DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does.

This is the second edition of this chapter, thanks very much to my two glorious betas! white-hound and Aindel S. Druida, both of whom have proved invaluable. I appreciate your help!

Vie des Poulets

Chapter 2

"What?" asked Hermione, not believing what she was hearing. "A protector?" A sudden alarm seized her. "I will not be dying? But surely—surely I can choose whether—or not—I want to live--or not? Am I not even allowed a choice –any amount of choice--in my own destiny? This—this is outrageous!"

Hermione felt an urge of desperation. Lucius laughed. "Such a droll figure you make, Miss Granger," his hard voice observed. "Of course, you never had any choice in the matter at all. Your to-be husband is your guardian and makes all decisions for you."

"Husband?" This was no worse than anything that she and Edwina had propounded as a possibility, but not what she had expected. Well, forced marriage is just another form of rape, which is what we essentially predicted. I guess I'm not dreadfully shocked.

Lucius paid her no heed, instead waving his hand and calling, "Plourde?"

A house-elf magicked, as usual, from nowhere in particular, in response to this call. The so-called Plourde bent at Lucius' feet in the ultimate motion of submission.

"Monsieur Lucius, est-ce que vous avez adressé moi?" whimpered the little scoundrel, in the accepted manner.

"Oui, tu l'amenes ici," demanded the great and terrible man, and Hermione remembered with bitterness her faded SPEW programme as she saw the little fellow whisk off into the woodwork. She tried to remember her old French au pair, who took care of her while her parents were in the office, and the phrases she had learned to get around in France during her trip years agof. To her frustration, she was unable to remember what 'amener' meant, though she had the vague idea that it had something to do with improving something, or fixing something.

She found herself forgetting her puzzlement, however, for a dark presence entered through the door.

"Lucius, hello. Ah, and Miss Granger." Severus Snape gave a curt bow, his heels snapping together in almost a Nazi fashion, and although he omitted any heinous salute Hermione found herself completely at sea—no, she decided as desperation set in, she was beyond that. She was shipwrecked in an ocean near the coast of the South American continent, being assaulted by wild, slimy invertebrates floating on the water.

Oh. God. No. Please, anyone but him!

The very way he drew an unruly lock of his dark hair behind his ear was menacing.

I would do anything if I were to be assured that he was not to be . . .

She could not even finish with the word 'husband', for the word seemed so alien to the situation, the word seemed only applicable to Ron—poor, dear, sweet, stupid Ron—not in any way the cold, calculating codfish that stood before her.

All fears turned to pure terror in an instant as Lucius jeered, "Take a look at your mudblood, Snape! Is she as you remember?"

"Rather thinner," the dark-haired man commented dryly. "But she is not mine yet, as you well know. May I ask, Lucius," he continued with cool nonchalance, "Where your manners have disappeared to? To my recollection, I thought you were the one who instructed me to 'be civil to ladies you intend to bed'."

"Those are indeed my words," chuckled Malfoy, ignoring the desperation that filled Hermione's Nutella-colored eyes, desperation that blanched her face and whittled her irises until the black core of her eyes predominated them.

"Christ!" she exclaimed, her face the very reflection of terror. She made a motion to step back, based on a fundamental impulse of self-preservation. Her body commanded that she run, but she knew it would be of no use. As it was, Snape's hand reached out to grasp her, but when he saw the danger of her flight was past, he laid his arm down again.

Lucius had the discourtesy to laugh at her astonishment and revulsion, saying, "Severus, I am only a boor with you, and I would be perfectly inconsolable right this moment if this woman were worth more than a few galleons in our new society. As it is, though, I grant you a touché."

Worth only a few galleons? Hermione knew her blood made her worthless in Voldemort's eye, but her brain—she would have thought her brain accounted for a bit more than that meager price! Such a quantity of money would only purchase as much as a new copper cauldron!

Snape agreed, with ready apparentness, for he noted: "Lucius, I am an insufferable boor with everyone, but please, for my sake, don't make me into an even worse one in the presence of my future wife and partner." So saying, he extended his hand again, but more gentle than the previous time. It was not a means of force, but a means of conveying a request. His eyes avoided hers, however, and this was too disconcerting. Hermione regarded his appendage—thin and bony, veins protruding, taut skin of a wan color, his knuckles well scarred—and could not help but be more than frightened.

She could not decide who she hated more—the scornful man who thought her no better than a house-elf, or the lusting man who had decided she was going to be his newest wench.

"No," she said, nervous, then repeated the monosyllable louder. "No!" she exclaimed, feeling asphyxiated, as in one of those terrible nightmares where one kicks to no avail, where one cries aloud but no one hears, where one thrashes but with no result. "No!" It built to a scream, but she knew no one would come flying to her aid. Half wishing, half dreaming that Ron might ride in the door any moment to save her, her eyes began to weep without her permission. An uncomfortable jarring in the back of her throat was the culprit, and she alleviated the monster with a heavy sob.

