Disclaimer: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

Scars

The war was over. And it had killed Ron. It had killed her parents. It had killed half the magical population of Britain. And with it came the ostentatious Magical Marriage Law. Faulty, manipulative and another tool to create a new rift in the slowly mending magical society. And Hermione Granger was no longer a child. She was the first name brought up. She had to get married. And her power to choose was not herself anymore. The clauses of the law saw to it.

She was a Muggleborn. Thus, she had to marry a half-blood or a pureblood wizard. Or witness her wand to be broken, her identity to be erased, escorted by two Aurors through Diagon alley, and once those bricks of that famous wall retreat into their original places- this special world, her second home, no her only home, will be lost forever. The ministry had come up with some algorithm, and she knew who her suitor was before the ministry had that declared out loud. Who else could match her aptitude, her hunger for knowledge, her acumen for logical analysis and her capacity to invent marvelous spells? He was only second to her. Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Instead of a closed room, they had decided to discuss her fate in front of the public. In a courtroom like a huge hall. Set her as an example. And she had seen the platinum blonde head from the entrance itself. It was the first case in a row of several. And she was one of the victorious golden trio. Her fate was meant to be advertised. But the events of the day did not turn as she had dreaded.

The ministry algorithm and arithmancy system had calculated an ideal absolute compatibility result. 100%.

As she stood there in the middle of his bedroom, shaking like a leaf, she had blinked away her tears, furiously. She had fought against monsters, tackled bigot villians, rode dragons, was claimed to be the Brightest Witch of the Age. But this was unknown territory. This was not a couple of stolen kisses she had with Victor, not that adrenaline pumped snogging before war with Ron. This was consensually giving away her virginity. This was intentionally sealing her fate with a man. Yes, a man.

She never saw him as a boy. He was always a man. A grown-up. Vicious, biting, snarling, berating, man, strict, demanding. And she knew how fiercely he was capable of loving. She could not afford to close her eyes. Her honey-dipped brown eyes were locked into those black, penetrating, soul searching, powerful, fierce, wild, turbulent, obsidian ones.

They both were dressed in only tunics. The last farce, therefore, those officials had enacted an ancient bind spell, a soul bound. That cloth on him, made him look taller, paler, skinner and deadly cold. On her, she thought, unattractive and hideous. He would find her look like a doe trapped in a huge mess net, scared, jittery, petrified and innocent.

Somewhere a clock ticked and a bell rang eleven times. She took a shaky breath. It was now or never. And never was equal to her losing everything. Virginity was a small price to pay to secure a lifetime in a world, that was all left to her. With trembling hands, she removed the only remaining barrier. And closed her eyes. She could have covered herself but that would be in vain. Closing her eyes might help her imagine things less terrifying. But she had forgotten, if one shuts one of the senses the other four heighten up.

She could hear the intake of his sharp breath. Then a rustle of cloth. Soft pads of feet slowly moving over. And warm air brushing against those locks which toss and turn over her temple. In his deep baritone voice, he had said, "Look at me."

She had gasped. It was not an order. It was not a rebuke. It was a plea. Her eyes flew open. He was much taller than her. His hair was not greasy instead it had a silk sheen. She tried not to look at his eyes, instead all by their own will, they traveled over his pale, body. He was a study of anatomy. And the ultimate testament of war.

Slowly he had turned on his feet. She was shocked. If his front was like a crude map etched on the sand. His back was tale of the remains of a once magnificent civilization. When he was back to facing her, she thought it was her turn to twirl for him. But a single bony finger, marked with nips and cuts and potion burns, had halted her. It had touched her. Right over the nick on her neck, a gift from Bellatrix. His eyes had grown soft. He was a contradiction. His finger had ghosted over her skin. And then it had traveled down, making its solo journey over her breast bone. Lighting unknown flames, as footprints on her skin. Then it had stopped. Over that ridged long scar, that made her look distorted. He was now a thirsty traveler. His finger had drowned itself in the elixir called wanderlust. It scaled over those ridges, valleys, moving slower than a sloth. Memorizing its path, committing to memory the sights it has the fortune to lay eyes on. She was burning. And a single digit had set her on this unknown fire.

The journey of his finger had come to a stop at the edge of her hip. She had felt its tremors. Then two fingers had joined it. Like if one friend was incapable of standing after an exhausting journey by foot, two of his other friends took it upon themselves to support him.

All this while he had opened his mind to her. And Like a black and white cinema, she had seen his story told through emotions. And they called him, and an unfeeling bastard. He was starving. He was human. But they have used him as a tool.

She could hardly carry on. These images were torching her soul. His fingers were telling her, what all he was capable of. She had struggled with the need to say something.

In a shaky voice, she had murmured, "What do you want from me?"

His eyes had glowed, and she had noticed they were not black, instead they were the darkest shades of brown.

In this dark dungeon bedroom, the candles had flickered and had cast grotesque shadows of two people. The fire in the hearth was the only source of warmth.

And now, his eyes were warmer, softer, compassionate, pleading, begging and graveling at her feet. He had taken in a deep breath. It had traveled down his throat, filled the confines of his lungs. She had noticed that. And she had felt the exhaled warm, sweet, pine and sandalwood flavored gush of wind kiss her locks and made them dance again over her temple.

In his shaky voice, he murmured back, "Can you love me, Mrs Hermione Snape?"

A/N: Thoughts please! this was quite a roller-coaster! phew!