Severus went to bed that night frustrated. That little wife of his had been exceedingly annoying, even more than normal. Living with her was going to be a real chore, he could already tell. He swallowed some Dreamless Sleep and laid back, darkness claiming him within minutes.
The next morning there were classes, so he was up early and reading the paper in the living area, having forgotten about Hermione temporarily. His heart lept to his throat when he heard a creaking, but then reminded himself that he was married and that wife of his was probably getting ready for school.
You're going to have to teach her, Severus.
She wouldn't be in his potions class today, but she would eventually. Of course he would treat her like he always had, but things would be different. They lived together, and once a week they would be forced to be intimate. Eventually a child would have to come into the picture as well, and he wasn't sure how that was going to work. He had no problem with her going to university but she would have to live with him, especially if a child was involved.
He waited for her so they could go together to breakfast and when she came out in her school robes he swallowed thickly. Here she was a student still, one he'd been teaching for years, and now they were married. A small piece of guilt shot into his stomach but dissolved like ice. She was his wife; he could do what he liked with her. It wasn't his fault how their matrimony was forced.
They separated for breakfast and he sat with the professors. Minerva sat next to him and cast a silent, heavy gaze from him to Hermione and back again, asking questions in her mind. He ate silently, trying to avoid her eyes. If she really wanted to know something so bad she could open her mouth and ask. He refused to be baited into it.
"How was the weekend Severus?" He glanced at her over his cup. She raised her eyebrow like she did with students, an impatient look on her face. He couldn't skip around her questions, not when her favorite little Gryffindor was involved.
"She's fine Minerva. She'll get used to putting up with me." The woman pursed her lips and drank, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. She would say something, he knew it, but she was formulating the perfect response.
"You be good to her Severus, she's only 17 you know." The woman couldn't tell him not to touch her darling Princess of the Golden Trio but she could lecture him, warn him. He speared a piece of meat and cut a glare at her.
"She's of age; she'll be fine no matter what I do with her. And I don't do that much with her." He took a bite of food and chuckled. "Except argue, of course, she's an expert at arguing." Immediately Minerva jumped to the girl's defense.
"We've put her in a very stressful situation, you can't expect her to just settle in and be calm about it. She has to adjust to life with you and vice versa. I'm sure you two can get along if you'd only try." He shook his head, not wanting to argue with another woman. Instead he went down to his classroom which, of the moment, was peaceful and student free.
It smelled like herbs and potions ingredients, and the coolness of the dungeons was soothing. Although Severus had always desired to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions would have been his second choice, and it could be worse. He could be stuck in Runes or Muggle Studies or something like that, so Potions in the long run suited him well enough.
Soon the peace was interrupted by students though, and his calm demeanor faded into the professor that everyone else knew. Calm was something difficult to come by lately, especially with the wedding and such.
Lunch came about eventually and he saw Hermione gobbling down her food and then running off, presumably to the library. She spent too much time there, he mused, and perhaps that was why her friends were so abysmal. Not that he'd had the greatest friends in school either, but he'd had Lily until 7th year and then Lucius and others had replaced her. Or replaced her to the extent that you could replace that copper haired beauty who still haunted his dreams and nightmares.
When dinner came and went he waited for Hermione in the shadows. She said goodbye to her friends, laughing, and turned to him. The smile and laughter faded instantly as if his very presence commanded seriousness, a formality to her attitude. Her bag pulled her shoulder down and a sliver of white shoulder peeked out.
They walked in silence down to their rooms and disappeared inside. That was how things went for the rest of the week, but, he thought with some relief, at least they weren't shouting at each other every waking minute. His own parent's marriage hadn't been nearly as good, so he was content for them to live separate lives under the same roof.
Fighting brought back memories of his childhood, of when his father had raised his fist at both his mother and him. He never, ever, wanted to become so enraged that he struck Hermione, for in that moment he would become like his father, and that was a person he had sworn he would never, ever, turn into.
Friday night she asked if she could spend the night in Gryffindor Tower. With tight lips he consented and thanked her for asking first, proving just how formal the relationship was. She smiled and skipped off, happier with those few words than she had been the entire week with him.
Saturday she'd spent most of the day out and about with her friends, leaving him to brood and work in his lab. His lab was attached to his bedroom while his study was an offshoot of the main room. The bedroom Hermione now occupied had been nonexistent before, but with a little magic he'd pulled it out of the walls.
Saturday night marked a week since their wedding.
They ended up talking after their mandatory time together, the awkwardness clinging to their skin. And of course it turned into a confrontation, as all their conversations did.
"You flinch every time I touch you. Why?" It came out more demanding than he'd meant it.
"I'm just...I've never been intimate with anyone before and...It's weird, how my body responds. Do you expect me to just let you touch me, to jump in bed with you whenever you like? And I don't want you to find something wrong with me." He blanched.
"Wrong with you? I doubt I'm going to find anything that wrong with you." She laughed mirthlessly.
"You haven't seen my top half yet. That might make you change your mind." He frowned and slipped his fingers under her top, tugging gently. She kept her arms down but didn't protest, and he slowly worked her shirt off, then her bra.
There was a large scar, a thick patch of skin that stretched from under one breast and down to the end of her ribcage. She kept her arms rigid at her sides, staring at the floor. The tips of his fingers traced along the deep cut, and although she didn't flinch, she wouldn't meet his eyes. He pressed his hand over it.
"Is this what you think is wrong with you?" She stepped away from his hands, folding her arms over her breasts but leaving the scar partially exposed.
"I haven't seen your chest either. Is there something you're hiding?" Slowly he reached up and began to unbutton his own shirt. His robes and shirt fell to the floor, revealing a lean, not quite muscular chest.
There were a few scars crisscrossing his skin, he wasn't covered in them, but he had enough. All of him was pale, but the scars were raised flesh, easily discernable in the light. She came toward him, one arm covering herself while another raised its hand and then let its fingers trace the paths of his scars.
"How did you get these?" She whispered, her fingers not wanting to follow every line. He pushed his own hand under her breast to her scar.
"The same way you got yours. If the Dark Lord isn't pleased with you, he tortures you. Sometimes the result are scars. My back looks the same way." She blinked at him and pressed a hand over his heart where there was a particularly nasty cut, nearly five centimeters wide and two times as long.
"Did he...did he try to kill you?" He shook his head.
"My father wasn't very good to me." Her eyes widened and she stared at his chest again, trying to figure out what was magic and what was muggle work.
"But this one is so large, and... How could a father do this to his own child?" He pushed her hand down his side, to a patch of smooth skin.
"A belt buckle caught and ripped, although most of his handiwork shows on my back. This is mainly the Dark Lord's doing. Nothing to be afraid of."
Something to be ashamed of, though. You don't even look in the mirror anymore.
She backed away from him and moved to pull her shirt back on. He followed suit and excused himself, not realizing until later that he never asked how she'd gotten her scar, he'd just assumed it had been from the fight in the Ministry. Maybe it wasn't that at all, maybe she had gotten that awful looking thing from something else entirely and she just never said. He shook his head-she was a straight forward girl, she would have told him if she'd gotten it some other way, via attack or something else.