Sinking onto the floor, head in her hands, she was suddenly seized with desperate inspiration. She put her hands to her neck, attempting to find the location of the gland or whatever it was that, with enough pressure, would be the means to her liberation of death.

Snape was over her in an instant, kneeling at her side, drawing her shaking fingers away from their frantic grasping search. "Don't," he pleaded in a whisper, "I beg of you." He did not let go of her hands, which he held with one of his own, behind her back.

She had never heard his voice so gentle, and almost believed she was mistaken in its poignant tone. Looking to Lucius, Hermione could tell that the blond man had not heard the almost kindly tone of the potions master, from his position some feet away from them.

Hermione then felt Snape's free hand on her neck, probably surveying if she had done herself any damage, but the grazing of his fingernail the wrong way in the wrong place irritated her nerves, and her mental alarm began its excited mantra.

"Get away from me!" she exclaimed in response, making an attempt to push the man at her side away with her shoulder.

She succeeded in knocking him onto his side, and she took advantage of his momentary bewilderment and her new freedom to rise and run for the door. Of course, the men were in league together, and Lucius cast a lazy petrification spell at her. Having no physical way to escape such an entrapment at such close range, Hermione could not dodge it.

Snape approached her from behind, obviously a tad irritated that she was putting up so much of a fuss. Could he have expected anything less from a Gryffindor, though? I'm not exactly the sort that'll just docilely comply with whatever demands are made on me by my elders!

"I apologize, Granger," Snape said silkily, taking her hands again while freeing her from the spell. "But if you resist, I may be forced to do something you will loathe me for."

"I loathe you as it is!" spat Hermione feverishly.

"So you may," replied Snape almost compliantly, but he kept his heinous promise. As subtly as though her blood was being infiltrated by poison, Hermione felt a chilling, almost sensuous stream of fluid-like vapor rush through her veins. She knew vaguely what it was—Imperius--for she had experienced it cast by a rather less adept wizard in a previous battle. However, she had little practice in resisting them, and certainly she had no chance against such a great manipulator of magic as was her former potions teacher.

She felt, in in instant, her own initial resistance to him melt away, and all desire to make things difficult dissolved. His spell seemed to peel away all conscious will and instead unlocked what felt like her subconscious, though her conscious knew that her subconscious could not possibly be his will. That's a very old strategy Hermione thought; she had read all about all the dark curses, and recalled a description of a less-harmful branch of the Imperius. With this spell, instead of purely forcing the conscious victim to succumb, the caster could delve into deeper depths of the victim—supposedly very difficult—and bring to the front of the cursed mind the semblance of what they did not know they wanted. It was all a ruse, of course—but if one is commanded to believe that they love their broccoli so that they eat it of what feels like their own volition, it is mildly better than simply having the broccoli rammed down their gullet.

With this realization, Hermione made a brief attempt at struggling. However, she remembered also that the spell required a skilled legilimens behind it, and from what she knew of Snape, there was no way she could put up half a duel against him. He dropped her hands, stepping gingerly away from her, and she felt them limply fall to her sides.

He is too good a wizard; Hermione Jean Granger, you have thoroughly met your match with this man.

Then a surge of fright coursed through her, as she realized that it had always been her dream to marry someone even more competent and brilliant than herself, someone she could learn from who was always learning himself. However, this revelation was dispelled by the fact that he was speaking in her mind, commanding her, and his voice sent terrible chills down to her deepest quarters.

Granger, you are now calm. You may feel hatred and disgust for me, but you must withhold the effects these emotions create for a very short time. Approach me now, with willingness and eagerness in your thoughts, if not your bosom.

Having no real say in the matter, Hermione did as he commanded, staring blankly at the dire visage of the potions master.

"Take my hand, Granger." This Snape said aloud, and Hermione complied without feeling it even remotely strange. There was a superficial but binding obligation to do all that he said, and she knew it would be painful to do anything but obey. She did step forward, she did extend her arm, and she did take his hand gently. Though she could barely register any sensations of her own, she could see clearly at such a close distance the strain in his face, the slight hyperventilating breaths, the almost fanatical grip upon her hand as soon as she offered it.

Hermione reflected with amusement, Severus Snape is as panicked as I was not minutes ago!

Though, when she thought this, he glanced sharply at her, and with virile pride he inhaled sharply to straighten his carriage.

That's right, keep a stiff upper lip, why don't you? She mocked him with the savage bitterness she felt accumulating again, but understood now that the experience was rather traumatic for him as well as her. Knowing the man who caused her so much suffering was even somewhat vulnerable gave Hermione an acute sense of relief.

Her hand was in his. A coldness seized her, weighting her bones suddenly, and Hermione felt them turn to stone.

