Sunday — August 10th, 2001.
The concept of marriage had always been an obligation to Hermione. It was a pair of ugly socks she had to smile through receiving. It wasn't something she wanted, but she'd endure it if she loved someone enough.
As a child, she wouldn't play the bride nor would she pick flowers for a bouquet.
There were no toys lined up as her family or an imaginary groom leaned against the old willow tree her father always said he'd cut down. She pictured the play of marriage as something fun and idyllic, so outside of her wheelhouse that she made it other. She could see the reasoning behind it, as to why young children would pretend such things. It was fun, it was the future, it was about love and hope.
And the older she got, the more marriage seemed like a complication of archaic traditions.
The Marital Clause had been insidious, slow. Not announced all at once, but implied through small articles and features.
It was alluded to, implied, and it took several suspect pairings before they named it.
After the first four marriages between pureblooded men and Muggleborn women, Hermione had begun to scour the Daily Prophet for more information. By April, they had finally admitted that Ministry intervention had been used to assign the couples. Public favor had been on their side, as the few couples who'd married seemed idyllic. Each had a beautiful wedding with beautiful photos, none of which showed the true nature of the arrangement. It was easy to see the photos in the Daily Prophet and admire the beautiful couples.
It was a symbolic end of the war to some, while those who'd defended blood purity pursed their lips and rolled their eyes.
They saw it as riding coattails of old traditions.
Hermione didn't really care what the purebloods had to say on the matter.
She couldn't sleep.
And so she didn't.
She spent the night pacing in her small flat. She'd been notified of her an evaluation on Wednesday and expected to marry by Saturday. They either really expected her to run, or they needed her locked down for…
Some reason.
But they'd shut Snape out of their operations. What possible benefit could there be to such an arrangement?
Or were the stars really that clever, to pick her perfect match?
Saturday — August 11th, 2001.
Hermione picked out her sharpest pair of Muggle jeans and a simple light blue t-shirt. She pulled on her favorite hoodie, one that she'd taken from Harry's old clothes. It was slim and deep emerald, but still sat too large on her bony frame. She was tempted to enchant the chest of the hoodie to say something pithy about Muggleborn rights but resisted. She had dark circles beneath her eyes and she'd not bothered to style her hair outside of her usual braid
She would marry Snape; she didn't have to pretend to be happy about it.
"If you need me to come with, I can," Ginny said, her hands clasped to Hermione's shoulders.
"I'd rather you didn't." Hermione's lips crimped with the heat of her words. "I don't even want to go."
Ginny was in full Holyhead Harpies regalia. She had stripes of green and gold across her cheeks, and Hermione couldn't decide if the colors complimented or contrasted with her complexion. She hadn't time to think about it as Ginny crushed her to her chest, her face buried in Hermione's neck. She held her close for a long, quiet moment, and Hermione appreciated the concern. She wished she could mirror it for herself.
Hermione had watched her friends go into battle countless times. She'd watched the Order be assigned to rescue missions or assaults. But she'd never seen Ginny shake when she'd said goodbye to anyone then. She was always strong, always stoic, sure that they'd come back okay or she'd go get them herself.
But now her hands shook against the nape of Hermione's neck.
"And you're sure?"
"Not really," Hermione said in a dry voice. "But I was given three days' notice. I believe they knew I'd outsmart their system if they left me in it for too long."
"Modest aren't you," Ginny snorted. "Are you still going to live here..? We haven't even worked anything out."
"I'll be back tonight," Hermione nodded. "Even if I have to break out of Snape's house."
That had been a joke, but Ginny didn't smile. Instead, she gave her a final hug before she stepped away to snatch up her broom.
They exchanged a slow wave, as Hermione lingered by her couch.
Hermione watched as Ginny vanished with a small pop. She dug out the small card she'd been given at St. Mungo's.
Hermione hadn't been to the Ministry since her last interview, two years ago. She had applied to be part of The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
She'd been rejected with a form letter, in spite of her noted brilliance. They'd told her she was a sure thing, that they'd have to hire her.
But they didn't.
She took a deep breath, her gaze focused on the card in her hand. It had a small address and a photo of her arrival location attached to it. The date and time had been scrawled onto it, but the rest had been printed on.
