March came in, cold and wet as a mannerless dog. On a calendar in her
room, Hermione marked the number of weeks remaining before the Easter
holidays, when she would board the Hogwarts express at the end of term and
go home for a three week visit. She had yet to write to her parents about
anything more serious than the school news and current house standings, and
they had no idea yet about her secret. Somehow she thought they might
notice if she continued to wear her baggy, concealing school robes during
her visit home.
In the meantime, a steady supply of Muggle newspapers began to appear on Madame Pomfrey's desk, delivered by a motley assortment of owls. She and Snape set up a system to sort through the various stories, and together they perused each article of death, destruction, or simply unexplained phenomena, separating the stories into three sections: Likely Related to Death Eater Activity, Remotely Possible, and Not Bloody Likely.
Some of the headlines were enough to make Hermione burst out laughing on sight. Occasionally she had to explain the humor to Snape, but to her surprise the man had a remarkably broad understanding of Muggle culture. Before long they got in the habit of reading out the more ludicrous tidbits to each other and making the odd wild supposition as to why, for instance, a grown man would be found naked in a call box.
The afternoons and occasional evenings Hermione spent in the company of Severus Snape remained slightly formal, but the undercurrent of expectation remained in both their thoughts. He continued to instruct her in the more advanced potions and involved her in the research projects he had set up in the laboratory, all the while continuing to address her by her first name. After some practice, Hermione managed to call him Severus every now and again without expecting him to take off house points.
Their time together continued in the same fashion as they discussed Death Eater activity and the current state of denial that existed at the highest level of the Ministry of Magic. They compared the Daily Prophet with the various Muggle newspapers and found little difference in their journalistic style. The one thing Hermione had never expected, however, was for Severus Snape to develop a new obsession.
"What is this?" he asked her one Thursday evening, when she had sought out the lab instead of the library for a quiet place to work on her assignments.
Hermione glanced up at the grid of black and white squares. "That's a crossword," she told him. "It's a kind of puzzle." She pointed at the list of clues. "Solve these questions, and put the answers in the boxes. All the answers should fit together."
Severus made a noncommittal 'hmm,' and began to read the numbered clues. A moment later he reached for his quill and began to fill in the first row. He made rapid progress, and when she checked his answers realized he had a firm grasp of Muggle literature. His recall of history seemed total, and of course his mastery of language and hard science was a given. However.
"Why in the name of Merlin would I want to know who Princess Diana's butler was?" he asked in acid tones of disbelief. "The woman's dead, I believe, and her servants should be looking for employment, not showing up in the newspapers."
Hermione explained the controversy surrounding the former butler, who may or may not have been a thief, and who may or may not have been privy to potentially embarrassing information he was willing to use as a bargaining chip.
His upper lip curled as he listened. "Rather gives one a proper appreciation of house elves," he drawled. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him in mock-annoyance, knowing he was being deliberately provoking.
"Do you want to know the answer or not?"
"Yes."
"Say please."
He paused, weighing whether or not it was worth it. "Please," he said at length, with saccharine insincerity.
She told him, and when he gave a small grunt she knew the letters had fit. She wondered if it were something she could put up with that at the breakfast table for the next few decades, and decided it could be worse. A daily, in depth, detailed examination of the latest Quidditch matches came to mind.
Severus continued to be fascinated with the crossword puzzles, but it usually took their combined efforts to solve the entire thing. It was moments like this she found herself seriously considering his proposal, when the atmosphere between them was comfortable and the baby in her womb kicked and turned complacently.
On the other hand, however, Hermione's logical mind told her that the thought of marriage solving all her problems was a soap bubble; pretty and just as insubstantial. Hermione didn't believe in soap bubbles. Her body, however, insisted there was a third hand to consider, when his deep voice caressed her nerves, stirring her in ways that she could not deny and making her conscious of his presence every moment they were in the same room. Like now, when her homework lay forgotten and she stood at his side, helping him decipher the more mundane aspects of Muggle culture and spending far too long just watching him.
Leaning one elbow on the work table, quill in his ink-splotched fingers, he was the image of concentration. A faint crease appeared between his eyebrows, his eyes barely blinking as he pored over the text. The only movement he made was his bottom lip as it worried at a stray lock of hair. Separate from the rest, the tip curved to just touch the underside of his expressive mouth. His entire focus on the parchment before him, he blew at it without thinking, but the strand came back to rest in the same position.
Hermione's lip itched in sympathy, and without thinking she reached out to move the strand away. Severus immediately flinched and reared away, a flat, wary expression on his face.
"Sorry," she managed, confused at his reaction. She felt a bit foolish with her hand in mid-air and lowered it.
"No harm done," he replied in a quiet voice and brushed the hair away himself. The wary expression faded as he returned to his reading, and Hermione continued to watch him. When, she wondered, was the last time anyone had raised a hand to Severus Snape and didn't intend him any harm? He was thirty-eight years old, and had been playing a deep, dangerous game for more than fifteen years.
"Are you finding anything in today's mess?"
"Unemployment is down; the PM and the minority whip are each clamoring to claim credit," he relayed in a dry tone.
"Honestly. Between the Ministry of Magic and Her Majesty's most loyal supporters, it's a wonder the British Empire is still standing. Heaven only knows how bad it would be if they ever worked together."
"They tried it once," Snape said absently.
"No!" exclaimed Hermione. "You're joking!"
"It was called the Dark Ages for a reason," he said dryly. "Followed quickly by the Spanish Inquisition and a flurry of Obliviates."
"I didn't know that," she mused. "Professor Binns leaves a lot of information out of his classes."
"Knowledge isn't everything, Hermione."
"I thought knowledge was power," she replied cheekily, but it was a long moment before he spoke again.
"I once thought that; but it's an illusion. Cognitio indifferns virtus mallus."
"Learning is neither good nor evil," Hermione translated hesitantly.
"Close enough. Put simply, knowledge is only knowledge. What matters is what you do with it." He paused, staring at his papers without actually seeing them. "I once thought I wanted power. Respect. Learning for the bright, clean perfection of it. You must know what I mean."
"I do," Hermione admitted. "And I still want to learn. There's so much I want to know."
"Knowledge in and of itself is merely a pursuit," he cautioned. "Not an end in itself."
"Then what should be?" she asked. "What point is there in living if you don't learn things?"
"Who says there is one?"
Hermione gave him a long look, wondering if he were being defeatist or playing devil's advocate. The silence between them continued, and she realized he had no intention of supplying an answer. It was, she realized, one of those wisdom-forming questions everyone had to decide on their own, and each person's answer would be different.
Severus raised one eyebrow as she stared at him with a pensive, intensely concentrated look, the same she fastened on a new potion recipe or transfiguration exercise.
Hermione had often been warned she was too clever by half, her intellect leading her into situations where common sense should have warned her off. But she'd never been able to resist a challenging puzzle, and Severus Snape was the most challenging, puzzling man she'd ever met. His intellect and mastery of the magic she loved so much made him interesting in ways she couldn't define, while his sense of honor and discipline were rigid indications of a unique brand of courage she could easily identify with.
With careful deliberation she raised her hand to his face. He reared back a bit, but held still as she tentatively touched his cheek, brushing away the strands of hair obscuring the side of his face. Her thumb came to rest on the high jut of his cheekbone while her fingers slid across his temple and into his hair. His hair turned out to be fine as a small child's, slippery with some treatment that felt silky to her fingertips.
To her surprise his eyes closed slowly as he leaned into her caress. It occurred to her that, no matter that he hid it so deeply, this was a man starving for human contact, for a bare measure of compassion and caring, who no longer felt himself worthy of even the smallest physical touch.
The heel of her hand skimmed over the fine edge of his jaw, and the vague prickle of his emerging beard registered beneath his smooth skin. His eyes opened again, dark and guarded despite his carefully blank face. Knowing she'd pushed her luck nearly as far as possible, she seized the last of her courage and brushed her fingertips along his lower lip before making a hasty retreat from the lab.
*****
The evening bells signaling the dinner hour were torturously long in coming as Severus waited for Madame Pomfrey to leave the Hospital Wing. He may have been exaggerating in comparing the mediwitch with an Azkaban guard, but not by much. She kept anyone in her domain on a watchful eye, and she highly disapproved of Severus' habit of escaping to the abandoned picture gallery when the confines of his rooms became just that - confining.
Once the bells rang, though, his self-appointed keeper left for her meal and Severus immediately made for the abandoned stairs and headed up. His boots made little noise until he reached the gallery, where the cool dimness was usually soothing as he paced back and forth. His legendary insomnia had created a habit of nighttime wandering, much to the dismay of students out of bed at night. Now, however, he was confined to these unused portions of the castle and his temper had no outlet other than returning the glares of the portraits as he walked past them.
The portraits, however, were uncharacteristically silent as he made his way from one end of the long room to the other, working off the energy and the serious case of nerves Hermione Granger had given him with one gentle touch.
The girl had totally disordered his life. Perhaps that wasn't fair, yet he heartily wished he'd never been summoned to Malfoy's amusement. But if he had not been, Hermione would certainly now be dead. It was also highly likely that Harry Potter and his hot-tempered best friend would have gone after Malfoy with revenge in mind, and either been killed immediately or else handed over to Voldemort with the same result.
Instead, she was carrying his child. The one time he'd felt the baby move had been the single most amazing thing he'd ever experienced. The sight of her slightly rounded form outlined by the shabby blue robes he'd taken her to replace had gone through him like a spear. Even now, knowing what was hidden under her cloak or school robes caused a streak of possessiveness to go through him.
