1
He had cared for her fiercely. No, it was not love, though the line was thin between devotion and duty. He had sworn to protect her once she became his wife, not that it was any different than before they married. He had been her protector for years already, the promise was an easy one to make. Their union had been a necessity. An instrumental step in her protection from the harsh, cruel realities of her status in their world. A Muggleborn of astounding magic and undeniable power, ripe for the taking when she came of age at 17. Easy pickings for power-hungry families with less than noble intentions for the brightest witch of her age. Aged by her abusive use of the time-turner, Hermione was already 18 at the beginning of her sixth year. She married the following March before the Headmaster in the small, round office. Her marriage was officiated and consummated in a cold, clinical way that had left the young woman wanting. She had hoped to one day marry the boy she had loved for years in a large, lavish ceremony. To involve her friends, and their families. Instead, she was one of three to know of her status as a wife.
After the war had settled, she had respected the secret she kept so near to her heart. Her fingertips danced over her wedding band -a delicate, thin piece of silver jewellery hidden beneath a disillusionment spell- and her heart squeezed. The ring had been gifted to her one quiet night in the Forest of Dean. She had been taking the first watch, sitting quietly with a book, a small flame in a jar keeping her warm. Her husband had found her so easily, picking through her wards and careful spells. He had approached her without a sound, a finger to his lips to signify she ought to remain silent. He had fashioned the small velvet box from his robes, leaning in close to whisper to her. Her heart had fluttered at his proximity as he knelt by her side, his nose just barely tickling her throat, his breath hot on her chilled skin. He had placed a tracking charm on it, should she ever need him, should she ever find herself in harm's way, he would be able to find her. She had eagerly accepted it, a token of his promise.
She had never once doubted his loyalty. Even as the slander in the news fought to paint him in an unfavourable light, even as her friends ranted and raved at his betrayal. She could not defend him, nor could she reveal their secret. A secret that had become precious to her. Despite the coldness and obligation of their situation, he was hers.
She tried to hold on to that thought as she stood in front of the Minister, who was armed with Severus Snape's last will and testament.
He had left her everything.
2
Explaining why he had left her everything should have been easy. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought that she would have to reveal their secret to Kingsley. With a start, she realised that she did not want to. This secret was theirs and theirs alone. With Dumbledore's passing, they had been the only ones with that knowledge. This secret was the only thing that was well and truly theirs.
With a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes, the young woman banished the spell on her ring. The band gleamed as it caught the light, and she held out her hand, flashing it at the Minister. "I'm his wife," she managed, her breathing shallow and uneven as the words rushed out, for the very first time, aloud.
Kingsley blinked once, twice. He cleared his throat. "A simple marriage can easily be annulled should you wish it, Hermione. Certainly, you mustn't want to be the recipient of his belongings."
Certainly, you mustn't want to be the recipient of his belongings. Certainly, she must not want to be his wife, his widow. Git.
She saw red, her face flushing, her jaw set. Even after his memories of his devotion to Lily Potter had been revealed to the entirety of the wizarding world, people doubted his goodness, his heart. She raised her chin and scowled. "We are bound." she bit out, fighting with her breathing to avoid losing to the burning of tears, her chest was tight.
Kingsley blinked again. "The marriage was-"
"Consummated, yes. Is that so hard to believe?" She did not let him answer. "I should like a copy of his will, if you please. And his body released so I may bury him honourably."
Kingsley shook his head, obviously still rattled by the information she had just revealed with no explanation as to why it was so. "There is no body. We never found him."
Her mouth dried, the colour draining from her face. She had tried for hours, with little success, to save him from death. To save him from the poison of the damned snake that had torn out his throat. She had cried over his body, immobile on the dirty floor of the Shrieking Shack, covered in his blood. She had been dragged away forcefully, kicking and screaming that he must be saved. Her heart had cracked in two that night. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing as her heart flip-flopped into the pit of her belly, sinking lower and lower. She couldn't allow herself to hope. It would kill her. "You are standing before me with my husband's will, yet you have no proof of his death? No body?" Anger flared within her, sparking at her fingertips. "Are you truly so incompetent as to take a man's death for granted?"
