Hello lovelies! Please see the Author's Note regarding future updates.
Severus's eyes were tired as they carefully watched over bubbling cauldrons.
He'd finished the girding potion and set it to cool. The antiseptic had been bottled and stored, and salves were firming up in a set of sterilized tins.
An hour ago, Louisa had brought him a plate of supper before carrying another up to Charlotte. She had been toting an armful of shiny copies of Witch Weekly magazines, her manicured fingers obscuring a moving photograph of a witch wearing little more than her underclothes.
It was no wonder, he thought darkly, that students had been hoarding the magazines in the boys' dormitory.
Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose as his potion turned to a deep, somber pewter.
His thoughts, unbidden, traveled.
"Promise me you'll look after Charlie if anything happens to me."
Above the buzz in the White Wyvern, Regulus took a long swallow of his pint.
They'd retired to the pub with Lucius and Rabastan, ordering pints of mead and listening to Rabastan animatedly retell the events of the night. The screams echoing off the Ministry of Magic's marbled walls, the flashes of green light, and the hasty capture of an auror.
Severus had not bothered to remember his name. He was yet another the Dark Lord had set his sights on to split his mind for Ministry secrets.
Severus raised a brow, "We have nothing scheduled."
"Just promise me."
Agitation had leaked into the younger wizard's voice, the muscles in his forearms flexed.
"I won't promise you anything," Severus swallowed his own mead, the honey-thick liquid warming the chill beneath his skin, "She's capable of looking after herself."
"She doesn't like to be alone."
Severus stilled, listening to the resolution in the wizard's voice.
"Charlie only drinks oolong tea. She likes these stupid romance novels, and our house elf makes her favorite shortbread. She likes a lamp on while she's sleeping, and she locks her door at night."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You have to tell her that she's beautiful because she doesn't believe it."
The wizard's voice cracked.
"Regulus."
"I've never loved anything the way I love her," Regulus cleared his throat, "I need to know she'll be alright if I'm not here. Promise me you'll take care of her."
Severus scowled, "What are you going on about?"
"The Dark Lord," Regulus's pewter eyes swiveled behind them, as Rabastan cackled with laughter, "I've found something. I can't keep him from her forever. He's asked me to bring her to the next meeting."
Snape knew this to be true. He had, after all, suggested it. Regulus had been abrasive to their suggestions to include his wife at Death Eater appointments. He had claimed Charlotte was too fragile.
Severus could recall the obsidian as it bled into her eyes, and the hum of her magic in the air.
There had been no fragility in Charlotte Fraser that night.
"I can't ask Lestrange or Wilkes," Regulus's voice grew soft, "I see the way you've looked at her. So, I'm asking you to look after her when I'm gone. I know you'll survive this war. I want you to ensure that she makes it through as well."
Black eyes met grey ones.
Severus made a noise of agreement.
Too easily, he thought, he had promised her safety before thrusting her beneath the nose of danger.
Regulus had left that evening and shook his hand, his thick fingers straining against Severus's hand. His pewter eyes had locked onto his, boring into him, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
It was an image seared against his mind.
He scooped the pewter potion into dark glass bottles, ignoring how perfectly the shade matched the younger Black brother's eyes.
Three days later, Regulus had been dead.
The Dark Lord himself had confirmed his death, returning after two days of absence. He had been on edge. Perhaps it had stirred his cauldron of cruelty and brought it to a boiling point. They had descended upon the house that evening. Regulus had been labeled a traitor. Little detail had been provided, as the Dark Lord had never felt it necessary to explain himself. He had stated only that Regulus had made an unsuccessful attempt on his life and had died for it.
Something had been mentioned about an inferi.
She doesn't like to be alone.
When Charlotte had been dragged across the street, it had been under his demand that Lucius volunteered his home for her recovery. She had spent several weeks under the care of Narcissa before re-entering society with a branded arm. Severus had done his best, he thought, to fulfill his promise to Regulus. Though the foundation of his oath had been built by falsehoods, he had tried to ensure that Charlotte was never left alone.
The war had ended, though, and his promises had been forgotten.
Perhaps they had no longer been so vital. Charlotte was not thrown in front of inevitable danger any longer. She had retained some respect within their community and had others she could depend upon now. It had surprised him when Albus approached him and asked him to marry the Fraser girl.
She had been Walburga's prized possession, now being passed to him like a second-hand robe.
He would have been a liar, even then, if he had said he hadn't wanted her.
I see the way you've looked at her.
Regulus had been consistently tested in patience. Severus had certainly not been the only wizard eyeing the new Mistress Black. He had been in enough of their minds to know the nefarious thoughts that had followed her. Too often, he had seen them grow impatient and lash out with a coy word or leery suggestion. Regulus had bloodied his knuckles on more than one of his comrades.
Snape was not too prideful to admit he had been among them. Charlotte had been beautiful. Dolohov had accurately described her as a classic Slytherin beauty, and she had been, for a time, known for it. It hadn't helped that she had worn such fitted dresses, with plunging necklines and slitted skirts. He could recall the last time he had seen her, dressed in a black satin nightgown as he brought the news of her husband's treason. His eyes had fought against a dark freckle above her breast.