Hermione Granger, Marital Clause, 8am. Disc Seven.
Basement Floor Two.
Marital Law Office, courtesy of Marital Clause Division Head Official Dolores Jane Umbridge.
Care of Severus Snape.
Snape's name had been the smallest thing on the card, while Umbridge had taken up most of it with her own.
Had Snape anticipated he'd be matched?
Had he known it'd be her?
The sensation of Apparation had been something to adjust to. She compressed as it started and an immense relief as she landed. It was instantaneous, enough that she was still holding the same breathe that she'd left with.
She exhaled, relieved, though the room she had arrived in was dimly lit.
Hermione blinked in the dark, her gaze unfocused. She was in a spacious booth that reminded her of a change room except that it was round. She tugged on her robe from her bag, if only because it allowed her a place to stash her wand. As she righted herself and checked her braid, she stepped down the small steps.
A little gold plaque was pressed to the door as she exited, with the number Seven engraved. Down the aisle was a dozen or so more doors, with matching plaques.
It allowed people a specific place to land so they didn't all pop into existence onto one another. It also afforded them a chance to change if they needed to, whether they arrived in robes or Muggle clothes. Not to mention how strict the Ministry was about letting guests Apparate into the belly of the building. Her breath turned to mist before her eyes.
It was so cold down here.
She emerged from her aisle of Apparition Chambers with the card still held in her hand. Her free hand remained in her pocket against her wand, as if she might need it. She held her chin high and her back straight as if this were a battle.
Perhaps it was.
"Miss Granger," a girl smiled, though she snapped a hand to her mouth. "Or should I say Mrs. Snape?"
"Hermione will do," Hermione said, her voice clipped. "Are you to escort me?"
The stout blond girl waved her arm, and Hermione followed in suit. They went through the large atrium with the fountain decorated with large glass orbs. Each orb was a different size, though Hermione couldn't pick the pattern, nor the significance. They had wide bands around each of them in silver, though she couldn't decipher the runes. They spun slowly around each orb. It would be pretty, were it not so morbid.
Each had red in them. Thick, viscous. Blood.
Or something like blood.
"It's a little sad, isn't it?" Bianca, that was the name on her tag. She politely didn't care to ask or to clarify, as she wanted to be in and out of this place.
"Oh, marrying someone twice my age? Or being forced to marry at all." Hermione made a sound from the back of her throat, gurgled and cruel. "Not even to mention the dynamic of having to marry a former Professor."
"No, no, I meant it's sad that you aren't doing a big... Y'know, event, about it."
An execution, Hermione thought.
"I always wanted a big wedding, you must have too! You only get one."
Hermione didn't want to correct the girl.
People married and divorced with some frequency. It wasn't the sixteenth century, where one had to have their wives decapitated because of their own shortcomings. Though she realized with grim intelligence that the law they'd enacted predated even the execution of King Henry's wives.
Perhaps an execution was what she meant after all.
"You could've done the big dress, and all your family could be there."
"I don't have any family."
"Friends?"
"I'm not the social sort," Hermione said, her tone thick with sarcasm. She had no patience for this idyllic world this girl lived in, where an arranged marriage was something to be celebrated.
"Oh, no wonder you got Snape then," she laughed, and Hermione wanted to hip check her into the fountain. But they passed it too soon and were in an elevator within seconds.
If there was a chance to run, she'd lost it, over and over.
She could have avoided the appointment altogether. But if she dodged the Clause, she'd be hunted with legalized brutality. That would leave Snape open to a new match, potentially, as they'd brand her a cheat and imply she'd mangled her constellation.
If Snape were forced to marry another girl, it would compromise the Order. Not to mention what would happen to Hermione in all of it, where she'd end up with, or with whom. She had run through the possible arrangements, but unless she decided to go on the run altogether, she'd end up at the Ministry in some fashion. She didn't have the money to afford travel or to sustain herself on the road. She'd live in constant fear of being caught. She couldn't do tents across Britain again.
She didn't have Harry this time, and she refused to do such a thing alone with Ron. She wouldn't ask him to, either.
No matter the path she chose, she would be alone. At least this path afforded her a chance of creature comforts, a bathroom, a washing machine. She could keep her job, perhaps, and she could buckle down, save money, spend her time trying to reverse the process. She could handle this marriage for a few weeks or months if needed. At least she had something easier to escape than Azkaban itself.
