Friday — August 10th, 2001.
Hermione spent her night restless.
She picked through old plans she'd made in February. The second she'd caught word of a marriage program within the Ministry, her dwindling need to survive had been stoked. She had picked apart ideas and come up with one - only one.
She had thought she might elude the Marital Clause by going to Australia in search of her parents.
The plan itself wasn't the problem.
If she were to travel to Australia before her name was brought up for an evaluation, she'd be able to go over there. But the Muggleborn girls involved in the process were considered politically charged, and if she were to go to Australia… There was a slim chance she would be recalled. And then her parents would find out about it. That is, if she could find them.
And if she couldn't find them, she'd have run from the fight for nothing.
Less than nothing.
The other issue with her plan was what she had found in her search for her parents. She had hidden them well, so much so that it had taken a considerable chunk of her limited funds to request intel as a favor or a transaction. She had to space it out, over time, and she didn't know who to trust.
The parchment she'd etched her plans into were layered, with notes and extra tabs attached with coordinates. It was still possible…
Her gaze landed on the small article, which featured the deaths of two British immigrants who had moved several years ago. They were found mangled by wolves, which weren't native to any part of Australia.
The story was picked up by the Daily Prophet as a further example of how ill-equipped Muggles were to defend themselves from wolves, not to mention werewolves, and it spiraled.
In the limited information about the Muggles, she found out their arrival dates, their hair and eye colors...
It matched up. Too much of it, so much that she didn't want to know.
But they were the same age, same physical descriptors —
She grit her teeth.
Hermione preferred it this way. This hopeless, small way, that her parents weren't a liability. That they were out there, happy and healthy. That her search for information hadn't led to their death.
And that uncertainty of what she'd find over there tore out the impulse to run, because what was the use in running?
She had nowhere to go. No friends overseas. No family. Her Hogwarts grades were thrown into question as the accreditation of her Eighth year became part of a larger scandal.
She'd been doing that for three years now. She was tired of running.
...
Hermione arrived at St. Mungo's that morning with panic buried deep in her chest. She refused to walk in with her head hung low or to act meek.
And so she acted.
Her chin raised and her eyes narrowed as she strutted through the illusionary wall.
As if this were her choice.
The lobby had bright signs plastered across it about magical children. It showed a beautiful witch with long black hair with a little girl who matched her in green robes. They smiled at her knowingly as she passed by, and she wanted to tear the poster down - but she kept on her path.
Their eyes bore into the back of her head, she could feel them. She had found animated portraits and posters exciting when she'd arrived at Hogwarts. Now they felt Orwellian.
Her chin jutted higher as she approached the front desk.
"Welcome to St. Mungo's — wait, Granger!" Her voice dropped into a gasp.
Hermione stared at her with no idea who she was.
She had steeled herself for a clinical person with a clipboard and a stern expression, who'd ask her questions and measure her arms. Something arbitrary and clinical.
Instead, she stared down a supposed peer, who must have been at least a year younger than her. Her hair was wrapped in tight blond coils atop her head though Hermione could see where her hair turned brown at the roots.
"Er, yes," Hermione cleared her throat, her letter in hand. "I'm here for the evaluation."
"Oh, I know you are, everyone's talking about it — oh this is so exciting, aren't you excited?" She ran her finger down a list and marked it off. Her arm snapped out towards the left as she spoke too quickly for Hermione to follow.
The signs were clear, with giant glittering silver arrows.
"Do I need to sign in, or…"
"No, this is a Ministry matter, they've got all the paperwork," she waved both her hands. "Oh, but, I will need you to sign in for a pass," she added with a poke of her finger into Hermione's shoulder.
Hermione's eyes narrowed; so yes, she did have to sign in.
She didn't know why she was picking this poor girl apart. She just sat wrong with Hermione, with her sharp features and her soft smile.
Hermione signed her name once on an innocuous ledger, and pinned the 'visitor' pass to her chest.
"Do you remember when you deducted points from me?" The girl said, her hands planted on the desk. "It was my Fourth year. You were so cross, it was so funny."