She had been forbidden – belonging for a time to each of the Black brothers.
No small manner of satisfaction now filled him that she belonged to him.
Upstairs, Charlotte Fraser laid in his bed. Her shampoo's scent would cling to his pillows and her warmth would spread across his sheets. At night, her skin touched his, and her breath heated his flesh. Her amber eyes looked at him now, her lips smiled for him, and she spoke his name. She had screamed it on his garden's lawn.
Darkly, in the corner of his mind, he recalled the small sparks of excitement that had filled him at the prospect of taking her when Regulus died. He had wanted Sirius to see them together.
Severus had wanted him to suffer it.
His hatred of the elder Black brother had never wanted for fuel to its flames.
If he had hated Sirius Black on his own, the fire of it had merely grown in his absence. He could see within crevices of his wife's mind the sick infatuation she clung to. Only now, were her glorified memories of his slivers of attention bruised by reality. Sirius had treated her no differently than his favorite broomstick. He could feel the warmth in her chest when she recalled his face, and he felt his knuckles tighten his fingers to fists.
Jealousy was a fitful creature.
He pushed himself from his desk, his face souring.
A rational portion of his mind reminded him that Black was rotting in a cell surrounded by dementors and had likely not used a toothbrush on his pearly teeth in years. It granted him a small reprieve to think how Sirius Black had been ravaged by Azkaban.
A physical manifestation of the bastard within.
"Fuck him," growled the potion master, standing from his stool, "He deserves it all."
"Who does?"
Louisa appeared from the stairwell; her thin brows raised in surprise. She looked tired, he noticed, with dark shadows beneath her blue eyes and a tightness to her mouth.
Severus scowled.
"Have you finished up? I need to head out for my shift."
He made a noise of agreement, glancing at the finished stock his afternoon of brewing had supplied.
"I think you mean, 'Thank you Louisa for making my wife gooey eyed for me to ravage her', aside from the ravaging bit. You can wait a few weeks."
His eyes narrowed further.
"I'll not try my luck, then. Goodnight, Severus."
It would take excruciating amounts of torture to elicit the thanks from him the witch deserved.
Louisa had spent every morning and evening at Spinner's End, attending to his wife's physical bandages, and applying a salve he could not brew himself to her mind. He recalled from his own years at Hogwarts how wistfully Lily had recounted her times with Marlene McKinnon in the dormitory, catching up after summer had ended and the term begun. Witches had the tendency to flock together.
She seemed to appear in his basement with frequency, pressing a cup of tea to his hands or urging him to bathe and sleep. He was not naïve to believe that Rosier cared for him in any capacity beyond Charlotte. The evenings Avery had brought her to supper had been filled with venomous stares and snotty remarks. Now, replaced with drawn browns and concerned expressions. Not for him, no, but for Charlotte.
He would grudgingly be indebted to her for a lifetime.
Flexing the muscles of his shoulders, he stretched his arms, rolling his head against a knot formed in his neck as he stepped away from his brewing table. His fingers reached to rub tired eyes as he ascended the stairwell and cracked open as he set the kettle on.
From muscle memory, he brewed a pot of oolong.
He cared little for the honey aromas it brought to his nose, preferring a strong, black tea himself. It was Charlotte's favorite, and he had out of habit continued to purchase it in her absence. At times, when he had indulged too far in his firewhiskey, he would brew a pot of it. It had been, for a few moments, as though she were hovering about somewhere in the corners, waiting for it to finish.
He dropped a few slices of shortbread from a tin onto a tray before carrying the steaming pot, cups, and biscuits up the stairs. Upon further thought, his fingers caught the ribbon of Madam Malkin's bag.
Her nose was, expectedly, thrust between the pages of a new book. Her teeth had sunken into her bottom lip, reddened amber eyes floating across sentences. It took several moments – enough for him to set the tray on his dresser and remove his shirt – before she looked up from her pages.
"You made tea?"
Like honeyed steam lifting from the teapot, her voice floated across the air and made something in his chest stir.
He made a noise of agreement as he searched his dresser.
From across his bedroom, he could feel her eyes upon him as he unbuckled his belt. He removed his trousers and socks, discarding them in the hamper as he slipped into a worn pair of sweatpants. Her cheeks had colored to a delicate shade of rose when he brought her a steaming cup of tea and the plate of shortbread.
"How was your time with Louisa?"
He needn't have asked.
The deep, fractured worry-line on her forehead had smoothed, the frown that pulled at her lips' corners had evaporated. In its place a ghost of a smile lingered, a soft dimple pressed against her cheek.
"It was like we were at Hogwarts again," Charlotte's lips pulled back into a full smile that lit her reddened eyes, "When holiday was over, we'd come back and all pile on Lou's bed with magazines and presents and spend hours just talking. I'd forgotten how nice it is."
She bit pearly teeth into a butter-yellow shortbread and hummed in pleasure.
He allowed the silence between them to float, intermittently interrupted by the crunch of shortbread and Charlotte's appreciative sighs as she sipped her tea.
"What's that bag for? Did you get some new shirts?"
Her amber eyes, ringed in red stared at the silvery bag on his dresser.