The elevator jerked to a stop.
Hermione had been worried she'd have to look for Snape when she arrived. That he'd make it difficult for her, or that he'd hide in a room or not turn up at all.
To her uncharacteristic relief, she relaxed when she saw him.
"Wait here," Bianca hummed, high and soft. "I'll get your file, sign you in, you just go see your fiance."
The word 'fiance' hit like a punch to the stomach.
Hermione gritted her teeth so hard she feared she'd chipped them. She swirled her tongue over her molars but stopped as she met Snape's eye.
Snape looked like a hole in the universe. He stood in deep black robes, framed by pastel pink walls. Bright pink flowers and ribbons were twirled along the wall, framed around sickly sweet kitten prints. All of the kittens were rolling or cute, but they had a malevolence to their gaze Hermione recognized. A set of baby blue armchairs sat next to Snape, as well as a miniature white coffee table. He looked as if he might die if he moved, terrified of all the bright, light colors.
His head was downturned as he stared at the floor. Stiff; still. Impossibly so.
A series of photographs had been pinned to the wall behind him. Each photo had names and dates listed on them in a bold silver marker.
Flint and Woart, 2001.
Goyle and Smith, 2001.
Montague and Aisley, 2001.
She grimaced, as each photo showed a matched pair. The women all smiled too wide and their dresses were too large. The men varied, from confused (Goyle) to lecherous (Flint). None of the photos appeared to be in this department, however.
She could see the high arches of a fine Victorian church in one.
A forest in another.
Snape, who had been impossibly still, moved. Just a fraction, enough for the curtain of black hair to part around the shape of his nose. Not even the bright lights of the Marital Law Department Lobby could counteract his personal gloom. His head was angled away, but enough to see her. The glint of his eyes like black quartz between his damp hair, eerie and distant.
So he had noticed her arrival.
But he hadn't moved to greet her, not even to breathe.
His gaze didn't waver from her, though she swore his lips twitched upward. Not a smile, not a sneer, not anything she could pinpoint.
But he was alive, at least.
She wondered if he'd stunned himself to make the marriage process easier. She could hover him to the desk, though he'd have to sign the paperwork of his own volition.
"You're looking well," she said, conversational in tone.
There was a sting to her mind when their eyes locked, though she felt nothing further. He always did that, that cursory inspection. She hadn't realized it in her youth, but it wasn't supposed to ache when someone met your eye.
He didn't trust her or didn't trust that it was her. She couldn't blame him, given the nature of their meeting. She almost didn't believe she was here either, ready to be married to him.
He looked over her with bored scrutiny and she dropped the notion of conversation.
Instead, she looked at the books on the white table. They were laid out in a specific pile. They were decor, she surmised, not to be read. It made her nose twitch, the dust that laid on them. She waved a hand to clean them, which caused another twitch to his lips.
But no words.
She looked at the words on the books, for at least books were easy to understand. Each had a miserable title, such as Arranging Yourself For Marriage: A Guide To Compulsory Affection. She shifted the top book, enough to read the next title.
The Magic of Magical Pregnancy.
She shoved the top book back into place.
Her stomach dropped as if she might be the one who was ill. Her head snapped up as she heard the heavy footfall of a girl who'd never had to sneak around, who'd never scrounged for food behind cafes, who'd not been assigned to marry Snape -
"You're such a cute couple already," Bianca said, her hands tucked beneath her chin. "So sweet."
Snape pivoted his attention to the girl, and she jumped as Hermione had.
"Just that, both of you, you seem so - well, it's about your personalities, you know, not flashy, not..."
Snape blinked long and slow.
Hermione felt her nausea spike again.
"So, you, um, is this..." She trailed off, her fingers wove between the two of them. "Do neither of you have anyone?"
Hermione shook her head, while Snape remained still.
"That's really... No friends? No... No family?"
"Do you wish for me to partake in some veritaserum," Snape began, his voice like an itchy woolen sweater. "So as to explain how alone we both are."
Bianca flinched as if he'd slapped her.
"Where's the officiator." He flexed his fingers and had the tact to at least keep the same sneer.