She was not paying attention to the particulars of the discourse between Snape and Lucius, but she noticed when he took her other hand in his own and drew her body close to him.

"Ahem. Then let's begin," Lucius suggested, and she heard the creaking of his ancient oak chair, tasted the very brief hint of musk in the air as his derriére vacated the cushion, and she sensed the expensive perfume in her nostrils. This, she was vacantly aware, contrasted very much against the sharp a odorlessness of Snape, who probably used too much or too strong a brand of BO-Go which virtually eliminated the natural scents of living from one's body, much like Muggle deodorant but far more effective.

She also noted of Snape, that he appeared very distraught. His serious, earnest demeanor caught her off-guard; his ever-present sneer had gone fishing for the moment and was replaced by its puritanical brother, who was a set of firm impassive lines. Snape seemed, in short, a lot less like the ugly mean potions master she had come to expect, and seemed more normal. She noted his unexceptional flaws—his boots were tarnished with wear, his cheeks were haggard, and his nails were just slightly grubby—but they too seemed to bring him to a recognizably human level.

It was satisfying, Hermione decided, and almost made him more likable. She became, despite her misgivings, acutely aware that the spell he cast was being alleviated, just a bit. Whether purposefully retracted or accidentally she could not tell. She could, at least, register her own consciousness, though he probably was still well aware of her own thoughts—after all, she was only commenting on his studious eyes a moment ago, and she still was staring profoundly at them.

"Do you know, Snape," Lucius was saying, "I've put on a few pounds lately; rising from that chair seems to become more difficult every day. Is it unflattering, or should I attempt at more?"

"Je ne sais pas. Moi, j'ai maigri" Snape replied sedulously, then turned to look at Lucius with an abrupt toss of his head, drawing his gaze away from Hermione. The young woman felt a sensation akin to whiplash, but mentally, like a post-box with letters blowing inside after the passing of a lorry. He had been in her mind, and she was aware that he was out of it, for whatever reason. She resented that fact, but could not protest against him as she felt his imperius predominate her will once more, strengthening like the tightening of his arm around her shoulders. Hermione felt like she was slowly being suffocated again, but realized she was inherently helpless.

"I do hate that we have to learn French for the Dark Lord," muttered Snape testily, his mood snapping with a surprising suddenness. "Whatever was there wrong with Latin?"

"That was the best suggestion I could come upon when the Dark Lord asked how we might refine our circle," Lucius replied complacently.

"Well, that's easy for you to say, since you were brought up trilingual."

"No, actually, more than three languages. My father insisted I learn Russian, even as a child, and I was also taught German and Greek before Hogwarts."

Snape muttered something probably indecent under his breath, then turned back to look at Hermione.

"You said ten minutes ago we were going to get this done and over with," the callous man demanded, "So let's expedite this."

Lucius harrumphed a bit, adjusted his already immaculate robes, and drew his wand from his sleeve.

"The ceremony has been rather simplified, as the revision of the codes is still underway. Snape, you simply respond to what I read to you, and the same for you, Miss Granger."

His hissing of her name made Hermione's innards quiver insanely, and a sudden grateful thought spurred her mind: At least I'm not marrying HIM!

Snape shook his head just a fraction, which made her suspect her mind was not entirely her own as of yet, but when his hand's already firm grasp constricted just the slightest bit more, just for an instant, she could not help but know it. The surprisingly affectionate gesture was not accidental, she comprehended, and she did not know if she should be nervous on that point.

"Just hurry up, Lucius," Snape said, his voice coming close to snarling.

"Fine, Severus, I know you're anxious. Severus Snape, do you take Hermione Jean Granger, by the will of man and the approval of the Dark Lord Voldemort the Great, of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, Lord Protector to her majesty, Minister of Magic, Defender of the Faith, and intend to care for her to the best of your ability throughout her life, so help you Merlin?"

"Yes," Snape replied coldly, and Hermione became acutely aware that his body began to tremble slightly for the seconds while the question was read and a few seconds still after his answer. It was a strange comfort to know she was in the arms of a scared man, especially one twenty years her senior and one who was in a position of power over her.

"Hermione Jean Granger, do you take Severus Snape, to be his loyal wife, lover of no other besides him and, if the need calls for it, the Dark Lord Voldemort the Great, of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, Lord Protector to her majesty, Minister of Magic, Defender of the Faith, and intend to bear loyal subjects of –erm, the aforementioned wizard—only from him or your husband, depending on emergency circumstances?"

So, I'm virtually marrying Voldemort with this ceremony? Hermione's mind shrieked and writhed in pain and disgust. Oh hell! Get me out of this!

I'm so sorry, Snape's voice inside her mind whispered. I can't tell you how sorry I am.

Nevertheless, Hermione heard her voice answer, calmly, not of her own volition--"Yes.
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