Only occasionally did he remember the figurative hair shirt he should be wearing, and lately he was forgetting it altogether. During their time working together in the lab and especially on the trip to Diagon Alley, he'd discovered Hermione Granger was decent company. She had neither complained nor pouted, even though he'd rushed her in and out of the shops in a manner most men would have difficulty getting away with. She'd taken it all in stride, however, and fussed only over the amount of money he was spending. And it was only when he'd seen her delight in the small adventure he offered that he realized Hermione Granger had the most charming smile he'd ever seen.
When Hermione had fainted, he had been almost frantic, furious with himself. He knew, if she were to persist in her determination to go it alone, she would continue to neglect her own needs. She would of course take excellent care of the baby, while her reserves were strung thinner and thinner as she struggled to provide for the child while furthering her education. This was something he could, and would, prevent.
Irritated with the fading light, even though the gallery was one of the last portions of the castle to lose the winter sun, he withdrew his wand and muttered, "Lumos." The candles in the encrusted holders sprang to life, and he was momentarily nonplussed to see the empty portrait on the wall next to him.
Casting a glance around, he saw that nearly every portrait was vacant. At the far end of the gallery, a larger, newly placed painting caught his attention. In it, a badly rendered French café was crowded by the occupants of the portraits, tended to by a snooty French waiter who appeared nearly as bad-tempered as his customers.
Approaching the crowded frame carefully, the occupants raised their cups of coffee or wine, or gave him a bare nod of acknowledgement.
"What is the meaning of this?" Severus demanded in his best after-curfew voice.
"And what business is it of yours?" sneered back a horse-faced gentleman in a Van Dyke collar. "If you think you're going to remove this café, you're greatly mistaken. The lot of us have had nothing more entertaining that each other to speak to for years, unless you count your own self, which I do not."
"Where did it come from?" Severus pressed. "Who brought it here?" If someone were taking an interest in the gallery, it would no longer be his refuge from Madame Pomfrey's overbearing care.
"The young lady who was here two weeks ago," supplied one of the other gentlemen, who looked to be half-way through a bottle of indifferent red wine. "She brought up this place, since the other portraits downstairs were no longer patronizing that Frog with the atrocious manners." The gentleman picked his nose carefully and wiped the result on the linen tablecloth. "Bloody Frenchmen, but what can you do?" he asked no one in particular.
"The young lady," Severus deduced, "the one with all the hair?"
"That's her," said a third gentleman wearing a gold monocle, who looked a bit younger than the others. "Wouldn't mind a portrait of her up here," he said with a leer.
"She's not available."
"Stands the wind in that quarter, eh?" said the first portrait character. "Should have known such a thoughtful gel had a beau. Yours, is she?"
"I'm working on it," Severus said repressively.
"Ooh, a seduction," said the one with the leer. "How's it coming, then?"
"None of your bloody business," he informed him. Severus had actually considered and discarded the idea of attempting to seduce Hermione. While he was fairly certain she did not find him repulsive, he wasn't going to even consider the possibility of a true, physical marriage.
"Really, Boris, bad form," tutted one of the older gentlemen. "She's a pleasant girl, and look how she's had our gallery smartened up. Took the house elves two days to do this." He gestured towards the gallery, and Severus turned to see the place had, indeed, been cleaned. The dust on the floor was gone, the marble squares mopped and the festoons of cobwebs removed.
Instantly, he knew she hadn't done it entirely for the men in the portraits, but also for him. The place was his refuge, and she'd asked the elves to clean it for him, knowing his aversion to dust and clutter.
"Aren't you a bit old for her?" questioned the one with the monocle.
"Nonsense," protested the older one again. "He's in his prime. Besides, in my day, no man considered marriage until he had made his fortune. Simply wouldn't do for a young man to marry without being able to support a wife. Your finances in order, sir?" he questioned Severus.
Incensed, Severus gave the man a glare and bid the group a terse good evening before turning on his heel. He wasn't about to discuss his finances or suitability for marriage with a ruddy group portrait.
*****
"Lumos." The candles in the branching holders sprang to life in obedience to Snape's deep voice, and Hermione tried not to flinch. The faint winter sunlight coming through the windows had died as she'd wrestled with her homework assignment, and the room had grown dark without her noticing.
The worktable before her was littered with her notes from the last six History of Magic classes, but she was having difficulty wringing an essay from the dry facts Binns droned out day after day. For three hours she'd been combing her notes and her books, attempting to draft a paper of reasonable length and had an outline no longer than her hand to show for it. At the other table Severus was quickly absorbed in his own notes, and she was grateful the man wasn't inclined to talk to her today; she really didn't think she was up to any verbal fencing.
The faint rattling of Severus' quill in his inkwell didn't register as Hermione re-read a passage for the third time. Rubbing her temples didn't help, and she heaved a bad-tempered sigh and applied herself once more to the printed page.
"Hermione!"
"What?" she mumbled, not looking up.
"I asked if there were any more ink?" Severus repeated.
"Madame Pomfrey's got some in her office, but you can't go out there just now. Slytherin pasted Hufflepuff in the Quidditch match today and their keeper's got quite a bump on his head. Madame Pomfrey is checking him over."
"Ah. Poppy owes me some money, then," he said with a self-satisfied expression.
"I've a spare pot in my bag," Hermione volunteered flatly, nodding at the rucksack sitting on the end of her table. She made no move to get it for him.
Severus gave the bag a suspicious look, then opened it gingerly. Inside were several books, a sheaf of clean parchment, several wads of folded foolscap with various colored ink scrawls, a hairbrush, and a variety of other odds and ends of whose purpose he was not entirely sure. Digging through it all, he finally located a bottle of ink.
He closed the bag with a sense of relief at having escaped unharmed, then frowned at the bulging bag in its entirety. The worn strap hung loosely over one side, and he picked it up, hefting it to gauge the weight
"Good grief, Hermione! This bag must weigh a stone or more!"
"Yes. So?" she groused.
"You've already gained additional weight with the baby. It cannot be good for you to be carrying this around as well!"
"Thank you so much for reminding me how fat I'm getting," she snapped.
"I'm not worried about you being fat. I'm worried about your health!" he snapped back.
"Please don't shout at me," she whispered. Suddenly miserable, Hermione's eyes filled with tears, and she controlled the quiver of her lower lip with difficulty. "I'm tired and my back hurts. I feel awful, and I'm sick to death of Malfoy and Binns and-and-and." She managed to shut off the stuttering babble that had erupted so unexpectedly and shut her eyes tight. ~Bloody hell - hormones! I thought PMS was bad,~ she though to herself as she buried her face in her arms and fought the sobs that wanted to escape.
Hermione startled slightly as two hands gently settled on her shoulders, squeezing lightly and relaxing. His thumbs found a spot on her shoulder blades and dug in, eliciting a gasp of painful pleasure.
I'm not surprised your back hurts," Severus replied with care. Years of watching teenage girls in the grips of their bodies' chemistry had taught him to recognize the signs, although he seldom had made any allowances. Hermione was a completely different case, however.
"Relax," he told her, and truthfully she was helpless to do otherwise as his surprisingly strong hands began to seek out the knots and kinks in her shoulders. After far too brief an interval he stopped, but his lab stool squeaked on the floor as he swiftly placed it behind her and resumed his massage.
"Take this off," he ordered, and Hermione shrugged off the voluminous school robes that shielded her abdomen from casual view. Underneath, she wore the black maternity robe he'd bought her in Diagon Alley, and the warmth of his hands soaked through the thin material. Once more he told her to relax, and she mindlessly complied, thinking that surely if there had even been a man with Siren in his blood somewhere, it was Severus Snape. His deep voice caressed her nerve endings just as his hands did, working their way down her spine in tandem.
His palms spanned the small of her back, thumbs digging at the muscles and forcing inarticulate gasps from her on regular intervals. He paused slightly as he reached her waist.
"Sciatica?" he questioned softly.
When she nodded, his fingertips began to make firm circles on the flat of her backside, soothing the muscles over the sacrum and carefully avoiding the swell of her hips. Her back arched as the nerves fired off, but he never stopped the massage.
"Lean back," he urged her. As her shoulders drifted back to lean against his chest, he inched forward to frame her hips with his thighs, then wondered if perhaps that were entirely a wise thing to do. The sound of her small whimpers and moans was doing extraordinary things to him, and her body was slumped back against him, bonelessly relaxed as only a badly needed and well done backrub could make a person.
Hermione couldn't remember when she had closed her eyes, but her back was warm where it rested against his chest. His hands, which looked so unremarkable when still, were the hands of a sculptor as they worked her neck and shoulders, gripping her upper arms in rhythmic contractions to make the muscles release their tension. He found the tendon at the point of each elbow, digging in until her little fingers twitched. Her forearms, bare under his touch, were squeezed and stroked in turn as he progressed down her arms to her wrists and hands. His fingers eventually gripped her palms, rubbing each bone and knuckle, until Hermione thought she might just melt into a puddle on the floor.
Her lax hands were left draped down her sides, and for a moment Hermione thought he would leave. This was proved false, though, when his hands settled at her waist, gently stroking her sides with light yet firm palm presses, easing the tightly drawn skin with the heat of his hands. Tiny, energetic kicks erupted as he made small circles over her stomach.
"Can you feel that?" she murmured.
"By that, I assume you're speaking of the baby. No, I can't." His hands stilled over her center, but although the small movements continued, he shook his head.
Hermione thought of the sensitivity charm she'd cast on his hand once before, but in truth she was loathe to move in search of her wand. Her head had fallen back to rest on his shoulder, and the scent of his body surrounded her with the subtle scent of man combined with the faint spicy aroma of various potions ingredients. His arms held her in a safe, protected sanctuary, and a part of her wanted to remain in it forever.
"You must take care of yourself," he said quietly. "Your health is the most important thing."