"No," Hermione said, her tone indifferent.
"Guess," her smile sweetened and Hermione looked away.
"I have an appointment," Hermione said in a level tone. "I don't have time to play guessing games."
"One guess, and I'll tell you."
"You broke curfew," Hermione lobbed back, a strange mix of polite and cruel.
"No."
Hermione flexed her brow, already several steps towards the glittering arrows.
"You caught Draco and I kissing behind a tapestry," she said in a conspiratorial whisper that forced Hermione to step back towards her.
"So I was correct - "
"I was trying to break more than curfew," she blushed and laughed and Hermione was sure she was meant to laugh too.
Instead, she rushed off, her mind in motion as she tried to repress that dreadful Prefect patrol.
That had been Sixth year. She hadn't had any idea who had been behind the tapestry. It had been two sets of legs pressed against a wall. She had almost thrown up when she realized she'd interrupted Malfoy of all people mid-snog with a Fourth year.
She expected better of him, than to take advantage of the younger girls.
He looked at her as if he weren't even aware of what had happened or where he was. Empty, like he'd just woken up. Or sick. Beneath his chin, The Girl blushed and giggled. She'd buried her face into his shirt, and he stared at Hermione like a sick dog begging to be put down.
He looked miserable to be there, but given his Sixth year, he looked miserable to be anywhere.
And then it was anger; at her, at The Girl, he tore the tapestry off as he stalked away. The Girl followed and giggled and blushed and Hermione didn't see her again until just now.
But that had been a week before the cabinets had been used. A week before Dumbledore died.
That tapestry.
It was on the Seventh Floor, nearby the Room of Requirement.
Hermione should have reached out to him, even if he'd have bullied her more for it. He had been suffering and she watched as he fell apart. She hadn't even been able to enjoy it. He had bullied her, she should enjoy seeing him miserable, but her core told her it was unkind to enjoy the misfortune of others.
Unless they had done something to you; and Malfoy had called her names, but that was as far as his bullying went.
He hadn't identified them. He had looked her in the eye and said he didn't know her, that he couldn't be sure.
But then his mansion tore apart with seismic Dark Magic, so powerful the whole place was a blackened crater.
It was too late for that now.
The glittery arrows pivoted so that four were angled towards one door.
Hermione hadn't been able to knock on the door, as it swung open by her fist's proximity.
"Ah, Ms. Granger," a sickly sweet voice said. "Ms. Greengrass notified me you'd arrived. Come in, come in!"
She should have run.
A trap enclosed her, though not in any visible sense. She felt it like a vice around her chest and inside her mind. It was psychosomatic, she wasn't trapped, she was going to be okay, she could survive a stupid evaluation and prove that she was unlovable.
It would be easy.
"Don't be shy, please," Umbridge said. Hermione had never heard the word 'please' sound so cruel. "We are very busy, dear."
Hermione stepped forward with mechanical steps, her throat tight as she stood before the simple white desk with metal legs. She had been so distracted by the toad of a woman wrapped in pink.
Umbridge waited as if she expected Hermione to say hello or to show any manner of excitement. She struck Hermione as an unloved aunt, one who gave you clothes that were too small at Christmas. She'd tell you that you just need to lose a little weight, then they'd fit.
The corners of Umbridge's mouth flickered as her true face showed; tense, angry, cruel. It melted like a wax figure back to sweetness, as if she liked Hermione.
"As you can see, I'm quite well in spite of your tricks. Thank you for that, by the way — those centaurs gave me ample reason to evict them," she turned on her heel, the corners of her lips drawn like knives.
They'd been killed. Hermione wasn't stupid enough to ask about them or to be hopeful. She had them executed for whatever they'd done to her.
"Sit."
Hermione remained standing, her brow set in a firm line.
"Interesting," Umbridge pressed on, her fingers interlocked on the desk as she sat. "You wouldn't be quiet in school for more than two seconds. Now, you're quieter than the dead! Quieter than H — oh, never mind."
