Contributory Vows: Chapter Two

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A/N: Thanks to all of those who replied—I'm sorry I didn't get this chapter out immediately, but I promise in the chapters to come, they will be coming out quickly. Also, italics don't typically work with ff.net, so I apologize in advance if the HTML is messed up or if they don't show up at all.

Thank you.

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There wasn't much Hermione could do, she was forced to admit. After what seemed like hours of tearful frustration and desperately trying to conceive of some way out of her predicament, she was resigned to fervently praying the Ministry didn't include her year with the Time Turner while calculating her age.

They couldn't, she reasoned; legally her age was still only sixteen, and no matter what some bloody law said, they couldn't force her to marry before she had even graduated Hogwarts. It just—

—it just wasn't ethical.

Since when has the Ministry ever been concerned with ethics?, a tiny voice in the back of her mind hissed.

She hated it when that bloody voice was right.

Sighing, she tucked the log book back into her trunk and, after making sure it was locked, Hermione pulled herself up and stood surveying the circular Gryffindor dormitory, the back of her throat suddenly full of bile. She swayed and reached out wildly for something—anything—to hold on to, but her fingers only found the empty stale air that surrounded her, leaving her to stumble across the floor and fall upon her knees in the very center of the dormitory.

"Bloody hell!" she cursed, her vision suddenly swimming with tears. This wasn't the time—she couldn't break down, not until she knew for certain whether or not she was eligible to be married.

Married.

Married at sixteen.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be happening.

Never mind that, she thought to herself before closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath. She could do this. There was no reason not to, really—she didn't even know if the Ministry counted her Time-Turner year.

Although she would certainly give almost anything she had for them not to.

Forcing herself to stand on shaking legs, she slowly trembled over to the dormitory door, trying her best to collect whatever ounce of pride and strength she had left to make her way back down to the Common Room. She was supposed to be in Double Potions now, but she didn't know if she could make it that far—her body was trembling head to toe, and her mind was far too numb to even begin comprehending the elements of wormwood and Manticore hair when combined.

Deadly, she thought. The most deadly poison there was.

Ironic, really, how that was the first thing to come to mind.

Gathering the last few shards of her will, she walked down the stairs and into the Common Room—which, expectedly, was completely empty. Hermione continued through the tidy room to the exit, where the back of the Fat Lady's portrait showed. After pushing the canvas open, she stepped out into the chilling and damp corridor before swinging the portrait shut and waving goodbye to an overly concerned painting. Not saying a word, she heaved her bookbag over her shoulder and began her trek down to the dungeons, where she was sure that after five and a half years of classes, she would finally blow something up.

In reality, she didn't think she'd mind too much; messing up Snape's day would only makes hers worse, and at this point she really didn't give a flying centaur whether or not her potions professor was happy—

—or at the very least, only moderately surly.

When she finally reached the door to the potions classroom, she hesitated, her fingers briefly touching the silver handle before she pulled back. She was beyond late, and Snape wasn't going to be pleased; on the other hand, she was miserable enough already, and adding on having to make up a potions lesson wasn't going to make her happy.

So it was down to facing Snape's wrath or missing a lesson; either way, she was going to have one hell of a day.

Sighing, she bit the bullet and pulled the heavy oak door open, revealing a classroom full of students hovering over smoking and bubbling cauldrons. Instantly all twenty pairs of eyes were focused on her, but that changed immediately after a small explosion occurred in the back of the room, somewhere near where Lavender Brown was standing.

"Miss Brown!" Snape, who was sitting at the front of the room behind his vast and intimidating desk, snapped, his gaze shifting from Hermione to her roommate. "I dare say that you've managed to fail today's assignment—clean up your mess and put your cauldron away. You're done for the day."

"But Professor—" Lavender began, which only proved to make Snape even more livid.

"Miss Brown, if you say one more word it'll be a hundred points from Gryffindor and a week's worth of detentions!" he exclaimed, and a heavy silence hung in the air of the stuffy potions classroom. With an exacerbated sigh, Snape shook his head and turned his attentions back on Hermione, who met his gaze with a look of dignity and a backbone as straight as an arrow. She wasn't going to let him see her cry.

"Miss Granger," he said in a smooth and dangerous voice, "I would be much obliged if you graced me with a private audience—now."

The acidic quality of his tone was unmistakable, but still Hermione moved forward toward his desk, keeping her gaze focused on her irate professor as she took carefully measured steps, trying her hardest to keep her overabundance of emotions under control.

"Yes, Professor?" she asked in a calm and measured tone as she stood before him, her bookbag still slung over her shoulder. "You wanted to see me?"