Her throat hurt suddenly from a surge of unidentifiable anxieties. It wasn't the first time she'd been suddenly swamped by out of control emotions, but being held during the ambush made it both better and worse. Ironic that being held so securely in his arms would suddenly loose the fears she had thought were under control.
"I'm afraid."
"Of what?" His mouth grazed the curve of her ear as he spoke, and a shiver went through her.
"Everything," she admitted, biting her lip. "Having a baby rather tops the list right now."
"Don't be," he told her, his arms shifting until she was cradled in his arms. "I will do everything in my power to protect you."
"Why should you care?"
"I care because this mad situation is entirely my fault," he told her firmly. "I care, Hermione, that one of the finest minds in the history of Hogwarts will have to prostitute herself to survive a situation in which she had no making. I don't mean that literally, of course, just that you will no doubt be forced to compromise your amazing prospects. And I care desperately that the mother of my child will be forced to struggle when I can prevent it so easily."
"And marrying you will fix all that?" she asked plaintively.
"No magic wand waving here, Hermione." She could hear the smile in his voice.
"I am considering it. I can't promise you any more than that."
"Good," he murmured.
Hermione adjusted herself slightly until every possible inch of her body was in contact with his. She felt safe and warm and cherished, and for one moment she wanted, more than anything, for him to kiss her. He made no move to do so, however, simply tightening his arms around her as they sat together, and only reluctantly removing themselves from each other when the dinner bells sounded the some time later.
*****
Two days later, Hermione was eating her breakfast in her usual place across the table from Ron and Harry. Next to her, Ginny was chattering about nothing in particular, while the boys discussed an upcoming class. Hermione had kept her opinions to herself, but the comments she thought of were on par with what Severus might have made. More and more the man dominated her thoughts and imagination.
"Wow," exclaimed Ron, dragging Hermione's attention back to the present in time to see two owls carrying a large package in tandem. To her surprise, they swooped down and landed in front of her. One owl presented a leg with an attached tag, denoting a delivery to Hermione Granger. Quickly digging out a quill and ink, she signed the slip. The owl hooted at its companion and they both flapped off, leaving the twine-bound package before her.
"Well, go on," Ginny urged her. "Open it!"
Heavy white paper and twine were quickly torn off, leaving her with a black leather school bag. Understated but of exceptionally fine workmanship, it was large enough to hold all of her books and other school supplies. The flap closed with beautiful silver clasps, and between them was a set of silver initials in a graceful monogram. Her fingers lingered over the "H G" for a moment before Ginny dragged Hermione's old bag up and began to hand her the contents, one after another.
Once all of her possessions were transferred to the new bag, Hermione closed it and patted it fondly. Not a snake in sight, but it was obvious who had sent it. It was a thoughtful gift, if not all that romantic, but then again they'd both agreed romantic gestures were not necessary. It wasn't until she went to move the bag to the floor that she discovered the secret.
"What on earth?" she exclaimed when the bag moved with astonishing ease. With one hand, Hermione lifted the strap. The bag hung down, bulging with its load, but weighing no more while full than it had empty.
"It's a self-levitating bag," she told her friends, amazed.
Nearly anyone could cast a levitation charm; it was one of the first spells they'd ever been taught. However, the charm wore off quickly, especially with heavier loads. To make a permanently spelled bag, it had to be infused with the spell at every step of its manufacture, and was hideously expensive.
"Hermione," called Harry, leaning towards her on one elbow. "This fell out of the wrapper." He held out a small item wrapped loosely in black cloth. He'd obviously opened it and looked at it already. Somewhat apprehensive, she opened the small square of fabric and found another monogram. This time, the silver letters formed an "H S."
The cold metal warmed under her fingers, and Hermione rolled the little pin and considered the idea of being Hermione Snape. Though she hadn't seen him for two days, she could remember vividly the sensation of his chest behind her shoulders and the warm safety she'd felt while being held in his arms.
Harry reached out across the table and gave her hand a squeeze, the look in his bright green eyes full of understanding and empathy.
"What?" Ron interrupted. "So who's it from, anyway?"
"It's a gift," Harry told him.
"Well, I figured that out. From who?" he demanded.
She could feel the blush rising in her cheeks, but her brain couldn't quite seem to dredge up an answer quick enough to forestall Ron's assumptions.
"Don't tell me it's from a boyfriend. You've got a boyfriend? Ow!" he exclaimed as Harry smacked him in the back of the head.
"I've got to go," Hermione told him, scrambling to her feet. She pulled the lovely, weightless bag across her front to hide any unintentional revelations and left the hall.
"Git," he sister told him viciously as she rose to follow her friend.
Ron looked at Harry, bewildered. "How come she didn't tell me?"
"Because," Harry told him with exasperation, "you've been acting a complete arse for the last few months. She didn't want you to overreact. And it's not exactly like that, anyway."
"Me?" Ron protested. "Overreact?"
"You, you great prancing nit. I thought you were going to try to work things out with Hermione."
"Well." Ron began. "I did try, but she's been avoiding me lately."
"She's not avoiding you, Ron. She's got some things to deal with, and you're not helping."
"Sorry." Ron slumped in his seat, listlessly picking at the remains of his breakfast. "I really miss her, you know?"
"I know," Harry said sympathetically. He glanced around, then leaned slightly closer and dropped his voice so as not to be overheard. "Look, if I tell you something, will you shut up?"
Ron nodded.
"I used to have a crush on Hermione," Harry confessed.
"You never! When?"
"A couple of months after the two of you got together. It didn't last long, but while it did I had all sorts of stupid fantasies about impressing her and making her choose me over you. I got over it, though, because I realized something, Ron. I don't ever want to make Hermione choose."
"Choose what?" Ron asked, clueless.
"Look," Harry elaborated, "what if Hermione went out with someone you didn't like. Say, someone like Marcus Flint."
Ron grimaced. "She'd never date someone with teeth that bad. Dentist parents, remember?"
"I'm being serious here! Do you really want Hermione to have to choose between us and someone else? Whether you approve of who she's seeing or not, do you really want to take the chance of losing her forever?"
"No," Ron replied, suddenly getting Harry's point. "No, I don't."
"Remember that, then."
Harry reached under the table and gathered his books, but Ron put a hand out to stop him. "Something is going on, isn't it? Why didn't you tell me?"
"It's not my place. It's Hermione's, and she's not going to tell you if she thinks you're going to be a prat about it."
"Okay," Ron muttered, not convinced, but grabbed his own books from the floor. "No more prat, then."
"We'll see," Harry said repressively, shoving his glasses up. "Come on, we're going to be late to class."
*****
Severus peered out the windows of his laboratory and noted the last few students rushing to afternoon classes. Hermione was late, which was highly unusual. The sound of her breathless greeting to Madame Pomfrey, therefore, caused a sense of relief to go through him. His expression remained unchanged, however, as she entered the lab and muttered an apology for her tardiness.
Hermione remained somewhat quiet as the afternoon wore on, and Severus' concern continued to grow. She was working on a compound of some sort, and after a while he drifted over to investigate. A pile of Irish moss and a carton of fresh sweet violets lay beside her pestle, along with some marigolds and chamomile. He watched as she added several dollops of glycerin and began to grind the whole mess together.
"Allergic reaction?" he ventured.
"No," she said. "My skin is itching like mad." The power of suggestion exerted itself and she stopped to scratch her expanding stomach.
"I see," he commented, still wondering at her uncharacteristic lateness and lack of conversation. "Is something wrong?" he finally asked.
"No, nothing," she answered, pounding away with her mortar.
Severus' eyes narrowed; he was now sure something had happened. He put out a hand and stilled her energetic mixing.
"Tell me," he coaxed.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm happy as a lark," she insisted.
"It's a little known fact that larks are pathologically depressed, with a high suicide rate," he drawled.
Hermione looked up at him in disbelief. "Did you just make a joke?"
His face remained bland, but she rolled her eyes in exasperation. "All right, you win." She thrust a hand into her pocket and shoved the letter she pulled out into his hands.
"To Miss Hermione Granger, student of Hogwarts." Severus began, then read the rest in silence until he reached the end. "Yours, Steven G. Monahan, Dean of Students, Salem University, Massachusetts." He folded the letter and placed it on the table beside her work. "It appears to be a very generous offer."
"It is," Hermione agreed, biting her lip. "But I'd be required to live in student housing the first year at least, and the scholarship won't cover all the books and cost of living both. Not to mention what I'd do with the baby."
"How much more do you need?" Severus asked repressively.
"It's no bloody good," Hermione burst out. "Just throw it away."
"Why?"
"It's just not practical. Besides the financial bits, there's no way I'm leaving England while Voldemort's about. Not to mention the baby," she said in a hopeless voice. "How on earth am I going to afford to go to school and look after a baby, too?"
Without thinking, Severus put his hand under her chin and forced her to look up at him. "How much do you need?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter, I'm not going." Hermione ruthlessly clamped down on the traitorous part on her that wanted him to solve all her problems. The grip on her chin loosened, and the stern expression on his face changed.
"Marry me, Hermione. I will take care of you."
"I'm not a stray pet, Severus."
"Umm. I knew I was going to regret saying it like that." He sighed heavily and dropped his hand from her face. "I do not know how to say what I want without offending you."
"You're not offending me," she told him. "And I do care what you want." A faint blush rose in her cheeks, and she picked up her tools again, avoiding his gaze. "Anyway, I would never go off to America without talking to you first. You deserve at least that much."
"Do I?"
"Of course you do," she told him. "I expect to be seeing a lot of you in the future."
"I'm glad to hear it," he murmured, causing a reaction to run up her spine. She told her body to behave itself; surely he hadn't meant it to sound like THAT.
