AN: Thanks to everyone for reviewing. I owe you all an apology for not posting this on Friday night as I had originally intended... the problem is that just as I gave it a final read through, I was overcome by the urge to completely rewrite it. Also, you might find a few words that I'm not entirely certain are words... call it artistic licence?

Oh, and by the way, if you're interested to see the dress that inspired Hermione's wedding outfit, please go to http:/ 3. bp. blogspot. com/- v5ajEnvCBis/ TVRInlwVb1I/ AAAAAAAAANE/ lf_rVoOmJLU/ s1600/ red-bridal-gown .Jpg (obviously without the spaces). I just changed the colour and tweaked a few details...

WARNING: This chapter contains reference to and descriptions of abuse, bloodshed and all manner of not so pretty things. If that's not your cup of tea, you might ant to take a couple of deep breaths and skim past. Similarly, if you know that you shouldn't really be reading this, then please respect the ratings system.

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it came from an imagination of JKR...

Chapter Seven

In the early morning darkness, Severus felt something brush against his back. Immediately awake, he flipped over and jabbed his wand to where his assailant's neck should have been. The problem was, there was no assailant, only the girl he had married the previous afternoon, sleeping beside him. The entire previous twenty-four hours rushed over him, causing his stomach to clench withy guilt and self-loathing. He had to get away, away from her, away from this, away. He staggered out of the room, grabbing his robes from the end of the bed as he went. He pulled them on as he went down the stairs, his feet travelling without instruction. He swung into the sitting room, his foot caught in something and he found himself on the floor. The wand was out again, expecting an ambush, but none came, a slither of moonlight through a gap in the curtains illuminated the green silk. His feet tangled in her wedding dress, still where it had been so carelessly abandoned. He felt bile rise in his throat and forced it down. As soon as his feet were freed he was off again, into the kitchen, through the magically concealed door and flying down the stone steps to his private lab. The door at the bottom of the stairs slid back to admit him and then slid back.

As soon as the door was closed and sealed behind him, he went to his knees. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stem the flow if images before him. He could see her, this innocent child, before him, slowly trailing her fingers over the black lace. He had broken that. He had stolen it, her innocence. The bile rose again and this time he didn't stop it, instead moved forwards, feeling the frigid stone beneath his hands, grounding him as he retched. In all his years of service to the Dark Lord, of all the despicable, disgusting things he had done, he had never harmed a child, never stolen anything so precious. She was tainted now, tainted by him, by his filthy desires. He retched again, but there was nothing to bring up.

He tried to force the images that flashed before his eyes away. Tried to draw up the walls that had kept his secrets for so many years, but she assaulted his senses, he could taste her delicate flesh once again and with it came the knowledge that she cold not have wanted this, she could not have been prepared. She hadn't had a choice; she had been forced into this marriage by the ministry, and then forced into his bed, he chocked again. He had not realised just how much of a monster he really was, until she had come, to prove it to him, to show him exactly what he was capable of.

Now it wasn't just images of her that assailed him, he could see others too. Things he hadn't let himself think of in years were suddenly at the front of his mind. He saw the Dark Lord, clear as if he knelt before him once again, he heard the laughter, that high, cruel laughter and he saw the blood, tracking across the floor, he could all but feel it beneath his fingers, clenched now, against the stone. He could hear the screaming, the begging, the pleading. He could see the bodies, battered, blackened and bruised. He anted to run, but he couldn't move, he let it all wash over him.

This wasn't the worst, he knew this pattern, and he knew what was coming. Every death weighed down upon him, his arms folded, bringing his entire body into contact with the floor. He could hear the whisper, that horrid hissing whisper that made ever hear on his body stand on end, made his very blood want to recoil away, "Severus, our newest comrade." He felt those icy fingers as they brushed the hair from his pale face, it would have been a kind, intimate gesture, he supposed it was meant to be such. "Severus, I have a gift for you." He shuddered, couldn't stop it, even the memory made his blood run cold. "Severus, you have been so helpful, you have worked so hard. Lord Voldemort is pleased with you, Severus, And Lord Voldemort rewards those who please him." How the Dark Lord had loved to speak his name, had never given up the opportunity to roll it across his tongue, maybe it was the hissing sound of the S at the beginning and end.