Quieter than Harry. Hermione dared her to finish her thought with her eyes alone. Give me a reason to get executed; let my death mean something, you toad.
"At least you've learned your place," Umbridge exhaled as if the weight of her work was so great on her. "I was so worried you'd become more brazen with age, but your fire has faded - "
"Why are you here." Hermione kept her voice level, though it took more effort than she wanted to admit.
"Ah, how sad." Umbridge smiled her cruel smile, her eyes narrowed. "You can speak."
"You're a Ministry official, a high up one if the Prophet is to be believed," Hermione licked her lips apart, to lift her chin. "I hadn't thought they'd force you into such menial work."
"My dear, I insisted!" Umbridge's face wrinkled, deeper and deeper. Hermione wasn't sure if she's struck a nerve or amused her. "This is my program after all, and you are a very special girl. I was worried you would bring some wonderful contraption or cure-all potion, to try to manipulate the results."
The thought had occurred to Hermione, but she didn't know enough about what was involved in the evaluation.
"You never were very easy to deal with, were you dear."
Hermione rolled her eyes which she didn't even attempt to hide. She doubted this was something Umbridge would oversee on a regular basis, but it wouldn't surprise her either. She had to imagine the girls who came here cried and begged, and she would enjoy that level of control.
The room was barren.
Clinical.
Nothing was loose, no decorations. It wasn't an office, and it was likely rotated per session. There was the desk, two chairs and a magical wisp of light suspended above them. It was the sort of room one would provide to a person who had become unhinged, rather than a formal examination room. There were no tools.
Not unless you counted Umbridge.
Her attention rolled back to the scrunched beast of a woman, her brows arched. A challenge sat across her lips, as a firm line. She refused to speak first, refused to make small talk.
Instead, she remained stern and standing, ready to draw her wand or run if she needed to.
She refused the chair.
Refused the woman.
"Now, I know, it's very exciting for you to be in the presence of such an auspicious Ministry official. But you are a unique case," Umbridge said this with weighted emphasis to her words. "Please, don't take 'unique' to mean that you're exceptional in any way. You're special as we expected you not to show up at all! And if you did show up, well, we expected your little friends to be close by."
"I came alone," Hermione said in a clipped voice.
"I see," Umbridge nodded, somber. "Death can be cruel in that way. All alone... After everything - and you came alone," her voice became sweeter the longer she spoke.
Hermione parted her lips but tamped down her urge to argue. She had friends; she had people she could have brought. But if they were going to kill Hermione here for abiding by their rules, they'd be hard-pressed to justify it. She refused to invite her friends to a joint execution.
Her silence had been enough to make Umbridge smile and her eyes shrink into her wrinkled skin.
Hermione sat, as an excuse to avoid Umbridge's eye. She kept her arms firmly in front of her, her hands clasped between her knees.
"It's a chair dear, it doesn't bite," she laughed, rotten and sweet like when you vomited cotton candy after a roller coaster.
Hermione shook her hair over her shoulder.
"Please, relax." She gestured to the wooden arms with strange divots and dips.
Hermione didn't move.
"Lay your arms in place," Umbridge lifted her wand.
Hermione crossed her arms.
Umbridge had a look of tragedy across her face. This didn't reach her eyes, which glittered like she'd caught her sneaking around in her Fifth year all over again.
"Imperio."
The words had caused cold fear to spring into her veins. But that fear was stamped out by a sudden burst of sunlight from inside her core. Hermione felt warm and light, like all her stress melted away. She knew the spell and the word; she should be worried. She should be frightened and scream. She should want to run and hide.
She remained seated, her eyelids drooped.
Smiling.
"Good girl," Umbridge crooned, her stubby wand pointed at her chest. "Put your arms onto the chair, Hermione."
Hermione's arms uncrossed but — no.
She blinked once, twice, then shook her head. Her gaze sharpened and her mouth reduced to a fine point. The sunlight in her chest warmed until it was like a hellfire, blistering her lungs and bubbling her veins. She watched as Umbridge's expression tightened, her eyes strained and her wand hand shook.