"The offer of an apprenticeship is still open, Hermione," he continued. "If you find yourself unwilling to commit to university study, a formal apprenticeship with an acknowledged master carries the same and in some cases more weight as a university degree."
"I'm considering that, too," she told him, concentrating on her work. She did not see the faint smile that appeared at her comment before he returned to his own tasks.
*****
A note delivered by Madame Pomfrey summoned Severus to the Headmaster's office the last week before the Easter holidays, and curfew that night found him once more casting a concealment charm and sneaking through the halls to the spiral staircase. Dumbledore gravely invited him to sit before the fireplace, where a bottle of fine brandy and two snifters were set out. Since a decanter of the Headmaster's brandy often lasted a decade or more, Severus settled into one of the overstuffed armchairs and gave his superior his full attention.
"I understand from my sources," began Dumbledore," that Voldemort has heard of your appearance in Diagon Alley, and he's demanding to know where you are. Outside our gates, the rumors are flying fast and thick, both in the Ministry and in the ranks of your former compatriots. Lucius Malfoy is in a bit of a pinch from both, explaining away any rumors that he was responsible for your disappearance." Those same sources had whispered in more than one ear that Lucius had been responsible for just that.
"Good," Severus replied with a thin, vicious smile at the thought of Malfoy answering for his ambition.
"The result of this, however, is that you now have a price on your head. Malfoy is leaving no stone unturned in his search."
"Is Hermione in danger?"
"I daresay he's likely to be interested in her, if only to find out where you've gone. If it becomes an issue, I'll have her removed from the school."
"You'll have a hard time convincing her to leave her schoolwork. Or Potter," he added as an afterthought, for once not sneering at the boy's name.
"She is an eminently sensible young woman," Dumbledore told him. "If nothing else, the Shrieking Shack could be made a livable refuge. Perhaps with a personal tutor to continue her schooling, she would be persuaded to be reasonable."
Severus wasn't sure he'd heard the Headmaster clearly, and on reflection decided the comment on a 'personal tutor' surely couldn't have been a double entendre.
"I'm not worried about Miss Granger's safety at this moment, however. So far, Hogwarts remains inviolate, despite young Mr. Malfoy's creeping about." The old wizard leaned forward and poured himself a glass of the dark amber brandy. "Something else, though, has changed things. Parvati Patel made a prophecy the other day."
"Merlin spare us," Severus bit out.
"The girl has the gift, Severus. I've had her assessed more than once. She passed me in the hallway on Monday and suddenly dropped all her things; I thought she was having an epileptic fit before she began to prophesy."
Severus took a hefty swig of his brandy and settled into his chair. "Well. Let me hear it," he said.
The Headmaster didn't answer immediately. Instead he leaned forward and poured himself a hefty splash of brandy before leaning back into his chair. His gaze slid to his familiar, who sat preening his red and gold plumage, showering sparks on the carpet. Fawkes looked up at his master, and wizard and bird seemed to nod at each other. He took a breath and began.
"On the day the Dark Lord betrays his most loyal servant, the era of the phoenix shall end. His feathers will burn without rebirth. The sword of Gryffindor will break. The blood of Harry Potter will pour out on the earth, And the Eaters of Death shall fall upon the world."
Severus opened his mouth in a silent gasp, but words were beyond him; even breathing seemed beyond him.
"I am the phoenix, presumably." Dumbledore continued evenly.
Severus forced a single word out. "When?"
"Soon. By the end of this year, certainly, but more than likely it will be before the school year starts up in September."
"Fuck," Severus said succinctly. "I can't stay in hiding any longer, Albus. There's too many other things I could be doing for the Order."
Dumbledore smile fondly, if a bit sadly. "I admit I was going to broach this subject, but I know you've had other things on your mind." Snape felt a faint chagrin that Dumbledore knew how little progress he was making in convincing Hermione Granger to marry him.
Dumbledore reached into his pocket and began rummaging through the contents. "Aha," he declared in quiet triumph. "I have something for you, Severus. My legacy to you."
On reflex, Severus held out his hand and accepted the offering, then looked at it in disbelief. "It's a nail."
"A horseshoe nail," Dumbledore corrected cheerfully. "It's from a Muggle rhyme. 'For want of a nail, the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe, the horse was lost."
"And then the rider, the message, the war, yes, yes, I'm familiar with it. What about it?"
"I used to carry it in my pocket for good luck when I began this mad task of opposing Voldemort. You'll find it can be very useful," he assured Severus, noting the man's skeptical expression. "It gives you something to fiddle with, when you're thinking, and does a fine job of cleaning from under your fingernails. George Weasley even showed me how to pick a lock with it one day. Or was it Fred?" he mused, then shrugged. "No matter."
The Headmaster looked over his glasses at his old friend. "Keep it, Severus. Remember that the little things sometimes are as important, if not more so, than the big things. You'll never know on what detail your fate will hinge, but you'll find that if you give some care to the small problems, the larger issues will be much easier than you thought."
*****
The last Friday before the Easter break came far too quickly for Hermione's comfort. The other students were all buzzing about with last minute business before they left for Easter holidays, and it was with a sense of relief that Hermione made her way to the small laboratory and the island of calm purpose it represented. However, when she entered the small lab to finish up the last-minute potions for Madame Pomfrey, she was shocked to see the works that had been in progress on Snape's worktable were all cleared away. Nothing steamed or stewed in any of the small cauldrons. They'd all been emptied, scoured, and stacked neatly on the shelves.
"Ah," came the familiar deep voice from behind her, and she whirled to see Snape standing just inside the illusion wall. "I had hoped to see you before you left."
"What's going on?" Hermione asked, bewildered. "All your experiments - your research.it's ruined!"
"Really, Hermione," he reproved her gently. "You know as well as I do all this was little more than an exercise in thumb twiddling. It kept me out from under Albus' feet while I remained in hiding."
She stared at him, not wanting to believe what she knew to be true. "You're leaving, aren't you?"
"Yes. There are other activities that require my unique talents, and it's time I was about them."
The irony in his voice warned her. Spying, you mean."
"Some, yes. Preparations to be made, and other things I cannot go into just now."
A sudden constriction in her throat made her voice sound odd to her own ears. "When? When are you going?"
"Soon. A week or more from now, no more than two weeks. I'll be gone before you return from your holidays." His voice sounded equally odd, and his long fingers toyed idly with the small vials on the worktable. "Speaking of which, have you decided what - or how much - to tell your parents?"
Numbly, Hermione reached into her lovely new bag and pulled out a handful of parchment scraps. Each one had several lines of handwriting and was liberally sprinkled with splotches and cross-outs. "Not exactly. Right now I'm leaning more towards the 'guess what' approach when I get home and take off my coat."
Severus blinked at her. "I've not heard such an ill-conceived plan since Ethelred the Unready said 'At 'em, men. They're just goblins.'"
Hermione smiled wanly at his comment. It seemed a very long time since she hadn't been able to discern the difference between sarcasm and his unique brand of dry humor.
"Will you be careful?" she asked, blaming hormones for the thickening sensation in her throat.
"I will try to be careful," he said evenly.
"That's not good enough," Hermione told him, fighting the tears. "I want you to promise me you'll be careful. I want you to promise me you'll come back." She might have demanded more, but somehow she was in his arms, her face muffled against his shoulder as he held her close. His large, warm hands rubbed her back soothingly, and his nearness overwhelmed her senses. The lean, solid body accommodating her own curves, the deep thrum of his voice caressing her bones as he murmured her name.
Only the faintest pressure of his palm under her chin brought her mouth up to meet his in a sweet, lingering kiss, more intense than any of the brief touches they'd shared.
"Promise me that you'll do your best to come back," she whispered, her lips brushing his.
"Then give me something to come back to," he demanded softly.
Her breath caught with a hitch. Hermione knew it was blackmail, knew he was taking advantage of the moment in true Slytherin fashion. At that exact moment, she didn't care.
With a sigh she leaned into his chest, closing her eyes and savoring the warm male scent of him that reminded her of the storeroom with all the inherit possibilities. "All right," she told him. "Yes."
"Yes?" he repeated questioningly.
"Yes, I'll marry you," she clarified, and the sudden, joyful tightening of his arms around her made her smile. She wasn't sure she was making the best decision, but that it should bring him any happiness made it seem right.
"When? The sooner the better."
"How soon can it be arranged?" Hermione tried to remember if wizards observed the old practice of publishing banns before a wedding. She knew better than to hope it would delay his departure, but she'd rather marry him now rather than wait any longer.
"It can be done tonight if we hurried, or perhaps tomorrow would be better. I'll tell Dumbledore. He's a Grand Sorcerer, he can perform the handfasting." Severus pulled back and cupped her face with his hand, absently smoothing a stray strand of hair from her face. "We'll need a ring and two witnesses. Tradition is that they be a man and a woman; I'll ask Remus if he would stand with me. You may ask whoever you wish."
"Would Ginny Weasley be all right?" she asked tentatively. "She knows about the baby already. I've been thinking. it's getting harder to hide," she said, putting her hand over her rising belly. "I thought I might make both public knowledge at once."
A hint of a smile ghosted over his lips. "So you're marrying me just so you don't have to come up with a convincing lie?"
"You know I don't lie worth anything."
"Yes, I know. Perhaps you can be taught." His mouth relaxed into a more serious expression, and he took both her hands in his. "I cannot say I love you, Hermione. I care for you greatly, but I've said those words before and never meant them, and I won't insult you like that."
"I understand," she said slowly, concentrating on the long, strong hands that held hers. "It's a start, I suppose, and I can honestly say I'd rather be with you than alone."
"I think I'll take that as a compliment," he said dryly.
With great deliberation, Severus brought her hands to his mouth and kissed each one, his lips warm and soft on the backs of her fingers before leaning forward and kissing her gently on the forehead.