The room dissolved around him and he was there again, kneeling before the Dark Lord, flattering, simpering, and kissing his hem. Wanting nothing more than to gargle with acid to clean his mouth. He had been brought here when they had found a traitor. The irony. They were always brought to him. Sometimes he had been allowed to be alone with them, and dispatched them quickly, with a poison so strong he doubted they knew they had taken it before it took effect. Other times he had had an audience, had had to draw it out, had had to seem to enjoy this torture, this pain, and the way they called to him, begged him to stop, to make it stop. This time, though, this time had been different, this had been his first. This had been his twenty-first birthday present from the Dark Lord. His reward for his faithful service, he had almost laughed aloud. They had all been there. His entire inner circle. The dark Lord on a dais, on a throne, over seeing it all. He had known the man before him, a fool, who had come to the service with the express intention of drawing people away, and bringing the Dark Lords plans to Russia, where another self named Lord awaited, wanting to seal the power. He had known him; he had called him friend more than once. "Go ahead, Severus, I know you have a creative mind, Let me see the extent of your... creativity." He had not known what to do. He had barely been a week in Dumbledore's service. He was still reeling from the knowledge that Lily, his beautiful sainted Lily, was pregnant, was carrying the child of his enemy. Still recovering from the knowledge that the Dark Lord thought the prophecy, the prophecy he had delivered, might refer to this child. That had been his fault, why had he drawn attention to them? Why hadn't he held his tongue when Lucius had asked him who he knew that was due a baby at the implied time? Why hadn't he stopped Pettigrew from telling the Dark Lord that it was indeed a boy that Lily held inside of her?

The rage and self-loathing had reined his mind then as well. He had fired off the curses at this man, as if he would have used them to punish himself. He had used all his skill as a wizard to have this man, the captured spy, writhing before him, curling and clenching and bucking in so much pain that to scream out was nothing. That no shriek could express this pain. The blood had flowed then, swirling like oil as it began to rain. Still it went on, still there was no respite. Still the body twitched, still he knew there was life, and so something to pour this punishment on, a poor substitute for his own body. Then he had been called away, leaving this man, this body, for the others to play. How the Dark Lord had praised him, how pleased he had been with his faithful servant. The screams had echoed across the night to him, piercing him like knives as now, there were others, not just the traitor for them to have their fun with. Muggles, mudbloods, the Dark Lord always provided. The screaming and the laughter, until finally there was a heap of bodies, and blood stained the world red. Finally, Severus was allowed to go.

But to leave was no solace, for now he must report to his other master. Still soaked in the blood of the dead, the aftershocks of the powerful curses he had used still roving his body. He must go and relive it again, in words this time. He had to bear the sympathy, the half hidden horror, as he told of what he had done, first in full to the man who had promised to protect his Lily, and then, a slightly edited, less detailed version, to a whole room of people. A room full of people who would start to whisper, only a few days down the line, about how little effect the bloodshed had upon him. About how easily he spoke of the killings, the slaughter. About how he seemed to come out of it with no regret. Little did they know that the only way he could deal with it was to force it down, to bury it deep inside himself and refuse to examine the hurt, the pain. The only thing that kept him going back was the thought that like this, he was protecting her, his wonderful, marvellous Lily, who had betrayed him by marrying Potter, and who despised him for a moment of teenage humiliation, turned to anger.

Then had come the ultimate betrayal. He had failed, and Dumbledore had broken his promise to protect them. He had felt the mark searing, like a thousand shards of glass beneath his skin as Lord Voldemort met his downfall, had known that he was free. He had been happy, to think it now, he had been so happy that it was over, that he was free. But the Dumbledore had told him, told him that Lily, his Lily, was dead. His whole world had shattered. "But, fear not, Severus, the boy lives." That's what he had been told, as if it mattered not that Lily had died, as if she could just be cast aside, that he should not mourn her, because her son lived.