She crossed her arms again, her nails dug into her biceps and her teeth clenched.
"Put your hands on the arms of the chair, you — " her voice shook from her increased effort.
Hermione's hands shook and her chest ached. She shoved them deeper into the crooks of her elbows. She felt her fingers crack and her teeth grit as she fought. She refused to give her the satisfaction and refused to be compliant. She agreed to be evaluated, not restrained.
The spell ceased and the relief rushed through her. Her head dipped lower and her chest felt lighter. She stared at the floor in front of her.
"Stupefy."
The warmth was replaced by darkness.
Then pain.
Whether it had been five seconds or five hours, she wasn't sure. She had no windows for reference and no clock on the wall. Instead, she had a swath of pitch darkness save for a blinding silver light. Her head ached in a throbbing, repeated way. She tried to reach for her head, to feel for the damage, but her hand wouldn't move.
She strained once, twice, then gave up. She was sore, and someone shoved her back against her seat.
Her hands were bound to the chair with broad silver clasps, as she'd feared. They were thick, and though she couldn't see inside them, she could sense lead and mercury cured between the width of it. Enough to conduct and to contain magic, should she deign to use it.
She had come willing to this assessment, but Umbridge was a sadist. There was no need to restrain her.
She had been willing.
Not anymore.
Her feet were free, she noted, as she kicked outward in the dark. She kicked someone in the hip quite hard, which elicited a sharp cry. She tried to kick again but they'd moved out of her way. She was left with a loose foot, which slipped in a puddle.
She stilled.
Her blood, she realized. The air smelled of copper and her eyes felt sticky to open.
At first, she thought the darkness was because of the head injury. She must have hit it, given how it ached. But then she blinked on repeat and the room became no clearer.
The singular small light shone from her left, where a witch was crouched by her chair. The shimmer of jewelry in front of her from Umbridge's broach. She sat, underlit by the silver glow. The same sickly smile remained on her lips as it had, just before she'd cast an Unforgivable curse and failed.
"Is it finished?"
"Well," the witch said, her voice hoarse. "Yes. But…"
"But what?" Umbridge shoved herself up from the desk.
Hermione's eyes couldn't focus on the bright light that emanated from her left arm. It had to be the constellation, but — how had it formed? Her throat burned like blood and and her arm hurt; potion. Peppermint. Ashwinder wings. Adder's fork. Moonstone powder. She tried to pick apart the flavours, but failed.
Ash, just - ash. Everything tasted like it'd been prepared incorrectly, thrown together and slammed down her throat.
They weren't right.
"When you knocked her out, she hit her head." The Healer's name tag glittered against her bright green robes.
Healer Auger.
"How should I have known she'd fall forward like that," Umbridge pouted.
"Normally we have a constellation in a minute flat," they gestured at the light on her arm. Hermione could see little glittering silver spots. "This taps into their memories, their history, all of that. But she's not receptive, she's guarded. You're meant to make them feel safe — "
"Look! she's awake now," Umbridge shoved Hermione's head back. A splitting pain returned, her forehead slick.
"If you let me heal her head first, this'll go smoother." Auger lifted their wand, which was as long as their forearm.
Umbridge stomped a foot. "It shouldn't matter, it's not that complicated."
"It is," Auger shook their head. The set of goggles they wore squeaked as the various glass pieces moved. "Are you with us, dear?"
"Yes," Hermione said, her voice empty.
Auger stood up and cast a series of spells Hermione knew by heart; a cleaning charm, a disinfectant charm and a sealing charm. Her hand reached out through the dark to stroke her forehead in a series of small shapes, runes, but Hermione couldn't pick the patterns.
The pain disappeared. Not completely, but enough to relax her forehead.
"Oh, why don't we just give her a massage while we're at it!"
The light on her forearm waned, so much so that it was a faint glow.
"See," Auger said, her tone clipped. "If you would allow me to oversee the process — "
"No!" Umbridge shook with rage. "You undermined me, you administered healing magic while she was processing the potion. You could very well have ruined the mark."