Author's note: Just in case there's somebody out there that's never heard it -
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider, the message was lost. For want of the message, the battle was lost. For want of the battle, the war was lost. All for the want of a nail.
In the meantime, a steady supply of Muggle newspapers began to appear on Madame Pomfrey's desk, delivered by a motley assortment of owls. She and Snape set up a system to sort through the various stories, and together they perused each article of death, destruction, or simply unexplained phenomena, separating the stories into three sections: Likely Related to Death Eater Activity, Remotely Possible, and Not Bloody Likely.
Some of the headlines were enough to make Hermione burst out laughing on sight. Occasionally she had to explain the humor to Snape, but to her surprise the man had a remarkably broad understanding of Muggle culture. Before long they got in the habit of reading out the more ludicrous tidbits to each other and making the odd wild supposition as to why, for instance, a grown man would be found naked in a call box.
The afternoons and occasional evenings Hermione spent in the company of Severus Snape remained slightly formal, but the undercurrent of expectation remained in both their thoughts. He continued to instruct her in the more advanced potions and involved her in the research projects he had set up in the laboratory, all the while continuing to address her by her first name. After some practice, Hermione managed to call him Severus every now and again without expecting him to take off house points.
Their time together continued in the same fashion as they discussed Death Eater activity and the current state of denial that existed at the highest level of the Ministry of Magic. They compared the Daily Prophet with the various Muggle newspapers and found little difference in their journalistic style. The one thing Hermione had never expected, however, was for Severus Snape to develop a new obsession.
"What is this?" he asked her one Thursday evening, when she had sought out the lab instead of the library for a quiet place to work on her assignments.
Hermione glanced up at the grid of black and white squares. "That's a crossword," she told him. "It's a kind of puzzle." She pointed at the list of clues. "Solve these questions, and put the answers in the boxes. All the answers should fit together."
Severus made a noncommittal 'hmm,' and began to read the numbered clues. A moment later he reached for his quill and began to fill in the first row. He made rapid progress, and when she checked his answers realized he had a firm grasp of Muggle literature. His recall of history seemed total, and of course his mastery of language and hard science was a given. However.
"Why in the name of Merlin would I want to know who Princess Diana's butler was?" he asked in acid tones of disbelief. "The woman's dead, I believe, and her servants should be looking for employment, not showing up in the newspapers."
Hermione explained the controversy surrounding the former butler, who may or may not have been a thief, and who may or may not have been privy to potentially embarrassing information he was willing to use as a bargaining chip.
His upper lip curled as he listened. "Rather gives one a proper appreciation of house elves," he drawled. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him in mock-annoyance, knowing he was being deliberately provoking.
"Do you want to know the answer or not?"
"Yes."
"Say please."
He paused, weighing whether or not it was worth it. "Please," he said at length, with saccharine insincerity.
She told him, and when he gave a small grunt she knew the letters had fit. She wondered if it were something she could put up with that at the breakfast table for the next few decades, and decided it could be worse. A daily, in depth, detailed examination of the latest Quidditch matches came to mind.
Severus continued to be fascinated with the crossword puzzles, but it usually took their combined efforts to solve the entire thing. It was moments like this she found herself seriously considering his proposal, when the atmosphere between them was comfortable and the baby in her womb kicked and turned complacently.
On the other hand, however, Hermione's logical mind told her that the thought of marriage solving all her problems was a soap bubble; pretty and just as insubstantial. Hermione didn't believe in soap bubbles. Her body, however, insisted there was a third hand to consider, when his deep voice caressed her nerves, stirring her in ways that she could not deny and making her conscious of his presence every moment they were in the same room. Like now, when her homework lay forgotten and she stood at his side, helping him decipher the more mundane aspects of Muggle culture and spending far too long just watching him.
Leaning one elbow on the work table, quill in his ink-splotched fingers, he was the image of concentration. A faint crease appeared between his eyebrows, his eyes barely blinking as he pored over the text. The only movement he made was his bottom lip as it worried at a stray lock of hair. Separate from the rest, the tip curved to just touch the underside of his expressive mouth. His entire focus on the parchment before him, he blew at it without thinking, but the strand came back to rest in the same position.
Hermione's lip itched in sympathy, and without thinking she reached out to move the strand away. Severus immediately flinched and reared away, a flat, wary expression on his face.
"Sorry," she managed, confused at his reaction. She felt a bit foolish with her hand in mid-air and lowered it.
"No harm done," he replied in a quiet voice and brushed the hair away himself. The wary expression faded as he returned to his reading, and Hermione continued to watch him. When, she wondered, was the last time anyone had raised a hand to Severus Snape and didn't intend him any harm? He was thirty-eight years old, and had been playing a deep, dangerous game for more than fifteen years.
"Are you finding anything in today's mess?"
"Unemployment is down; the PM and the minority whip are each clamoring to claim credit," he relayed in a dry tone.
"Honestly. Between the Ministry of Magic and Her Majesty's most loyal supporters, it's a wonder the British Empire is still standing. Heaven only knows how bad it would be if they ever worked together."
"They tried it once," Snape said absently.
"No!" exclaimed Hermione. "You're joking!"
"It was called the Dark Ages for a reason," he said dryly. "Followed quickly by the Spanish Inquisition and a flurry of Obliviates."
"I didn't know that," she mused. "Professor Binns leaves a lot of information out of his classes."
"Knowledge isn't everything, Hermione."
"I thought knowledge was power," she replied cheekily, but it was a long moment before he spoke again.
"I once thought that; but it's an illusion. Cognitio indifferns virtus mallus."
"Learning is neither good nor evil," Hermione translated hesitantly.
"Close enough. Put simply, knowledge is only knowledge. What matters is what you do with it." He paused, staring at his papers without actually seeing them. "I once thought I wanted power. Respect. Learning for the bright, clean perfection of it. You must know what I mean."
"I do," Hermione admitted. "And I still want to learn. There's so much I want to know."
"Knowledge in and of itself is merely a pursuit," he cautioned. "Not an end in itself."
"Then what should be?" she asked. "What point is there in living if you don't learn things?"
"Who says there is one?"
Hermione gave him a long look, wondering if he were being defeatist or playing devil's advocate. The silence between them continued, and she realized he had no intention of supplying an answer. It was, she realized, one of those wisdom-forming questions everyone had to decide on their own, and each person's answer would be different.
Severus raised one eyebrow as she stared at him with a pensive, intensely concentrated look, the same she fastened on a new potion recipe or transfiguration exercise.
Hermione had often been warned she was too clever by half, her intellect leading her into situations where common sense should have warned her off. But she'd never been able to resist a challenging puzzle, and Severus Snape was the most challenging, puzzling man she'd ever met. His intellect and mastery of the magic she loved so much made him interesting in ways she couldn't define, while his sense of honor and discipline were rigid indications of a unique brand of courage she could easily identify with.
With careful deliberation she raised her hand to his face. He reared back a bit, but held still as she tentatively touched his cheek, brushing away the strands of hair obscuring the side of his face. Her thumb came to rest on the high jut of his cheekbone while her fingers slid across his temple and into his hair. His hair turned out to be fine as a small child's, slippery with some treatment that felt silky to her fingertips.
To her surprise his eyes closed slowly as he leaned into her caress. It occurred to her that, no matter that he hid it so deeply, this was a man starving for human contact, for a bare measure of compassion and caring, who no longer felt himself worthy of even the smallest physical touch.
The heel of her hand skimmed over the fine edge of his jaw, and the vague prickle of his emerging beard registered beneath his smooth skin. His eyes opened again, dark and guarded despite his carefully blank face. Knowing she'd pushed her luck nearly as far as possible, she seized the last of her courage and brushed her fingertips along his lower lip before making a hasty retreat from the lab.
*****
The evening bells signaling the dinner hour were torturously long in coming as Severus waited for Madame Pomfrey to leave the Hospital Wing. He may have been exaggerating in comparing the mediwitch with an Azkaban guard, but not by much. She kept anyone in her domain on a watchful eye, and she highly disapproved of Severus' habit of escaping to the abandoned picture gallery when the confines of his rooms became just that - confining.
Once the bells rang, though, his self-appointed keeper left for her meal and Severus immediately made for the abandoned stairs and headed up. His boots made little noise until he reached the gallery, where the cool dimness was usually soothing as he paced back and forth. His legendary insomnia had created a habit of nighttime wandering, much to the dismay of students out of bed at night. Now, however, he was confined to these unused portions of the castle and his temper had no outlet other than returning the glares of the portraits as he walked past them.
The portraits, however, were uncharacteristically silent as he made his way from one end of the long room to the other, working off the energy and the serious case of nerves Hermione Granger had given him with one gentle touch.
The girl had totally disordered his life. Perhaps that wasn't fair, yet he heartily wished he'd never been summoned to Malfoy's amusement. But if he had not been, Hermione would certainly now be dead. It was also highly likely that Harry Potter and his hot-tempered best friend would have gone after Malfoy with revenge in mind, and either been killed immediately or else handed over to Voldemort with the same result.
Instead, she was carrying his child. The one time he'd felt the baby move had been the single most amazing thing he'd ever experienced. The sight of her slightly rounded form outlined by the shabby blue robes he'd taken her to replace had gone through him like a spear. Even now, knowing what was hidden under her cloak or school robes caused a streak of possessiveness to go through him.
Only occasionally did he remember the figurative hair shirt he should be wearing, and lately he was forgetting it altogether. During their time working together in the lab and especially on the trip to Diagon Alley, he'd discovered Hermione Granger was decent company. She had neither complained nor pouted, even though he'd rushed her in and out of the shops in a manner most men would have difficulty getting away with. She'd taken it all in stride, however, and fussed only over the amount of money he was spending. And it was only when he'd seen her delight in the small adventure he offered that he realized Hermione Granger had the most charming smile he'd ever seen.