But now the memories of Lily danced before him, a comfort to him, even now, her gentle hands, brushing the hair from his face, when they were only twelve, thirteen, before Potter had stolen her from him. The way she had laughed, the way she had danced and sung and let him bask in her light. It was only as these images slowly faded from his mind, that he realised his control was coming back. He felt the pain of the sold stones beneath him, biting through the fabric of his hastily donned robes. Felt the half numb, half pain in his wrists, his knees. Knew he had to move. He pushed himself up to sit against the wall; his mind blissfully blank. He could fight it all with this blankness.

He didn't know how many hours had passed, there were no windows down here to let in the sunlight, and his watch was still upstairs. With her. The thought almost triggered off another wave, but he fought it back, locking everything away. He wouldn't succumb again.

Severus pulled himself to his feet, crossed the room and opened the door on the far wall. Rows of shelves lined this tiny room. Each shelf held stacks of letters, piles of little trinkets, and finally, photographs. Every memory he had of Lily Evans. Not Lily Potter. He hadn't got a single thing from after her marriage. He hadn't got a single thing form after their sixth year. This was his true sanctuary. A place where he could safely sink into his handful of happy memories, a place where he could use these happy memories, memories of her as a soothing balm for his mind.

He took down his favourite photograph. The last photograph. The summer after their fifth year. The last time she had ever spoken to him. She stood in her pretty dress, a flower in her hair, swinging her arms and looking a little embarrassed, and a little bored. He had begged her, outright begged her, for this photograph. She had told him never to speak to her again, and he had seen her, sitting in their spot, below their tree and he had gone over, tried to convince her to forgive him, told her how truly sorry he was. She had rebuffed him, but she had consented to his final plea, to give him this photo, something that he could remember her by.

"Oh, Lily." He sighed, now, holding the photograph so delicately in his fingers, "what am I to do?" he asked this piece of paper, this picture. To him, it was more than that, looking into her eyes in this image; he could almost make himself believe that she was listening to him. "What am I to do, with this child that I have married? How am I to make up for this? How am I to absolve myself of this latest crime?" He received no answer. He didn't expect one. It made him feel better though, to speak aloud, to hear the problem logically explained to the air. "How am I to protect her from the monster that lives within me?" That was just it. He would protect her, he would give her everything to keep her comfortable, give her everything, except himself. He would keep his distance from her. He would protect her, from himself. He would exercise better self control. He would not touch her. He would not so much as brush against her. That was it. That was what he would do. Maybe, in the very distant future, she would find it in her gracious self to forgive him his slip, if he never slipped again.

-#x#-

Hermione woke to find sunlight streaming into the room, and no Severus beside her. She didn't know whether to feel relived or disappointed. She sat up slowly, testing the dull ache that throbbed between her legs. Time to explore and hopefully locate the bathroom. As it happened, the door to the bathroom was straight across the hall and so she didn't have to explore that much after all. It was nothing special, this bathroom. A rather battered looking tub stood against one wall, an ancient looking shower suspended above it. The floor was covered in mint green tiles, and was cold under foot. She sighed; she would just have to learn to live with it. After making use of the facilities, Hermione darted back across the hall into the bedroom, discovering that a large trunk with all her clothes in had appeared at the foot of the bed. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a loose fitting Jumper and headed down stairs, her stomach squirming uncomfortably at the thought of seeing him, of having to speak to him.