"Miss Granger," he began coolly, "it seems that as of late you've developed a distinct lack of respect regarding the times your scheduled classes begin. You are more than an hour late for class—just in time to watch the rest of your peers pack up, I dare say. Do you care to explain yourself?"

His words, while less vile than she had expected, had an amount of bite that would have made a First Year burst into rivers of tears—perhaps even a Second or a Third year, Hermione mused. She stood her ground, however, squaring her shoulders and meeting her professor's intimidating gaze with a look of utter defiance.

Today was not the day to mess with Hermione Granger.

"Sir, with all due respect, after attending your class faithfully for the past five and a half years, practically memorizing all of the textbooks before the beginning of each term, and managing not to make a single mistake on any potion I've ever brewed for you, I believe that me being late—or missing, as the case may be—a single class is something that won't affect my ability or knowledge in the field of potions study."

It was well-spoken, she believed, silently congratulating herself for the look of thinly veiled astonishment that flashed within Professor Snape's gaze. She stood silently before him for a good thirty seconds before he spoke once more, his silky voice caressing her eardrums. There really was no doubt about it; that voice of his had power, and Hermione couldn't blame him for using it.

"It seems you believe you can simply skip my class anytime you feel the urge to do so simply because up until now, you've received satisfactory marks," he murmured, leaning forward ever-so-slightly as he spoke. In his tone was the tantalizing hint of a threat, one she was apt to ignore. Hermione simply shook her head: if the Ministry counted her time-turner hours, her education would no longer matter. The law required that a child be born within the first year of marriage, and there was little hope of ever being able to still living under the care of Hogwarts while married, let alone while raising a child.

It was unfathomable for her to even think of grades if she were to be subject to the law a full ten months early.

"Sir, I believe my grades are testimony to the fact that I would never skip out on your class unless I had a good reason," Hermione insisted, her voice cracking slightly. The thought of a baby—

—No. She wasn't going to think about it.

Professor Snape leaned back in his high wooden chair, his arms crossed and gaze expectant. "Well, Miss Granger? I'm waiting."

She cleared her throat and, for the tiniest of seconds, glanced down toward the hem of her robes before looking back up to meet his cold stare. "I had to research something before I came to class, and the results took longer to—to find than I had originally thought."

Snape's eyebrow rose so far up into his forehead that it nearly touched his hairline. "What, exactly, Miss Granger, was so important as to have you miss Potions? What was the topic of this so called—research?"

His gaze penetrated hers with such force and intensity that Hermione was forced to answer truthfully. She knew about Snape's ability with Occlumency, and she wouldn't have put it past him to use it on his students—especially one who had broken the rules and was lying.

No, not lying, she told herself. Simply evading the truth.

But wasn't that the same thing?

Never mind.

"I—I was researching the amount of time I had logged while using a Time Turner," she whispered, her gaze now concentrated on the faded burn marks that decorated the professor's mahogany desk. "I needed to know how—how old I am, Professor."

Suddenly a flash of understanding lit the professor's face, and Hermione his agate eyes soften slightly—but only for the shortest of moments. At least, she mused, he finally realized what she was trying to say.

"I see," he said softly, his voice just as smooth as ever. "And what were the end results of your research?"

Hermione grimaced. "I'm three-hundred and twenty-two days older than I should be, Professor."

Silently she was begging with him to answer her only question: would the Ministry count those hours in which she studied and fought off sleep and tears for an entire term? Hermione was certain, however, that Snape of all people didn't know the answer, so she simply resigned herself to whatever punishment he would throw her way.

"Very well," he murmured, his fingertips tapping out a rhythm unknown to her worried and frustrated mind. "Twenty points from Gryffindor and detention for the next week—to be served after dinner, so you and Miss Brown will not have the opportunity to work together on whatever tasks I see fit to assign."

Hermione swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, Professor."

Snape eyed her for a moment before looking past her at the class, the majority of which was nearly finished with cleaning. "I expect you to make up the lesson you missed today, Miss Granger, tonight, at 8 o'clock. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Professor," she repeated meekly, scuffing her shoes against the cold stone floor.

His vision focused on her momentarily, his expression hard and impossible to read. "I would also expect that you notify your head of house as to the predicament you've managed to worm your way into," he said softly, although in not quite the dangerous tone Hermione was so used to hearing.

"I—I'm sorry Professor, I can't—"

He shook his head and waved her off with the flick of his hand. "Then I shall inform the Headmaster myself. Go, Miss Granger, get out of my sight, and I shall see you at precisely eight o'clock tonight."

"Yes sir," she mumbled once more before following his orders and fleeing his dank and foul-smelling classroom.