When Hermione had fainted, he had been almost frantic, furious with himself. He knew, if she were to persist in her determination to go it alone, she would continue to neglect her own needs. She would of course take excellent care of the baby, while her reserves were strung thinner and thinner as she struggled to provide for the child while furthering her education. This was something he could, and would, prevent.
Irritated with the fading light, even though the gallery was one of the last portions of the castle to lose the winter sun, he withdrew his wand and muttered, "Lumos." The candles in the encrusted holders sprang to life, and he was momentarily nonplussed to see the empty portrait on the wall next to him.
Casting a glance around, he saw that nearly every portrait was vacant. At the far end of the gallery, a larger, newly placed painting caught his attention. In it, a badly rendered French café was crowded by the occupants of the portraits, tended to by a snooty French waiter who appeared nearly as bad-tempered as his customers.
Approaching the crowded frame carefully, the occupants raised their cups of coffee or wine, or gave him a bare nod of acknowledgement.
"What is the meaning of this?" Severus demanded in his best after-curfew voice.
"And what business is it of yours?" sneered back a horse-faced gentleman in a Van Dyke collar. "If you think you're going to remove this café, you're greatly mistaken. The lot of us have had nothing more entertaining that each other to speak to for years, unless you count your own self, which I do not."
"Where did it come from?" Severus pressed. "Who brought it here?" If someone were taking an interest in the gallery, it would no longer be his refuge from Madame Pomfrey's overbearing care.
"The young lady who was here two weeks ago," supplied one of the other gentlemen, who looked to be half-way through a bottle of indifferent red wine. "She brought up this place, since the other portraits downstairs were no longer patronizing that Frog with the atrocious manners." The gentleman picked his nose carefully and wiped the result on the linen tablecloth. "Bloody Frenchmen, but what can you do?" he asked no one in particular.
"The young lady," Severus deduced, "the one with all the hair?"
"That's her," said a third gentleman wearing a gold monocle, who looked a bit younger than the others. "Wouldn't mind a portrait of her up here," he said with a leer.
"She's not available."
"Stands the wind in that quarter, eh?" said the first portrait character. "Should have known such a thoughtful gel had a beau. Yours, is she?"
"I'm working on it," Severus said repressively.
"Ooh, a seduction," said the one with the leer. "How's it coming, then?"
"None of your bloody business," he informed him. Severus had actually considered and discarded the idea of attempting to seduce Hermione. While he was fairly certain she did not find him repulsive, he wasn't going to even consider the possibility of a true, physical marriage.
"Really, Boris, bad form," tutted one of the older gentlemen. "She's a pleasant girl, and look how she's had our gallery smartened up. Took the house elves two days to do this." He gestured towards the gallery, and Severus turned to see the place had, indeed, been cleaned. The dust on the floor was gone, the marble squares mopped and the festoons of cobwebs removed.
Instantly, he knew she hadn't done it entirely for the men in the portraits, but also for him. The place was his refuge, and she'd asked the elves to clean it for him, knowing his aversion to dust and clutter.
"Aren't you a bit old for her?" questioned the one with the monocle.
"Nonsense," protested the older one again. "He's in his prime. Besides, in my day, no man considered marriage until he had made his fortune. Simply wouldn't do for a young man to marry without being able to support a wife. Your finances in order, sir?" he questioned Severus.
Incensed, Severus gave the man a glare and bid the group a terse good evening before turning on his heel. He wasn't about to discuss his finances or suitability for marriage with a ruddy group portrait.
*****
"Lumos." The candles in the branching holders sprang to life in obedience to Snape's deep voice, and Hermione tried not to flinch. The faint winter sunlight coming through the windows had died as she'd wrestled with her homework assignment, and the room had grown dark without her noticing.
The worktable before her was littered with her notes from the last six History of Magic classes, but she was having difficulty wringing an essay from the dry facts Binns droned out day after day. For three hours she'd been combing her notes and her books, attempting to draft a paper of reasonable length and had an outline no longer than her hand to show for it. At the other table Severus was quickly absorbed in his own notes, and she was grateful the man wasn't inclined to talk to her today; she really didn't think she was up to any verbal fencing.
The faint rattling of Severus' quill in his inkwell didn't register as Hermione re-read a passage for the third time. Rubbing her temples didn't help, and she heaved a bad-tempered sigh and applied herself once more to the printed page.
"Hermione!"
"What?" she mumbled, not looking up.
"I asked if there were any more ink?" Severus repeated.
"Madame Pomfrey's got some in her office, but you can't go out there just now. Slytherin pasted Hufflepuff in the Quidditch match today and their keeper's got quite a bump on his head. Madame Pomfrey is checking him over."
"Ah. Poppy owes me some money, then," he said with a self-satisfied expression.
"I've a spare pot in my bag," Hermione volunteered flatly, nodding at the rucksack sitting on the end of her table. She made no move to get it for him.
Severus gave the bag a suspicious look, then opened it gingerly. Inside were several books, a sheaf of clean parchment, several wads of folded foolscap with various colored ink scrawls, a hairbrush, and a variety of other odds and ends of whose purpose he was not entirely sure. Digging through it all, he finally located a bottle of ink.
He closed the bag with a sense of relief at having escaped unharmed, then frowned at the bulging bag in its entirety. The worn strap hung loosely over one side, and he picked it up, hefting it to gauge the weight
"Good grief, Hermione! This bag must weigh a stone or more!"
"Yes. So?" she groused.
"You've already gained additional weight with the baby. It cannot be good for you to be carrying this around as well!"
"Thank you so much for reminding me how fat I'm getting," she snapped.
"I'm not worried about you being fat. I'm worried about your health!" he snapped back.
"Please don't shout at me," she whispered. Suddenly miserable, Hermione's eyes filled with tears, and she controlled the quiver of her lower lip with difficulty. "I'm tired and my back hurts. I feel awful, and I'm sick to death of Malfoy and Binns and-and-and." She managed to shut off the stuttering babble that had erupted so unexpectedly and shut her eyes tight. ~Bloody hell - hormones! I thought PMS was bad,~ she though to herself as she buried her face in her arms and fought the sobs that wanted to escape.
Hermione startled slightly as two hands gently settled on her shoulders, squeezing lightly and relaxing. His thumbs found a spot on her shoulder blades and dug in, eliciting a gasp of painful pleasure.
I'm not surprised your back hurts," Severus replied with care. Years of watching teenage girls in the grips of their bodies' chemistry had taught him to recognize the signs, although he seldom had made any allowances. Hermione was a completely different case, however.
"Relax," he told her, and truthfully she was helpless to do otherwise as his surprisingly strong hands began to seek out the knots and kinks in her shoulders. After far too brief an interval he stopped, but his lab stool squeaked on the floor as he swiftly placed it behind her and resumed his massage.
"Take this off," he ordered, and Hermione shrugged off the voluminous school robes that shielded her abdomen from casual view. Underneath, she wore the black maternity robe he'd bought her in Diagon Alley, and the warmth of his hands soaked through the thin material. Once more he told her to relax, and she mindlessly complied, thinking that surely if there had even been a man with Siren in his blood somewhere, it was Severus Snape. His deep voice caressed her nerve endings just as his hands did, working their way down her spine in tandem.
His palms spanned the small of her back, thumbs digging at the muscles and forcing inarticulate gasps from her on regular intervals. He paused slightly as he reached her waist.
"Sciatica?" he questioned softly.
When she nodded, his fingertips began to make firm circles on the flat of her backside, soothing the muscles over the sacrum and carefully avoiding the swell of her hips. Her back arched as the nerves fired off, but he never stopped the massage.
"Lean back," he urged her. As her shoulders drifted back to lean against his chest, he inched forward to frame her hips with his thighs, then wondered if perhaps that were entirely a wise thing to do. The sound of her small whimpers and moans was doing extraordinary things to him, and her body was slumped back against him, bonelessly relaxed as only a badly needed and well done backrub could make a person.
Hermione couldn't remember when she had closed her eyes, but her back was warm where it rested against his chest. His hands, which looked so unremarkable when still, were the hands of a sculptor as they worked her neck and shoulders, gripping her upper arms in rhythmic contractions to make the muscles release their tension. He found the tendon at the point of each elbow, digging in until her little fingers twitched. Her forearms, bare under his touch, were squeezed and stroked in turn as he progressed down her arms to her wrists and hands. His fingers eventually gripped her palms, rubbing each bone and knuckle, until Hermione thought she might just melt into a puddle on the floor.
Her lax hands were left draped down her sides, and for a moment Hermione thought he would leave. This was proved false, though, when his hands settled at her waist, gently stroking her sides with light yet firm palm presses, easing the tightly drawn skin with the heat of his hands. Tiny, energetic kicks erupted as he made small circles over her stomach.
"Can you feel that?" she murmured.
"By that, I assume you're speaking of the baby. No, I can't." His hands stilled over her center, but although the small movements continued, he shook his head.
Hermione thought of the sensitivity charm she'd cast on his hand once before, but in truth she was loathe to move in search of her wand. Her head had fallen back to rest on his shoulder, and the scent of his body surrounded her with the subtle scent of man combined with the faint spicy aroma of various potions ingredients. His arms held her in a safe, protected sanctuary, and a part of her wanted to remain in it forever.
"You must take care of yourself," he said quietly. "Your health is the most important thing."
Her throat hurt suddenly from a surge of unidentifiable anxieties. It wasn't the first time she'd been suddenly swamped by out of control emotions, but being held during the ambush made it both better and worse. Ironic that being held so securely in his arms would suddenly loose the fears she had thought were under control.