Oh, didn't that sound like him?
All too aware she was indeed channelling the man she was bound to, she raised a brow, awaiting a response before she lashed into the Minister. To be entirely honest, she had expected him to have died. Another flash of that horrid May 2nd came to her as she blinked. The nightmare of that night was tattooed on the backs of her eyelids. She had expected the Ministry to, at the very least, be thorough, and offer her some form of closure. Provide some sort of proof that he had passed so that she may grieve him. She had been mourning him for months, already. Respecting the customs associated with being his wife, though no one knew. Obeying the quite Victorian expectations of their societal mores. Despite one fevered kiss in the Chamber of Secrets and Ron's insistence for more, Hermione took no lovers. She never allowed her friends to spew venom in her presence, reminding them he had saved them from countless disasters. She wore black without exception, even to the countless balls, trials, and ceremonies.
Yes, the witch knew all too well that she had been honouring her wizard without concrete evidence. Though, it appeared that their ridiculous government could provide even that.
3
The address was scribbled on a spare bit of parchment. The house he had left behind.
52 Spinner's End, Cokeworth. Textile industry.
Apparating to Cokeworth, armed with nothing more than her beaded bag and a heavy heart, she stood before the cold, grey house. The sight of the tall, austere townhouse sank a stone in her stomach. Public records at the Ministry had revealed that the house had been owned by his parents before him. Had the Potions' Master grown up in such a dreary home? This was no place for a child. There were no trees, no green grass to run around in. Only the dusty road, the cobbled and decrepit houses, and burnt-out streetlamps lined the darkened circle. The wards swept over her as she approached the front door. The magic was bittersweet and familiar, settling in her bones as it acquainted itself with her own magical signature. She had no doubt the house was booby-trapped within an inch of its existence and was grateful that her soul bond was recognised within the magic there. She paused, taking a settling breath as her hand rested on the doorknob. If there was a password to be spoken, she was not aware of it. The door clicked open, swinging forward and pulling her over the threshold. The door shut swiftly, engulfing her in the sudden darkness of the hall. Again, Hermione was struck by the notion that no child ought to have suffered this home. With a small wave of her wand, a small ball of light floated a few feet ahead of her, lighting the sconces as she moved throughout the house.
The first room she found was just off the corridor. A small room filled to the brim with books awaited her. Wall-to-wall bookshelves stood tall around the place, a handsome winged-back chair set before a roaring fire. Her heart nearly stopped when she realised someone was sitting in it, their back toward her, a pair of socked feet resting against the heated stone of the hearth. There was a quiet turning of a page, the sound of shifting parchment. The glide of a finger coming to rest along the page to save the reader's place. "I was beginning to wonder when you would turn up on my doorstep," came the unmistakable, silky, baritone drawl of the man before the fire. "You've kept me waiting, Madam wife."
Frozen, Hermione found herself gasping for air. In one smooth motion, the man was standing before her, in all his dark, imposing glory. She forced herself to meet his eyes, a strangled cry escaping her as he looked down at her with worry. "You died," she gasped, vaguely aware that he had taken hold of her by the elbows, guiding her forward and into his arms.
Her wrapped strong arms around her, holding her close to his chest, his nose buried in the wilds of her hair. "I did," he replied simply, his voice quiet. He seemed to pick the question from her mind. "My insufferable know-it-all wife countered the poison that had me dead for three entire minutes. Long enough for my magical signature to be declared extinguished and alerted to the Ministry. It took them too long to analyse the contents of my will, you were supposed to come here much sooner."
