than blood-mad vampire and lacking in personal hygiene department, had never tried to rape her or beat her or, as far as she knew, anyone else. Perhaps, she also acknowledged, the fact that he was a teacher gave her an innate feeling of 'safety,' though the idea was completely ludicrous.

She suddenly had a burning need to review the Contract. What exactly had she signed—and why were the specifics of it blurry when she tried to remember?

The little first years finally remembered the password and, with a loud humph and speaking flutter of her fan, the Pink Lady swung open to allow them to clamber in. Hermione followed, giving the portrait a slight smile in thanks.

Ignoring her classmates who tried to catch her attention, she headed up to her room to dig out her copy of the scroll.

* * *

Severus was—finally—leaving chambers when the fire flared and sparked, catching his attention. He paused, hand on the latch. He didn't want to turn around. Nothing good ever came by floo.

"Severus?" The voice confirmed the theory.

Severus arranged his face into a more pleasant arrangement—or at least an expression that didn't reveal how anxious he was to be gone—and stepped back into the room. The heavy door closed without a sound behind him.

"Lucius!"

"Oh. Did I catch you on the way out?"

Severus undid the tie of his traveling cloak. "On the way in, actually."

"Ah, I do have impeccable timing," Lucius said. He smiled, but the expression was more a contortion of lips than a conveyance of actual feeling. Lucius' eyes remained darkly cold.

"What are you flooing me about tonight," Severus asked. He shifted a chair an inch more toward the fire and sat in it. The heat from the crackling flames warmed his kneecaps almost too well, but he refused to sprawl inelegantly before Malfoy's projected head.

"About your betrothed, actually."

Severus steepled his fingers in his lap. "What about her?"

Malfoy lifted his chin. Pale hair shifted around his face and slid down what Severus could see of his shoulders. Bloody supercilious bastard.

"Hogwarts' Head Girl? For shame, Severus, consorting with a mudblood." The pretence of civility dropped for one second. Unguarded and unmasked, Lucius was far from the embodiment of masculine grace that he played at being. His eyes were narrowed, his nose and mouth twisted by hate. Severus was unmoved. He had long before become accustomed to Lucius' mood shifts and spontaneous spewing of invective. "Does she scream when you touch her?"

Anger bubbled to life deep in the dark corners of Severus' soul. "Do you honestly believe that I had something to do with this… fiasco?"

"What do you mean by that?" Lucius paused in his sneering diatribe.

"Precisely what it sounds like. I made no choice of bride, muggle or witch." Severus pinched his nose and stood, flipping his lank dark hair from his face. "Is that all you wanted? I have a pile of fifth-year essays awaiting my attention and, frankly, I have no desire to discuss this insane Contract any more than I already have."

Lucius' face closed up, the mask falling over it again. "It sounds like an interesting tale you have to tell, my friend."

"Interesting?" Severus snorted. "You always found my father's heavy-handed idea of clan leadership to be amusing at the very least. Why should this prove different?"

"Ah."

Severus, watching Lucius carefully, saw no sign of revelation or sudden comprehension. He hadn't really expected any, given Malfoy's place in the Ministry. Bloody manipulating bastard.

"I see."

"I rather thought you would," Severus said dryly.

Lucuis grew silent. Severus watched his ephemeral head revolving in the slowly dying flames. He became aware of the chill invading the room, a sure sign that nightfall had arrived. If he didn't hurry he would end up tramping across the countryside all night, the way things were going.

"I really must go," he said, standing and flipping a lanky lock of hair back into place, "the fifth years' work is particularly deplorable this year and I suspect I will need the rest of the night to wade through it. Which reminds me," he cast a look over his shoulder toward the Potions classroom, "I think I'm out of red ink."

Lucius smiled. "Ah, Severus," he said fondly, "some things never change, eh? I'll leave you to it, then. Good night—and good luck!"

A hollow pop marked the floo disconnection.