"I'm afraid."
"Of what?" His mouth grazed the curve of her ear as he spoke, and a shiver went through her.
"Everything," she admitted, biting her lip. "Having a baby rather tops the list right now."
"Don't be," he told her, his arms shifting until she was cradled in his arms. "I will do everything in my power to protect you."
"Why should you care?"
"I care because this mad situation is entirely my fault," he told her firmly. "I care, Hermione, that one of the finest minds in the history of Hogwarts will have to prostitute herself to survive a situation in which she had no making. I don't mean that literally, of course, just that you will no doubt be forced to compromise your amazing prospects. And I care desperately that the mother of my child will be forced to struggle when I can prevent it so easily."
"And marrying you will fix all that?" she asked plaintively.
"No magic wand waving here, Hermione." She could hear the smile in his voice.
"I am considering it. I can't promise you any more than that."
"Good," he murmured.
Hermione adjusted herself slightly until every possible inch of her body was in contact with his. She felt safe and warm and cherished, and for one moment she wanted, more than anything, for him to kiss her. He made no move to do so, however, simply tightening his arms around her as they sat together, and only reluctantly removing themselves from each other when the dinner bells sounded the some time later.
*****
Two days later, Hermione was eating her breakfast in her usual place across the table from Ron and Harry. Next to her, Ginny was chattering about nothing in particular, while the boys discussed an upcoming class. Hermione had kept her opinions to herself, but the comments she thought of were on par with what Severus might have made. More and more the man dominated her thoughts and imagination.
"Wow," exclaimed Ron, dragging Hermione's attention back to the present in time to see two owls carrying a large package in tandem. To her surprise, they swooped down and landed in front of her. One owl presented a leg with an attached tag, denoting a delivery to Hermione Granger. Quickly digging out a quill and ink, she signed the slip. The owl hooted at its companion and they both flapped off, leaving the twine-bound package before her.
"Well, go on," Ginny urged her. "Open it!"
Heavy white paper and twine were quickly torn off, leaving her with a black leather school bag. Understated but of exceptionally fine workmanship, it was large enough to hold all of her books and other school supplies. The flap closed with beautiful silver clasps, and between them was a set of silver initials in a graceful monogram. Her fingers lingered over the "H G" for a moment before Ginny dragged Hermione's old bag up and began to hand her the contents, one after another.
Once all of her possessions were transferred to the new bag, Hermione closed it and patted it fondly. Not a snake in sight, but it was obvious who had sent it. It was a thoughtful gift, if not all that romantic, but then again they'd both agreed romantic gestures were not necessary. It wasn't until she went to move the bag to the floor that she discovered the secret.
"What on earth?" she exclaimed when the bag moved with astonishing ease. With one hand, Hermione lifted the strap. The bag hung down, bulging with its load, but weighing no more while full than it had empty.
"It's a self-levitating bag," she told her friends, amazed.
Nearly anyone could cast a levitation charm; it was one of the first spells they'd ever been taught. However, the charm wore off quickly, especially with heavier loads. To make a permanently spelled bag, it had to be infused with the spell at every step of its manufacture, and was hideously expensive.
"Hermione," called Harry, leaning towards her on one elbow. "This fell out of the wrapper." He held out a small item wrapped loosely in black cloth. He'd obviously opened it and looked at it already. Somewhat apprehensive, she opened the small square of fabric and found another monogram. This time, the silver letters formed an "H S."
The cold metal warmed under her fingers, and Hermione rolled the little pin and considered the idea of being Hermione Snape. Though she hadn't seen him for two days, she could remember vividly the sensation of his chest behind her shoulders and the warm safety she'd felt while being held in his arms.
Harry reached out across the table and gave her hand a squeeze, the look in his bright green eyes full of understanding and empathy.
"What?" Ron interrupted. "So who's it from, anyway?"
"It's a gift," Harry told him.
"Well, I figured that out. From who?" he demanded.
She could feel the blush rising in her cheeks, but her brain couldn't quite seem to dredge up an answer quick enough to forestall Ron's assumptions.
"Don't tell me it's from a boyfriend. You've got a boyfriend? Ow!" he exclaimed as Harry smacked him in the back of the head.
"I've got to go," Hermione told him, scrambling to her feet. She pulled the lovely, weightless bag across her front to hide any unintentional revelations and left the hall.
"Git," he sister told him viciously as she rose to follow her friend.
Ron looked at Harry, bewildered. "How come she didn't tell me?"
"Because," Harry told him with exasperation, "you've been acting a complete arse for the last few months. She didn't want you to overreact. And it's not exactly like that, anyway."
"Me?" Ron protested. "Overreact?"
"You, you great prancing nit. I thought you were going to try to work things out with Hermione."
"Well." Ron began. "I did try, but she's been avoiding me lately."
"She's not avoiding you, Ron. She's got some things to deal with, and you're not helping."
"Sorry." Ron slumped in his seat, listlessly picking at the remains of his breakfast. "I really miss her, you know?"
"I know," Harry said sympathetically. He glanced around, then leaned slightly closer and dropped his voice so as not to be overheard. "Look, if I tell you something, will you shut up?"
Ron nodded.
"I used to have a crush on Hermione," Harry confessed.
"You never! When?"
"A couple of months after the two of you got together. It didn't last long, but while it did I had all sorts of stupid fantasies about impressing her and making her choose me over you. I got over it, though, because I realized something, Ron. I don't ever want to make Hermione choose."
"Choose what?" Ron asked, clueless.
"Look," Harry elaborated, "what if Hermione went out with someone you didn't like. Say, someone like Marcus Flint."
Ron grimaced. "She'd never date someone with teeth that bad. Dentist parents, remember?"
"I'm being serious here! Do you really want Hermione to have to choose between us and someone else? Whether you approve of who she's seeing or not, do you really want to take the chance of losing her forever?"
"No," Ron replied, suddenly getting Harry's point. "No, I don't."
"Remember that, then."
Harry reached under the table and gathered his books, but Ron put a hand out to stop him. "Something is going on, isn't it? Why didn't you tell me?"
"It's not my place. It's Hermione's, and she's not going to tell you if she thinks you're going to be a prat about it."
"Okay," Ron muttered, not convinced, but grabbed his own books from the floor. "No more prat, then."
"We'll see," Harry said repressively, shoving his glasses up. "Come on, we're going to be late to class."
*****
Severus peered out the windows of his laboratory and noted the last few students rushing to afternoon classes. Hermione was late, which was highly unusual. The sound of her breathless greeting to Madame Pomfrey, therefore, caused a sense of relief to go through him. His expression remained unchanged, however, as she entered the lab and muttered an apology for her tardiness.
Hermione remained somewhat quiet as the afternoon wore on, and Severus' concern continued to grow. She was working on a compound of some sort, and after a while he drifted over to investigate. A pile of Irish moss and a carton of fresh sweet violets lay beside her pestle, along with some marigolds and chamomile. He watched as she added several dollops of glycerin and began to grind the whole mess together.
"Allergic reaction?" he ventured.
"No," she said. "My skin is itching like mad." The power of suggestion exerted itself and she stopped to scratch her expanding stomach.
"I see," he commented, still wondering at her uncharacteristic lateness and lack of conversation. "Is something wrong?" he finally asked.
"No, nothing," she answered, pounding away with her mortar.
Severus' eyes narrowed; he was now sure something had happened. He put out a hand and stilled her energetic mixing.
"Tell me," he coaxed.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm happy as a lark," she insisted.
"It's a little known fact that larks are pathologically depressed, with a high suicide rate," he drawled.
Hermione looked up at him in disbelief. "Did you just make a joke?"
His face remained bland, but she rolled her eyes in exasperation. "All right, you win." She thrust a hand into her pocket and shoved the letter she pulled out into his hands.
"To Miss Hermione Granger, student of Hogwarts." Severus began, then read the rest in silence until he reached the end. "Yours, Steven G. Monahan, Dean of Students, Salem University, Massachusetts." He folded the letter and placed it on the table beside her work. "It appears to be a very generous offer."
"It is," Hermione agreed, biting her lip. "But I'd be required to live in student housing the first year at least, and the scholarship won't cover all the books and cost of living both. Not to mention what I'd do with the baby."
"How much more do you need?" Severus asked repressively.
"It's no bloody good," Hermione burst out. "Just throw it away."
"Why?"
"It's just not practical. Besides the financial bits, there's no way I'm leaving England while Voldemort's about. Not to mention the baby," she said in a hopeless voice. "How on earth am I going to afford to go to school and look after a baby, too?"
Without thinking, Severus put his hand under her chin and forced her to look up at him. "How much do you need?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter, I'm not going." Hermione ruthlessly clamped down on the traitorous part on her that wanted him to solve all her problems. The grip on her chin loosened, and the stern expression on his face changed.
"Marry me, Hermione. I will take care of you."
"I'm not a stray pet, Severus."
"Umm. I knew I was going to regret saying it like that." He sighed heavily and dropped his hand from her face. "I do not know how to say what I want without offending you."
"You're not offending me," she told him. "And I do care what you want." A faint blush rose in her cheeks, and she picked up her tools again, avoiding his gaze. "Anyway, I would never go off to America without talking to you first. You deserve at least that much."
"Do I?"
"Of course you do," she told him. "I expect to be seeing a lot of you in the future."
"I'm glad to hear it," he murmured, causing a reaction to run up her spine. She told her body to behave itself; surely he hadn't meant it to sound like THAT.
"The offer of an apprenticeship is still open, Hermione," he continued. "If you find yourself unwilling to commit to university study, a formal apprenticeship with an acknowledged master carries the same and in some cases more weight as a university degree."
"I'm considering that, too," she told him, concentrating on her work. She did not see the faint smile that appeared at her comment before he returned to his own tasks.
