Eight days until she lost her identity and became a part of a unity she wanted nothing to do with. Gripping the edge of the bathroom sink with such force, her knuckles were almost as white as the porcelain they sat upon.

Looking at herself in the mirror to see the flushed skin and bags under her eyes was a sign she hadn't been sleeping well. Sweat adorning her brow dripped into her eyes as she leaned over the sink and upheaved the contents of her stomach for the second time in three minutes. The anxiety that swirled in the pit of her stomach was nauseating and crippling at the same time. The sheer thought of being forced to marry her potions professor had triggered this.

She was sitting on her bed cross-legged, her mind going over the logistics of having to sleep with him, when the next minute, she was in here throwing up.

Wiping a shaky hand over her wet mouth, she turned the tap on, watching the water flow for a few seconds as she cupped her hands beneath the flow before splashing it over her face. Shutting the tap off again, she stood watching herself in the mirror once again, studying herself critically. She wondered if she would be enough to make a decent wife for a man with such high standards. Her hair wasn't always well kept, her skin had little colour to it. She wasn't pretty, at least she didn't think so, instead, she thought of herself as pretty plain. She didn't wear makeup, and she didn't shape her eyebrows, and she certainly was not even in the same realm of a trophy wife. Instead, she assumed she would be more the consolation prize.

Sighing and pulling her hair back into a messy ponytail, she left the room. As much as she wanted a hole to open up and swallow her, it seemed the world didn't stop revolving, no matter how much you wanted it to.

o-o-o-o-o-o

He woke himself up again. Wonders would never cease, he honestly thought to himself. The only thing that got him going in the mornings was the thought of curling up in a lounge chair, pressing a bottle of his favourite whiskey to his lips until he passed out right in the exact spot he was waking up in now. Rubbing a fist over his eyes groggily, he dropped the empty bottle he had apparently been clutching in his other hand the entire night onto the cold stone floor with a clatter.

Groaning as he got to his feet, he stalked grumpily to the bathroom. Undressing out of yesterday's robes hastily, he glimpsed himself in the mirror and turned to stare at himself.

Eyes wide and brows raised by what he saw, he was surprised. Surely it had to be enchanted because he didn't remember looking this terrible last time he looked at himself… whenever that was, he couldn't quite remember.

Sunken cheeks and sallow skin set off by heavy wrinkles etched into his face. Black hair hung limply, framing all the negative things he had just noticed about himself. Shaking his head sharply as if it would manifest a new image of himself in the mirror proved fruitless. The same sickly, angry man was still looking back at him. He really needed to lay off the drink. He shrugged… maybe he would start that tomorrow.

Turning the shower on, he stepped in and closed his eyes. The scalding water, which ironically reminded him of the depths of hell, where he wished he still was. Leaning his back against the tiles of the shower under the spray of the water he opened his eyes, staring at the blank wall opposite letting his mind run away from him.

Eight short days and he would have Hermione Granger down in his quarters with him. If that wasn't bad enough, he would have to bed the girl despite having nary a single ounce of attraction to her and that was going to be the hard part. He saw her as a student and nothing more. He had never had a wayward thought about any student that passed through his classroom and never the desire to ever bed one. It was going to be hard for him to split the hairs between Hermione at home and Hermione at school.

Pent-up rage coursed through his veins as the thoughts went on and without a second thought, he extended his arm back as far as it would go and punched the tiles full force, cracking the porcelain and his knuckles. Flexing his white hand as he looked at it he watched the blood dilute with water and wash down the drain, a large gash covered four knuckles and it made him ponder. If he was immortal, as Lucifer claimed, why could he still bleed?

o-o-o-o-o

The long morning dragged into an even longer afternoon, and she couldn't focus on anything she was learning right now. Head clouded, she felt as if she were a pressure cooker about to go off in style as her leg bounced repeatedly, try to focus all the energy and rage in her body through another outlet and it was failing miserably.

After the afternoon gave way to the end of her classes and a Friday evening was born, she couldn't help but pace the halls of Hogwarts like a caged tiger being taunted from the outside. Backward and forwards, she trotted along the corridor outside the Gryffindor Common room. She couldn't relax. She couldn't sit. Her mind wouldn't settle. Dinner was soon, but she sure as shit couldn't eat anything right now, not with the way her mind was working overtime.

A deep desire within her made her want to go to his quarters and talk with him. Perhaps he had come up with a way to make this whole marriage not come to fruition- if there was ever a person to have something abolished due to them not liking the terms and conditions it was Severus Snape.

After mentally debating with herself for another half an hour, she trotted towards the dungeons and now found herself at a stalemate with herself. Hovering outside of his chamber door, she internally fought the instinct to flee after she decided this was probably an incredibly stupid idea and he wouldn't want to talk to her, but she needed to know what to expect once they were legally wed and left to their own devices.