Serverus doused the fire with an impatient wave of his wand and tossed his cloak back over his shoulders. A quick look at the clock told him that it was "two hours till curfew."

He left the room, muttering under his breath.

* * *

"Ah, my dear, do you see our son?" Erasmus Snape glanced fondly at his late wife's portrait. Proud and austere, Baylina's eyes held a decided twinkle when they met his. Though their marriage had begun as an arrangement of convenience, the happiness that they had found had been the focal point of Erasmus' life. He had hopes that this Betrothal nonsense could be used in the same fashion to bring light into his only son's life.

He glanced into the dark mirror again, seeing the blurred image of his son as he stalked the halls of the great imposing castle that, of late, he called home. Though Severus' outward appearance hadn't changed, there was a fire to him, an eagerness that Erasmus couldn't remember seeing in many long years.

Sometimes, he reflected, you just had to shake things up a bit.

"Can you see?" He asked the portrait.

As always, Baylina remained silent.

He touched a gentle finger to her smiling lips and turned back to the mirror.

* * *

"It's time to 'fess up," Ginny Weasley said, throwing herself into the Head Girl's room and bolting the door behind her. Now in her sixth year, the youngest Weasley had blossomed into a beauty that quite put her brothers to shame. Once-carroty hair had deepened to burnished auburn and her body had rounded in all the right places. It drove her brothers insane, and Ginny was quite happy that way. It seemed that she had also inherited something of her mother's temperament, however—something that was becoming more and more clear as Ginny underwent the change from teenager to young woman.

"I don't want to talk about it," Hermione said, slightly annoyed at the girl's interruption just as she had been about to sit down and read over the Contract again. She finishing tugging her nightgown over her hips and turned to face her friend.

Ginny kicked her shoes off by the door and walked on stocking feet to the bed. She threw herself onto the mattress, sprawled facedown for a moment with a half-muffled moan, and then sat up. "You can't get away that easily. What did Snape have to say after he dragged you off?"

"Just that he doesn't want our betrothal, doesn't want to consider marrying me and, oh yes, has no clue where his father—he's the one who instigated this mess, it seems—has run off to."

Ginny gaped, blinked once, and shifted on the bed. "Do you actually believe that?"

Hermione reached past the younger girl and grabbed her hairbrush from her nightstand. She lifted it to her snarled locks and began to brush.

"I certainly don't believe that it's a lie," she said. "The only alternative would be Professor Snape actually choosing me from that stupid list—and that doesn't make any sense in the least."

Ginny titled her head, appearing to ponder the thought, but her eyes sparkled and her lips twitched with repressed laughter. "Maybe it does. Maybe all this time spent in Potions has awakened him to your youthful beauty and he's been secretly lusting after you. Maybe after class he has to slip away into his room and …"

"Ginny Weasley! Your mother would be ashamed of you!" Hermione laughed loudly, though she felt her cheeks would catch fire with embarrassment. "Besides, that's the last thing I want to picture!"

"What, Professor Snape jacking off?" She thought for a moment, then shuddered dramatically. "You're right. Horrible images. All black robes and pale skin. D'you think he undresses when he does it?"

Hermione slapped her hands over her ears. Bent double with laughter, she allowed the simple moments of amusement to flow over her. She didn't want to think about how first-hand her knowledge would be all too soon… she didn't want to think about Snape's sexual proclivities at all.

Their laughter died slowly, coming in burbles and hiccups until they were both collapsed on Hermione's bed in limp heaps. Ginny rolled over onto her side. Hermione watched her carefully, knowing that this was yet another of the precise tactics she had absorbed from her mother over the years.

Sure enough, Ginny was looking at her quite seriously, though not without clear sympathy and encouragement.

"What's going on, Hermione? Really. Tell me."

And Ginny was just as bloody difficult to distract from her course as Molly Weasley. Hermione spared a brief moment of wonder. How did Ron—or any of the Weasley's—ever manage to live their lives with their Mum around? She would have to employ her own tactics in this instance, though her success rate was far from any useful standard.