She needn't have worried. Both the sitting room and the kitchen were as deserted as the bedroom and bathroom had been. She put the kettle on, made herself a cup of strong tea and then began to search the cupboards for something to eat for breakfast. The first cupboard she opened contained a very mismatched collection of plates, bowls and cups. The next contained numerous little bottles that, although none were labelled, she was fairly certain contained potions. The next contained little boxes of dried flowers, leaves and other bits and pieces of vegetation. The fourth contained yet more unlabelled bottles, this time empty. The final cupboard on this level contained the plumbing for the sink and a meagre collection of magical cleaning products. She rose up and tried the wall mounted cupboards. This time she found jars; every cupboard was neatly stacked with jars, and every single one contained something slimy looking (and in some instances, wriggly) that she definitely didn't think she'd like to eat. So, she sighed inwardly, there is no food. He keeps his kitchen cupboards well stocked with potions ingredients. Typical.

She sipped her tea more slowly this time. Surely there had to be food in the house. After all, she had found the tea bags, milk (with a chilling charm) and sugar on the side, almost as if waiting for her. It wasn't possible that he was surviving purely on tea and potions. Wait, this was Severus Snape, Potions master and man of mystery. He probably could survive on tea and potions. She shook her head; that was a ridiculous thought. It was about this time that she spotted a curtained alcove by the back door. It covered a fridge. She suddenly felt very silly. The fridge contained bacon, eggs, a bag of apples, a lettuce, some tomatoes, a handful of mushrooms, a jar a mayo and half a loaf of bread, and more jars of slippery looking somethings. She pulled out the eggs, the bacon and a tomato. If she could just find a frying pan, she'd be in business. She smiled as Ron's words floated back through the air "honestly, Hermione, are you a witch or not?" A flick of her wand and an omelette landed on her plate. Quick, simple and no scrubbing stubborn cooked egg off the frying pan. She found cutlery in the drawer over the plates' cupboard and set about demolishing her breakfast.

It was only when she'd finished that she began to wonder where her husband was. She didn't remember seeing any more doors than the ones she'd already been through, and he didn't seem the type to leave her alone in his house so soon. She shrugged it off. If last night was anything to go by, she wasn't certain she wanted to run into him anyway. She did, however, want to have a good look at his book shelves.

Half an hour later found Hermione sitting comfortably in the chair Severus had sat in the night before, her legs swung casually over the arm and a book resting open against her knees. He had so many old books here, she could have spent weeks, maybe even months and not have to read a book she'd read before. She had noticed with interested, when she had been here for the first time that every book was doubled. Now she realised that one book was an original, and the second was a spelled copy, all covered in Severus' notes. Memories of his old potions text book which had fallen into Harry's hands flitted in her memory, and she vowed that she would read every single one of these annotated books, but only after reading the originals. She wanted to see what he disagreed with, see how he had adapted things, and, through that, hopefully learn something of how his mind worked. She stayed that way for many hours, just reading, comfortable because she had a chair and a book and that left no space in her consciousness to be uncomfortable.

Her stomach growling and the need for more light was what finally raised her. She drew the curtains over the windows and lit the electric lamp. She didn't know why but it seemed so strange to her that there should be electricity in this house. His house. Their house, she told herself firmly, they were married; it was their house now. She wondered then where he was, for the first time since breakfast, for even if he had been out earlier, surely he would not have spent the entire day away. Perhaps he had another house, one that no one knew about. She mused on this as she made her way into the kitchen and set about making herself some dinner, though what dinner was going to be she hadn't quite decided. Should she make him something too? That was what wives generally did after all. No. She didn't even know if he was in or out, or what time he would be back. If he didn't have the common courtesy to leave her a note saying he'd gone out or what ever then she would not feel obliged to prepare anything for him. She was just getting herself worked up into a proper huff of indignation, when the wall beside the door to the front room split open, revealing the very man she had been mentally complaining about. Hermione gave a shout of surprise and dropped the eggs she had been weighing in her hand.