Holding her breath tight in her chest, a shaky hand wrapped knuckles against wood three times loudly. Lowering her hand, she stood rooted to the spot, shaking violently and willing herself not to throw up over his shoes when he opened the door.

She stood back as the door creaked open a crack before fully opening. Looking her up and down, he stepped back without a word and allowed her access to his personal quarters. And that was a tremendous leap for him because he invited no one in. Ever.

As she pushed past him, she caught the powerful smell of alcohol on his breath and recoiled visibly.
"Take a seat." He gestured at an empty armchair not sitting amongst a sea of empty whiskey bottles.

"Is everything ok with you?" A brow arched in question as she sat gracefully in the chair, watching him hop, skip and jump over at least a hundred empty bottles and sit in a chair.

"Nothing has been ok with me for a long time, Miss Granger. But I assume you haven't come here to give me a therapy session, nor do I want your harsh judgments cast against me."

"So you drink to numb the pain?" The soft voice questioned as she watched him lean forward, pluck an unopened bottle of whiskey off his coffee table and crack it open.

"No. I just like to collect the bottles." Sarcasm dripped so venomously off of his lips she questioned whether she wanted to still talk to him.

"If you need help…" she offered as she trailed off, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"I don't need help, Miss Granger. I don't need anybody's help," voice raising a few octaves as eyes narrowed into harsh slits.

His body language was cold and calculating and a wave of uneasiness washed over her. Trying to shake it off, she settled further back into the chair.

Silence hung thick in the air. The only sound was the swirling of liquid as he pressed the bottle to his lips every so often. Well, this was awkward.

"What a terrible host I am. Would you like some?" He thrust the bottle towards the girl, who looked at it haphazardly and confused.

"I… Am I allowed to have any?" Looking down her nose at the offending bottle, she didn't want any, even if she could.

He shrugged. "I don't know what anyone can or cannot do anymore. As your professor, I say no, but as the man who is being forced into blissful matrimony with you, you can do what you like."

"No, thanks," she declined politely.

Retracting the bottle back to his lips, he sat watching her, wondering what she came here for. It wasn't to exchange pleasantries.

"What happened to your hand?" She enquired, spotting a deep wound across his knuckles.

"Look. I know you didn't come here to feign an interest in my life, play nursemaid or be a therapist so quit with the small talk," he barked, small bits of spittle coming out as he did so.

Shakily running a hand through his onyx hair, he pressed the bottle to his lips and downed another generous sip as he eyes her sideways.

"How do you function?" She questioned. "As an alcoholic?" She added pointedly. "I'd have never guessed you had a drinking problem."

"It's easy to hide it, Miss Granger." He looked off into the distance as if trying to think of what to say next. "I suspect it has disappointed you knowing the man you are being forced to marry has not only a sharp tongue and a disgusting disposition but also posses a filthy habit that you, despite wanting to rain sunshine and rainbows down on everyone can never change."

"We will only be married on paper. Deep down, in my heart of hearts, I will never, ever acknowledge you as my husband." She jutted her chin out defiantly as she gritted her teeth so hard they hurt. It was hard to stand up to him, but she was laying the foundations of their marriage down right now. She would never be a pushover.

Nodding solemnly, he watched her for a moment. "Well, that's one thing we can agree on at least. While you are here, you may as well know you can have the spare room as your own. I don't like being disturbed. I hate small talk. I don't like you all that much if I am honest and it turns my stomach knowing I must sleep with you."

"Wow. Unpack it all next time," she snapped bitterly. "If you think it turns your stomach knowing you must sleep with me, I spent most of the morning throwing my guts up, knowing I have to sleep with you. Knowing that the first man I ever lay my body down for is a bitter, twisted, sarcastic drunk who cares only for himself." Throwing her hands high in the air, she narrowed her own eyes, glaring at him.

"Well, to be fair, this morning you didn't know I was a drunk, so that fact couldn't have turned your stomach, but I agree to the rest." He nodded in agreement.

"And I'd be glad not to bother you. I'm thankful I don't have to share a bed with you and if I am being frank, I don't like you either, so it seems we are going into this in fair competition. Now, if you excuse me, I need to get the sickening smell of the pungent alcohol off of me." Jumping to her feet, she stormed the four steps to the door, pulling it open, and looked back.

"Thanks for your time," she hissed venomously. Slamming the door shut behind her with the resounding thud. He threw the bottle of whiskey at the door she had just exited through, glass and alcohol raining down like a baptism of realizations… He would be stuck with that wench for the rest of her life.

Swiping harshly at her face, wiping stray tears away, she walked with purpose back to Gryffindor tower. Everyone was at dinner at least, and she was thankful for that. She could sneak to her room undetected and wouldn't have to explain to anyone why she was crying.

Throwing herself into bed, she pulled the drapes around her bed and cast a silencing charm, crying for the night until her tears ran dry. She was marrying a drunk with no regard for, not only that, she had to bring a child into this world with him as a father and that, that was the part that hurt her the most.