"I need to find out about Wizarding customs, Ginny. Can you help me?"

Ginny blinked, and sat up. Hermione bit her lip. Would the distraction be sufficient?

"What do you mean? How can I help?"

"I've searched the library for books but found almost nothing." She allowed her lingering frustration to color her tone. "What I really need is a book of comparative culture. Something that will pinpoint the exact differences that I need to know. I can't even figure out what I've gotten myself into without knowing what rights the Snape family is going to have over me!"

Her research had yielded little. Hogwarts' library was your typical school collection in many ways—text books, non-fiction books on a variety of subjects, and even a small Wizarding Fiction selection. The Restricted Section, which Hermione was already familiar with, had spellbooks, higher theory essays, and quite a few ancient but flawed texts of varying reputation. She had even found some muggle writings in that Section—philosophers and poets, mostly, but there was a curious shelf of romantic novels that she still had no explanation for.

She needed genealogy and cultural information—neither of which was very useful to students and had, apparently, been overlooked in stocking the shelves. The Muggle Studies section, her last resort, had been pitiful. A handful of books half a century out of date, a full shelf of instruction manuals to various machines and a assortment of children's books on world mythology seemed to be the extent of it. Unsurprising, considering the limited scope of the Muggle Studies class itself.

"Well," Ginny scratched her head, "I guess I can try to make some sort of a list. Maybe." She looked doubtful.

"That might be impossible. I once read a cultural comparison between Britain and Scotland—remarkable, actually, about the differences. You'd never…" She caught Ginny's raised eyebrow and cleared her throat. "The point is that unless you are trained to see the differences, you're not going to notice them. And of course the only witches or wizards who are interested in muggle culture comparisons are the ones in the Ministry's Muggle Relations Departments." She looked at Ginny appraisingly. "I don't guess your father would be willing to nip by and pick up a few training manuals or something?"

"Umm. I wouldn't think so, no. Did you consider owling Krum? Or speaking to Madame Pince?"

"Krum?" She wrinkled her nose. "I don't think he'd be very interested in helping me. I gather he wasn't too pleased when he finally realized I was serious about moving on with my life."

"Oh? I thought you had said it went well."

"Yes, well, he was very polite about it, but then he and his chums apparently went and added my name to a few Eastern European mailing lists. I'm still getting annual Quidditch supplies catalogs in Polish. Things weigh a ton and take three owls to carry. I finally had to lease a box in Hogsmeade and come up with a sorting charm, otherwise I'd be buried in ads for sex aids and garden gnome removal every morning."

"How juvenile!"

Hermione smiled. "I could see Ron doing the same thing."

"Not if Mum found out about it! You're right though." She heaved a sigh. "Boys!" They shared a moment of silent camaraderie. "And Madame Pince?"

"She said that my best option was to contact the Depatment of Muggle Relations and hope that someone would be moved to help."

"That's bloody helpful."

"I know. So. Do you have any ancient tomes of Wizarding culture and lore at home? Do you think your Mum would be willing to look around? I wouldn't ask but, well, you're the only pureblood wizard I feel comfortable asking, really. Besides Neville, maybe, but … you know."

Ginny nodded. She stood, rumpling her hair with one hand. "I'll hop off to bed and jot her a note tonight. I'll owl it off tomorrow. I can't say I've ever seen anything, but I never really looked at my Da's shelves. Things have insane titles." Ginny smiled. "You'd probably like them."

Hermione smiled wanly and closed the door after the youngest Weasley. She leaned against the wooden portal and exhaled. Her eyes instantly settled on the slightly-dusty Ministry sealed scroll that was the Marriage Contract.

It was bloody unfair that just as she sat down to read it her beside alarm started to shrill.

"Curfew already?" Hermione groaned and buried her head in her hands. In the silence, she could hear the muffled rumble of the collected Gryffindor students as they settled in for the night.

The scroll, still unread, remained on her bed when she left her room to conduct her first rounds of the night.

* * *