Bianca vanished down the hallway, though not before a series of babbles and platitudes, sorry, oh, I'll go get them, just wait, how exciting. She didn't stop, either, not as she skipped down the hallway.
As if she were pleased about the arrangement.
"Are you ill?" Hermione said, unsure.
"Do I seem ill?"
"No, it's just," Hermione looked him over once, her brows tilted to wrinkle her forehead. "I was just asking."
"Don't."
"Well, I - " Hermione caught her voice before it wavered. "If we're to be married, even as a farce, I should be able to ask you questions about your health."
"My health is my own," his voice never rose above boredom, though she honed in her attention on him. Perhaps he was more like a moth than a person, who used scent to communicate.
He smelled of shredded Boomslang skin and fluxweed, were she to guess. They were pungent ingredients, they clung to your hands and your clothes. Her nose twitched. Something floral.
"I asked to be polite," Hermione rolled her jaw, to catch the urge to snap at him. She had graduated from fear.
"Do not mistake my compliance in this arrangement for affection," he said, his tone level. "As you pointed out, this Clause is a farce. It relies on a mixture of fabricated historical documentation and Divination."
"Divination?" Hermione breathed, her eyelids fluttered. She couldn't bite down the nasty smile that formed. it was the same smile gave to Trelawney through her first few classes when she'd tried to pretend that Divination was real.
Snape's expression fell, enough that she noticed, and her cheeks went hot. She swallowed hard, her gaze returned to the hallway ahead of them. She preferred it when he didn't move.
She looked down at her wrist which bore the mercurial dots along the soft flesh. Each dot was hard to the touch, like a piercing she'd not agreed to. They weren't something she could pick out or dismiss. She couldn't vanish them, nor could she pull them out.
She had tried.
Snape had the same black robes with tailored sleeves and a high neck. She hoped she'd never see more of him, though her breath caught in her throat as she realized that the markings would be on his left wrist.
"They used the stars to align pairs. I worry for you if I have to explain that constellations," his gaze flicked to her wrist. "Being used to assign romantic fates is Divination."
"I thought it might be Astronomy, though that's no better." Hermione gritted her teeth at the mention of Divination.
"Capricorn; Virgo," he said, a long cool look passed over her, his lip sneered at the edge. "Suffice to say, I am no more excited by this than you are."
"Star signs!" Hermione shrieked so loud the portraits faltered in their smiles. The woman behind the metal desk looked up, her shadowed eyes a coral pink. "Sorry," she said, not sorry at all.
"I know you're excited, please don't shout," the woman behind the counter sang, her voice like molasses.
"They're relying on Divination to select partners?" She caught herself before she continued, but it hurt her throat to keep her voice down. "They're using - star signs?"
"In part," he rolled his gaze down the hall, his lips pursed. "I imagined you of all people would be dedicated to investigating the nature of the arrangements."
"Well, there's not much known, except they're shoving Muggleborns into the arms of halfbloods or purebloods," Hermione exhaled sharply.
Snape leveled a glance at her until she caught it. He didn't panic or flinch when she met his eye. Instead, he smiled, faintly, and she felt her stomach lurch.
"They're coming." He extended a slender hand towards her.
She'd never looked at his hands much, not outside of Potions. They were immaculate, trimmed nails, clean edges, buffed and cared for.
And then she realized she'd been staring at the hand, rather than accepting it.
His hand was warm. She hadn't expected that. Something about how he looked made her think he'd be cold to her touch, like a stone wall. Instead, he felt like a fresh cup of tea. It was uncomfortable, if she was honest, how boiling hot they were.
She'd been ready for him to feel like a corpse, not a fireplace.
Habitually, she tucked herself closer to him, her cheek to his shoulder, and the warmth extended. She felt lighter at least as if she weren't alone. The fever she'd had since St. Mungo's faded, in comparison to the heat he exuded. He looked miserable beside her.
It didn't change anything. It didn't make the experience any more pleasant, not as they turned with mechanical tandem towards Bianca and the officiator.
He was gnarled, with a knobbly forehead and a heavy brow. He had dress robes on and his hair was slicked to the side. It wasn't his attire or grooming that alerted her, rather it was the battle-worn quality to his face.