"It shouldn't be given to unconscious subjects," Auger ran her fingers over the marks, her expression drawn. "Serpens Caput."
"Pardon," Umbridge raised her head, her lips parted.
"Her constellation is Serpens Caput."
The lights in the room returned in a gradual fade. Hermione's wrists were released, which she was thankful for in more than one way. She waved a hand across her chest to dismiss the blood and did the courtesy of cleaning the floor too.
"How does it work," Hermione asked, her voice meek. She wasn't in pain but her mind ached.
"A potion draws the signature of your magic into a constellation that matches a — "
"Don't!" Umbridge cut in. "She's not meant to know."
Auger rolled her jaw on the spot. She had cropped brown hair and a scar across her throat. She blinked several times before she dropped her head, her gaze fixed to the spot where Hermione's blood had been.
"You may go," Umbridge waved a hand. "Get out."
"We have further evaluations to run," Auger looked over her shoulder. Hermione did the same, to see several Healers in their lime green robes. They had a camera and several tools. A measuring tape, a clipboard. That was what she'd expected.
Umbridge shivered with rage. She didn't speak, and instead sat behind the metal desk.
Hermione stood, her core shaky as she did so. Her left forearm bore a string of mercurial marks that shifted in the light. They were visible from most angles though they vanished at others. She touched them with the pad of her thumb. They were so warm they hurt to touch and felt much like a pea had been lodged beneath her skin.
A potion.
She was correct, at least in part.
So these marks were drawn out by whatever was in the potion, based on memories and mental cognition. She took note as they approached her, to measure her height and to snap several photos of her. They noted her health, the length of her hair, her weight, the metrics went on.
One witch ran a hand across Hermione's body and flicked her wrist, which brought up a glistening sheet of air and sparkles. It would be magical, were it not for the setting. It was hard to feel wondrous about much while a man had a measuring tape against her eyebrow.
"Fertile," the witch noted to Auger, and Hermione wanted to throw up.
Auger's expression shifted, not quite a smile but it was a lighter expression than before. "It's just for the records — in case anything changes while you're married."
"You expect me to have children?" Hermione asked with a level of calm that surprised even herself.
"No," Auger's voice was sharp. "If you go in with no record of broken bones, magically mended or otherwise, and then you return with remnants of fractures or regrown bones, we know something's wrong. It's for your sake."
"So knowing I'm fertile is just a bit of fun," Hermione bit back.
"As I said," Auger waved her fingers, to replicate the glittering diagnostics into a piece of parchment. "If anything changes after you're married, we'll know. You aren't being forced to produce children. If you're able to have children, then cannot, we know something has happened."
"That's enough," Umbridge said, her wand in hand.
Auger and her team stilled their movements. One by one they noted down their findings. Hermione was focused on the creature behind the desk, her mirth palpable.
Umbridge stalked around the table, to snap her wand against the mark. Pain bloomed out of her arm like it was on fire, as silver and sparks began to form at the tip of her wand. Several runes and sigils formed; mannaz, othila, kaunan.
Man, estate, death, if Hermione were to ascribe them -
A spark, brighter, higher, in green.
Hermione forced down the pain as more sparks appeared.
Then a name.
"Congratulations are in order, Mrs. Severus Snape."
…
Hermione sat at Cibus Cafe in the back room, the one enchanted to look like an open field in the English countryside. It was the quietest place in Diagon Alley and the easiest place to get to, to see Ron.
It was reflex to want to see him. Ginny had practice until late. She didn't have anyone else, and the news left her empty. She had expected to be angry or disgusted or a mixture of the two. She had been ready to hate whoever she married with all of her might, and to find ways to avoid sex and intimacy.
But there was no expectation for them to have children. It was Snape, who she knew well enough to know this was a punishment for him as much as it was for her.
When she'd arrived at the Weasleys' joke shop, she hadn't said a word to Ron. He'd known she had her evaluation that morning. Ginny must have told him. She hadn't said a word to anyone about it, as she'd wanted to handle it alone.