"I've bought you some nightgowns."
He watched her eyes widen.
"These were my mother's. I cannot imagine they are to your taste."
His fingers gestured at the cotton nightgown, with faded florals and frayed lace hems as he slipped from their bed and padded to his dresser. He brought the bag to her outstretched fingers and carefully watched as she pulled away the glittery tissue paper.
Charlotte's scarred fingers lifted silk and lace from the bag as though they were glass. Her nails brushed the fabric, her eyes crinkling at the sight of a pair of furry black slippers.
He didn't need to ask, he reminded himself. The dimples pressed against her cheeks as she smiled and the crinkle to her blood-stained eyes were answer enough. But he found himself wanting more.
"Are you satisfied with them?"
"Severus, these are beautiful. They'll be so comfortable," Charlotte's lips pulled from her teeth in a full smile that made his stomach knot and twist, "Thank you. I know how Octavia can be, so doubly thank you."
Severus felt his mouth dry, "Would you like to change into one of them? I can assist you if you would like. Or we may wait for Louisa in the morning."
Charlotte's mouth opened and closed; a darkness swept over her eyes. He watched the crinkled smile slip from her lips and irises, fading to a frown across her mouth. She played with the straps of the green nightgown, her free hand sorting through the others - burgundy and charcoal.
"You don't have to do that for me. Lou can help me."
A scowl affixed itself to his face, "I do not offer things I am not willing to give you, Charlotte."
"I know," her voice trailed, and he found himself growing impatient.
Doubt grew in his mind.
Perhaps she was uncomfortable, he thought, for him to be alone with her and naked. She could question his motives, though he had never shown her any indiscretion to her person. Certainly, he had memorized the curve of her collarbone, and the shape of the freckle above her right breast. He knew the deep contours in the scars of her skin, and the soft dust of freckles that darkened in the summer across her snub nose. Severus had no need to inspect his wife to know every centimeter of her flesh.
It was burned into his mind.
It crept to his thoughts during the night, unbidden and carnal.
"Do you think I'm ugly? Maybe that's not the word for it…" her voice hesitated, fracturing on its syllables.
A sudden rage filled him.
"Ugly?"
Her cheeks colored to a dark rose, "I know I'm a bit pretty in the face. But everywhere else is a little different."
She cleared her throat and spoke quickly, "It's okay if you think that way. I read in Witch Weekly that they have procedures for scars, and they aren't terribly expensive. I could ask Louisa about them."
"You think that I am under the impression that you are ugly?"
Hot, white fury fizzed beneath his skin.
It found its way to his voice, sharpening every syllable like a knife.
He wondered, if she had not seen in his mind that he knew every shade of her hair. He knew that it morphed with the seasons, lightening in the summer to strands of bronze and copper sewn in chocolate, and darkened in the winter to harshen the amber of her eyes so that they glowed.
Charlotte, he recalled, had always suspected the worst of herself. In her thoughts, he had seen enough of it.
Black, commenting on her weight as her body naturally developed into womanhood.
Regulus, smothering candles in the dark as he caged her.
Words, he thought, had done little to disparage the image she had created for herself. His eyes affixed on her lips, reddened by the hot tea and creased with marks from her incisors.
You can wait a few weeks.
Louisa had meant ravaging her, Severus reminded himself.
This could not possibly be categorized in such a manner.
He moved across the bed, his fingers flexing. He caught her face between them, and with the bottled fury of her words, crushed his lips against hers.
Severus suspected she would resist him. Perhaps she would push him away. Certainly, he had experienced such a reaction.
But he had not calculated for her to respond with such zeal.
As his lips moved against hers, his breath leaving his nostrils in harsh pants, her own moved in synchrony. When his tongue ran across her bottom lip in hunger, there was no hesitation when she invited him in. Her tongue tasted of honey oolong and buttery shortbread as his fingers lost themselves in her bronze-shot hair, and he briefly could feel her hands moving to taste his flesh upon their palms.
When her teeth grazed his lip, he questioned his resolve.
Slowly he pulled away, savoring her taste on his tongue.
He could count the number of lashes pressed against her cheeks.
"You've bewitched me, Charlotte, for most of my life. Do not dare insinuate I think you are anything but perfection."
He could feel his shuddering breaths in his chest as his eyes fell to her reddened mouth. Her body was stiff between his hands. He had told her, Severus recalled, that he was a greedy man.
That he wanted more of her than either Black brother had ever taken.
Severus leaned forward to claim his wife's lips, hunger growing with each honeyed taste he took from her mouth until she was trembling and she made noises of protest as he moved away.
"Which one would you like to wear to bed?"
Author's Note: I have unfortunately gotten sick and updates will be spontaneous moving forward until I get better. Doctor's given me 2-4 weeks for estimated recovery time. Not sure how I managed to get mono instead of COVID during a pandemic... But I am quite exhausted most of the day and my brain is functioning at a distinctively lower capacity than normal. I will be updating this chapter at some point with the House Cup points. Bonus points for this update will be... should I post a Remus/OC fanfiction next, or do a fic from Pre/TPMW? I will leave it up to you to decide! Much love, and stay safe out there.