*****
A note delivered by Madame Pomfrey summoned Severus to the Headmaster's office the last week before the Easter holidays, and curfew that night found him once more casting a concealment charm and sneaking through the halls to the spiral staircase. Dumbledore gravely invited him to sit before the fireplace, where a bottle of fine brandy and two snifters were set out. Since a decanter of the Headmaster's brandy often lasted a decade or more, Severus settled into one of the overstuffed armchairs and gave his superior his full attention.
"I understand from my sources," began Dumbledore," that Voldemort has heard of your appearance in Diagon Alley, and he's demanding to know where you are. Outside our gates, the rumors are flying fast and thick, both in the Ministry and in the ranks of your former compatriots. Lucius Malfoy is in a bit of a pinch from both, explaining away any rumors that he was responsible for your disappearance." Those same sources had whispered in more than one ear that Lucius had been responsible for just that.
"Good," Severus replied with a thin, vicious smile at the thought of Malfoy answering for his ambition.
"The result of this, however, is that you now have a price on your head. Malfoy is leaving no stone unturned in his search."
"Is Hermione in danger?"
"I daresay he's likely to be interested in her, if only to find out where you've gone. If it becomes an issue, I'll have her removed from the school."
"You'll have a hard time convincing her to leave her schoolwork. Or Potter," he added as an afterthought, for once not sneering at the boy's name.
"She is an eminently sensible young woman," Dumbledore told him. "If nothing else, the Shrieking Shack could be made a livable refuge. Perhaps with a personal tutor to continue her schooling, she would be persuaded to be reasonable."
Severus wasn't sure he'd heard the Headmaster clearly, and on reflection decided the comment on a 'personal tutor' surely couldn't have been a double entendre.
"I'm not worried about Miss Granger's safety at this moment, however. So far, Hogwarts remains inviolate, despite young Mr. Malfoy's creeping about." The old wizard leaned forward and poured himself a glass of the dark amber brandy. "Something else, though, has changed things. Parvati Patel made a prophecy the other day."
"Merlin spare us," Severus bit out.
"The girl has the gift, Severus. I've had her assessed more than once. She passed me in the hallway on Monday and suddenly dropped all her things; I thought she was having an epileptic fit before she began to prophesy."
Severus took a hefty swig of his brandy and settled into his chair. "Well. Let me hear it," he said.
The Headmaster didn't answer immediately. Instead he leaned forward and poured himself a hefty splash of brandy before leaning back into his chair. His gaze slid to his familiar, who sat preening his red and gold plumage, showering sparks on the carpet. Fawkes looked up at his master, and wizard and bird seemed to nod at each other. He took a breath and began.
"On the day the Dark Lord betrays his most loyal servant, the era of the phoenix shall end. His feathers will burn without rebirth. The sword of Gryffindor will break. The blood of Harry Potter will pour out on the earth, And the Eaters of Death shall fall upon the world."
Severus opened his mouth in a silent gasp, but words were beyond him; even breathing seemed beyond him.
"I am the phoenix, presumably." Dumbledore continued evenly.
Severus forced a single word out. "When?"
"Soon. By the end of this year, certainly, but more than likely it will be before the school year starts up in September."
"Fuck," Severus said succinctly. "I can't stay in hiding any longer, Albus. There's too many other things I could be doing for the Order."
Dumbledore smile fondly, if a bit sadly. "I admit I was going to broach this subject, but I know you've had other things on your mind." Snape felt a faint chagrin that Dumbledore knew how little progress he was making in convincing Hermione Granger to marry him.
Dumbledore reached into his pocket and began rummaging through the contents. "Aha," he declared in quiet triumph. "I have something for you, Severus. My legacy to you."
On reflex, Severus held out his hand and accepted the offering, then looked at it in disbelief. "It's a nail."
"A horseshoe nail," Dumbledore corrected cheerfully. "It's from a Muggle rhyme. 'For want of a nail, the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe, the horse was lost."
"And then the rider, the message, the war, yes, yes, I'm familiar with it. What about it?"
"I used to carry it in my pocket for good luck when I began this mad task of opposing Voldemort. You'll find it can be very useful," he assured Severus, noting the man's skeptical expression. "It gives you something to fiddle with, when you're thinking, and does a fine job of cleaning from under your fingernails. George Weasley even showed me how to pick a lock with it one day. Or was it Fred?" he mused, then shrugged. "No matter."
The Headmaster looked over his glasses at his old friend. "Keep it, Severus. Remember that the little things sometimes are as important, if not more so, than the big things. You'll never know on what detail your fate will hinge, but you'll find that if you give some care to the small problems, the larger issues will be much easier than you thought."
*****
The last Friday before the Easter break came far too quickly for Hermione's comfort. The other students were all buzzing about with last minute business before they left for Easter holidays, and it was with a sense of relief that Hermione made her way to the small laboratory and the island of calm purpose it represented. However, when she entered the small lab to finish up the last-minute potions for Madame Pomfrey, she was shocked to see the works that had been in progress on Snape's worktable were all cleared away. Nothing steamed or stewed in any of the small cauldrons. They'd all been emptied, scoured, and stacked neatly on the shelves.
"Ah," came the familiar deep voice from behind her, and she whirled to see Snape standing just inside the illusion wall. "I had hoped to see you before you left."
"What's going on?" Hermione asked, bewildered. "All your experiments - your research.it's ruined!"
"Really, Hermione," he reproved her gently. "You know as well as I do all this was little more than an exercise in thumb twiddling. It kept me out from under Albus' feet while I remained in hiding."
She stared at him, not wanting to believe what she knew to be true. "You're leaving, aren't you?"
"Yes. There are other activities that require my unique talents, and it's time I was about them."
The irony in his voice warned her. Spying, you mean."
"Some, yes. Preparations to be made, and other things I cannot go into just now."
A sudden constriction in her throat made her voice sound odd to her own ears. "When? When are you going?"
"Soon. A week or more from now, no more than two weeks. I'll be gone before you return from your holidays." His voice sounded equally odd, and his long fingers toyed idly with the small vials on the worktable. "Speaking of which, have you decided what - or how much - to tell your parents?"
Numbly, Hermione reached into her lovely new bag and pulled out a handful of parchment scraps. Each one had several lines of handwriting and was liberally sprinkled with splotches and cross-outs. "Not exactly. Right now I'm leaning more towards the 'guess what' approach when I get home and take off my coat."
Severus blinked at her. "I've not heard such an ill-conceived plan since Ethelred the Unready said 'At 'em, men. They're just goblins.'"
Hermione smiled wanly at his comment. It seemed a very long time since she hadn't been able to discern the difference between sarcasm and his unique brand of dry humor.
"Will you be careful?" she asked, blaming hormones for the thickening sensation in her throat.
"I will try to be careful," he said evenly.
"That's not good enough," Hermione told him, fighting the tears. "I want you to promise me you'll be careful. I want you to promise me you'll come back." She might have demanded more, but somehow she was in his arms, her face muffled against his shoulder as he held her close. His large, warm hands rubbed her back soothingly, and his nearness overwhelmed her senses. The lean, solid body accommodating her own curves, the deep thrum of his voice caressing her bones as he murmured her name.
Only the faintest pressure of his palm under her chin brought her mouth up to meet his in a sweet, lingering kiss, more intense than any of the brief touches they'd shared.
"Promise me that you'll do your best to come back," she whispered, her lips brushing his.
"Then give me something to come back to," he demanded softly.
Her breath caught with a hitch. Hermione knew it was blackmail, knew he was taking advantage of the moment in true Slytherin fashion. At that exact moment, she didn't care.
With a sigh she leaned into his chest, closing her eyes and savoring the warm male scent of him that reminded her of the storeroom with all the inherit possibilities. "All right," she told him. "Yes."
"Yes?" he repeated questioningly.
"Yes, I'll marry you," she clarified, and the sudden, joyful tightening of his arms around her made her smile. She wasn't sure she was making the best decision, but that it should bring him any happiness made it seem right.
"When? The sooner the better."
"How soon can it be arranged?" Hermione tried to remember if wizards observed the old practice of publishing banns before a wedding. She knew better than to hope it would delay his departure, but she'd rather marry him now rather than wait any longer.
"It can be done tonight if we hurried, or perhaps tomorrow would be better. I'll tell Dumbledore. He's a Grand Sorcerer, he can perform the handfasting." Severus pulled back and cupped her face with his hand, absently smoothing a stray strand of hair from her face. "We'll need a ring and two witnesses. Tradition is that they be a man and a woman; I'll ask Remus if he would stand with me. You may ask whoever you wish."
"Would Ginny Weasley be all right?" she asked tentatively. "She knows about the baby already. I've been thinking. it's getting harder to hide," she said, putting her hand over her rising belly. "I thought I might make both public knowledge at once."
A hint of a smile ghosted over his lips. "So you're marrying me just so you don't have to come up with a convincing lie?"
"You know I don't lie worth anything."
"Yes, I know. Perhaps you can be taught." His mouth relaxed into a more serious expression, and he took both her hands in his. "I cannot say I love you, Hermione. I care for you greatly, but I've said those words before and never meant them, and I won't insult you like that."
"I understand," she said slowly, concentrating on the long, strong hands that held hers. "It's a start, I suppose, and I can honestly say I'd rather be with you than alone."
"I think I'll take that as a compliment," he said dryly.
With great deliberation, Severus brought her hands to his mouth and kissed each one, his lips warm and soft on the backs of her fingers before leaning forward and kissing her gently on the forehead.
Author's note: Just in case there's somebody out there that's never heard it -
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider, the message was lost. For want of the message, the battle was lost. For want of the battle, the war was lost. All for the want of a nail.