But she couldn't.
They'd walked to the cafe in silence and sat down. She had a hot chocolate that had gone cold while he had a massive bagel and a milkshake. He'd finished both by the time she'd spoken, and to her surprise, he'd allowed her time.
When she told him he'd shouted, which wasn't surprising in the least.
"They stuck with you with Snape?"
Hermione had every reason to cry, yet she didn't. She remained stony, her mind in a frantic spiral as she selected her defense.
"They can't make you do this, Hermione."
"They can, and they have." Hermione strained her jaw, her eyes narrowed at her left arm. "Azkaban or marriage; those are my options."
"Yeah, but, marrying Snape?" His voice was thick with disbelief. "I'd take the Dementors before I'd even touch Snape."
"Well, I can't imagine a better match, given the potential suitors," she bit off the last word with every ounce of malice.
They weren't suitors, they were captors.
Goyle, Montague, Flint...
They were the younger ones, the ones she could almost imagine herself begrudging.
God, imagine if Malfoy was still around.
She'd seen the parade of Death Eaters with darkness still around them, their little birds hooked to their arms. Each girl had a single silver band, which linked to the constellation on their inner left wrist.
"I'd be a better bloody match than Snape," he hissed. "Are you hearing yourself."
Hermione brushed at her robes, which had crimped around her hips.
"I could ask for you."
"That isn't how it works." Hermione picked up her hot chocolate, which was too sweet.
The smell of it alone reminded her of Umbridge, pressed close to her face. She'd left out that aspect of her story as well as the failed attempt at Imperio. Her split open head, her pool of blood. The conversation of fertility and of broken bones.
"I could try," Ron reached for her hand but faltered. He instead tapped his knuckles on the table, his expression drawn.
"If it were as simple as a request, someone would have snatched me up for the sheer fun of torturing me."
"Don't say that."
She endured the sweetness, though her teeth ached with each sip.
"How d'you know how it works? I've never heard of this before it hit the papers, not once. Wizards and Muggles making some balmy agreement hundreds of years ago, that they just found now? Sounds like a load of shite to me."
"It's done Ron," Hermione's voice wavered, though she were no less resolved.
"How're you so okay with this, Hermione." He gestured to her wrist, where Serpens Caput sat like silver freckles. As far as constellations went, it was rather simple. There was a small lasso shape, with several stars that trailed off towards the tail.
"We've been in a slow death for years," Hermione shook her sleeve out, to cover her forearm. "Culturally, socially, all of it. Stagnation, distrust, fear... It has to come to a head, eventually."
It occurred to her that this was a goodbye of sorts. She couldn't speak to Ron about this, not if she wanted any real input. He stared her down with darkness behind his eyes, as if she were the one who'd forced the marks onto her skin.
She had loved him once, deeply and completely. She didn't see that boy anymore with the long nose and blue eyes. He had vanished alongside Harry, blown away in the wind.
They hadn't dated.
They hadn't even talked about the kiss after that day.
Hermione wondered if he blamed himself for how Harry died; if they'd just been a little quicker if they'd paid more attention. She saw it in how he watched her, a hard line in his gaze where he'd treat her like a weight rather than a person.
He didn't want to see her suffer, but he didn't want to see her at all.
But she'd run to him today because she had no one else. No one except Ginny.
And she felt him slip away from her as he sat back in his chair, his broad arms crossed over his chest. His gaze drifted sideways to the enchanted meadow. An eternal sunset rested on the horizon, which cast a yellow glow over them.
She tugged her sleeve down to cover her constellation.
"I don't get it," Ron said.
"It was either with a constellation or death."
"Doesn't mean you have to kill yourself for them." He arched a brow at her arm, which she cuddled to her chest. "There's no guarantee they won't kill you when they have you - "
"Marrying Snape isn't going to kill me."
"Hermione!" Ron gawked at her as a wide smile lit up his face. "I don't even know who you are anymore."
It was a joke, given his teasing tone.
Except that it was truer than anything else he'd said.