Her gaze darted to his left forearm though it remained obscured by his sleeve. She was sure she'd see a Dark Mark beneath it, were she to shove the sleeve away.
She fought the urge to touch his arm, to look for the mark.
"Ah, a practical couple," he said, his gaze fixed to Hermione. "Not the wedding type, dove?"
Snape snatched his hand away from her as she tried to sneak beneath his arm. She didn't know why. It just seemed like a nice place to be — didn't it?
With his hand free of hers, she felt cold. Clammy and overdressed, like she'd woken up in a sweat after a nightmare. She shot a reproachful look at Snape as if he'd done something to her. He must have, given how she cuddled close to him without hesitation.
"May we proceed," Snape exhaled, his voice tense. "I have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Yes, yes, Severus," the man cooed as if he were soothing a toddler.
Hermione didn't have to look at Snape to see the fear. His fear might be different than hers, but it was based in the same mutual fear; that they didn't want this. He didn't want her, she didn't want him.
It could be worse.
She remained stony-faced as the man turned, though she did catch Snape's eye. It was fleeting and brief.
He looked more miserable than her if that were possible.
The elevator clanged open behind them as four Snatchers appeared. She recognized them as Snatchers as their faces had been provided along with her reports. She didn't need the photos, of course. Not as she saw one man strut past her with a wink and her scarf wrapped around his neck.
"She isn't going to run," Snape said, impatient in his voice. "Must we muddy the process with…"
"What, Sev?" The tallest man said with long dirty hair and too much leather. He smelled like a forest.
Hermione hated forests.
Behind two of the men was a young girl with tears in her eyes. Her robes were torn along her arm, where a constellation laid. Each mark was bleeding profusely, though it was difficult to make out as she had chains on her arms. Four sets of manacles ran the length of her arms, from her wrist to her elbow. They linked to her throat with an ethereal, silver wisp.
Her eyes widened so fast she felt them dry out.
That was Natalie Woart.
She was a Ravenclaw girl she'd shared Arithmancy and Ancient Runes with.
They'd attended their Eighth year together after the war.
She wouldn't meet Hermione's eye.
"Caught a runner," their sharp-toothed leader said. His teeth weren't wolfish, not in a way that matched any werewolves she knew.
They looked like they'd been filed sharp. It was an intimidation tactic, one that made her turn her attention away. Back to Natalie, back to the girl she shared notes with. The girl who shook beside the Snatchers, her head bent down and her arm dripping blood onto the cream carpet.
Why hadn't she reached out? They could have put her into hiding or sent her to France.
But the Order hadn't stepped in once, not for any of the other girls.
They hadn't even tried to save her.
The stout man with too many tattoos yanked on her hair to keep her in place and Hermione stepped forward. Snape moved to stand in front of her, though he moved closer to their leader with the movement. She didn't know if that was intentional. She dismissed it.
"Why bring her here, Scabior?" Snape idled, his hands folded.
"What, like I have to answer to you?" His gaze flickered to the girl who had no shoes and her hair was matted. "We're returning her to her loving husband. Flint's beside himself, so worried about her."
Hermione didn't miss how Natalie shook at the mention of Flint's name. Her gaze slid to the beautiful photo of them in the Victorian church, smiling, brilliant.
"We'd do the same for you and your Mudblood." Scabior poked his lip out, his head tipped to look at Hermione past Snape's shoulder. "She's tasty though, don't know if we'd get her back to you too quick — "
Hermione's hand darted to her pocket, but she hadn't a chance.
Her wand spiraled from her grip and into the air.
Scabior caught it and twirled it between his fingers. He offered it handle first to Snape with a tut of his tongue. "Good luck with her, she's a right cunt. Got the Malfoys killed — surprised ol' Trix is even letting her marry. Shoulda just — " and he mimed a killing curse at her with a wink.
His men laughed and shuffled on the spot. Natalie strained against their grip, but whatever restraints they'd slapped on her sapped what magic she must have. The room began to smell like burnt bacon, and the slight shift of the manacles revealed burned skin. They looked heavy, wrapped in iron and silver.
Snape snatched the wand and Hermione's upper arm, one after the other. He shoved her along the hallway, away from Natalie, away from the stench of the forest and burnt flesh, away from the sight of her old pink scarf.