Severus rolled his eyes, muttered something clearly disparaging under his breath and flicked his wand at the mess. He then bent down to the cupboard with the full potions bottles, opened it and withdrew a small bottle of bright pink potion. He then closed it, and gave the edge without a handle a gentle push. The door opened, as if a magnet had been released, and Hermione saw neat rows of jars, boxes, cans and packets, all containing things that looked very much edible. "You doubled up the cupboards." She stated, it was so simple. Why hadn't she thought to check for that?

"Evidently." Calm, bordering on condescending. His eyes moved over the old baggy sweater, and down the denim clad legs. He couldn't help himself. This all just seemed as a strange dream, no, check that, a strange nightmare, to him. How was it that she could stand there looking so perfectly at home in his kitchen? He pushed past the thought. She was here; he would have to deal with it. "Take this. Did you have something specific in mind for dinner?" He tossed the bottle at her, she caught it automatically. Why did she look so surprised that he was being polite? Had his reputation at the school really been so low as to deny him even simple manners? Of course it had, he was the greasy dungeon bat. He doubted they even believed he could say please or thank you without spontaneous combustion resulting. She shook her head. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled out a packet of pasta. "Sit down, recover from your shock." He said, the sarcasm biting back into his voice as an automatic defence. "It won't work with you just looking at it , you know, you have to drink it."

He went to the fridge and removed a few more things as she skirted around him and sank into the chair at the table. Soon he was chopping and slicing and tipping things into a pan (a pan that had come out of the reverse side of the plates cupboard, she stored the information away for later) He set a spoon to stirring the pan automatically, she was almost hypnotised watching it turn seven times clockwise, then seven times back. She remembered watching him make coffee "Do you do everything with so much regimented precision?" Yes, clearly he did. He was bringing the pasta to the boil now, one hand on the heat control, the other hovering above the pan with a pinch of herbs. As the bubbles formed he released the pinch and reduced the heat in one fluid motion.

"Shouldn't the herbs go in the sauce?" She heard herself ask. She couldn't help it; the question had just risen from her lips before she'd had a chance to stop it, to sallow her automatic search for more information that he found so annoying.

"no." He told her. She sighed with relief; he wasn't going to hex her for being once again the impertinent little girl who had to question everything. After a moment he added, "If you add herbs to the sauce they will overpower the natural sweet of the tomatoes and the natural salt of the bacon, as well as leaving a slightly grainy consistency. Added to the pasta, just as the water boils, they are dispersed evenly through it and their flavours are absorbed enough to complement the flavours of the sauce, without overwhelming them, and you retain the smooth texture." She hadn't noticed just how many similarities there were between cookery and potions until she heard him talk of pasta and sauce as if back in the classroom.

It arrived at the table steaming hot and smelling so good it made Hermione's mouth water. She managed to politely thank him before diving in with gusto. He was right about the taste. The sweetness of the tomatoes mingled deliciously with the contrast of the bacon, and only when that was over did you realise there was a backdrop of mint, and sage, and oregano bursting behind it all. "The subtle science and exact art of potion-making". The words he had spoken in her very first potions lesson echoed through her mind. Apparently there was a subtle science and/or an exact art to making bloody gorgeous pasta too. She tried not to just wolf it down in an undignified manner. She also tried not to look too impressed. She distinctly remembered asking her aunt once why her uncle never cooked dinner. "Men don't cook, dear, because men can't cook. They just can't." Well, this certainly blew that theory out of the water.

Why was she looking at him like that? Severus tried to ignore it as he took another forkful of food to his mouth. Why was she looking at him with that strange half smile as if he had just done something completely unprecedented, something astonishing? All he had done was cook pasta. It wasn't rocket science. It wasn't even close. He fought the urge to reach into her mind. To see what she was thinking, to know what it was that made her look at him in such a strange way. IT was almost as if she were trying to figure something out. He raised his own mental guard, not that he ever fully dropped it. He shut himself of completely and finished his meal.

AN: Wow, that took a lot of writing... still not entirely satisfied, but I think I got the basic points across... I'm off to collapse in a heap before starting round 8. Enjoy... Hugs and cookies, ForeverPandora