Pressed into the wool at his chest, she took a deep breath, taking in his scent of sandalwood and spices and parchment and... something green. She had about a dozen questions, though each one seemed accusatory and wrong. The man had died. Her husband, in title only, had left the mortal plan for three whole minutes. Of course, he would have crawled back home to recuperate in peace. "Is this real?"
His hand trailed up along her spine, coming to rest on the back of her neck. His lips were pressed to her head and he took in her jasmine scent. "Gods, I certainly hope so,"
It was enough to send her into hysterics.
She openly sobbed, gripping onto him for dear life, as though he might disappear if she relinquished her hold on him. "I felt it," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I felt you die."
He sighed, leaning back just enough to dry her face of tears, catching her chin in his palm. He raised her face to meet her eyes. Soft, cognac eyes that held such emotion. Such worry for him. Him. "Our bond," he responded, understanding her meaning. "It is severed. You are my widow, Hermione. Free of me, should you wish it."
She shook he head quickly. "No!" the word burst from her lips. She blushed, embarrassed by her outburst. "No," she repeated, quieter this time. "I don't ever wish to be free of you. Never again. Severus, it broke me."
His name on her tongue after so long was a balm to his strained nerves. He had been nervous about her reaction to finding him alive after so many months. He was still not fully recovered from his injuries and possibly would not be for a long while still. He had not had enough strength to set out for her himself. He had had to depend on the Ministry and its predictable incompetence and idiocy. He had fully expected her to tear into him, to demand an annulment and run off to the Weasley boy. He had not dared hope for his little witch to cling to him as she had. To reveal such sentiment for the snarky dungeon bat. His hand ran along her curls, pushing the hair from her face. "If you're certain," he started, catching the shift in her eyes, the darkening that lay there. She knew. He smirked. His clever, clever know-it-all. Still, he continued. "If you are certain, we must reignite our soul bond. This is ancient magic, little witch. Not something to be trifled with."
There was another flash in her eyes and her gaze fell to his lips. Her tongue darted out quickly, wetting her own as her mouth dried. Gods, how long had it been since she had kissed him? Years, most likely. How had she ever resisted him? Looking at her the way he was. His gaze was... covetous. When had he ever wanted her? More importantly, how long had he wanted her? And why was this the first time she was aware of it?
"We were in the middle of a war, sweet girl," her murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and ducking his head to kiss her cheek. Her heart fluttered at the tenderness of his gesture and she sighed. She caught sight of his healing wound. His throat was still red and raw, garish marks marring the perfection of the pale alabaster that was his skin. She leaned into him, her lips just barely pressed to his jaw, above the markings. He shivered, his hold on her tightening. "You were still so young. I had been your most hated teacher. I had every reason to keep my distances."
She shrugged, catching his earlobe between her teeth. "Yet, you found me time and time again. Sought me out, cared for me, held me. And with our bonding consummated, how easy it would have been to sneak me away for an hour or two."
"Merlin, witch," the exclamation was torn from him.
He caught her face again, leading her mouth to his. He nipped at her expectant lips, her mouth parting beneath his as his tongue slid against her own, slippery and hot. He stumbled backwards into his chair, taking her with him, and Hermione had the fleeting thought of remembering to be gentle with him as she tore open the buttons of his long coat. The thought vanished. His fingers caught in her hair as he pulled her down for another searing kiss. Unspoken promises teased her lips as he pulled another gasp from her. And suddenly, they jolted apart. The burn of magic sizzled between them. A golden swirl danced around her head, then around his, tickling his wound. The ball of light split in two and darted toward their chests, disappearing inside them.
Snape gasped, heat spreading through his chest, momentarily burning, scalding him. Though the pain was a welcome one. Hermione felt the same fire in her heart and her fingers curled into his shoulders, gripping him tightly. "What was that?" she breathed, pausing to gauge his reaction.
The man shook his head, just as bewildered by the development as she was. "My dear, I believe those were our souls. Our souls were rekindling. What a strange and wonderful magic." He took one of her hands from his shoulder, his thumb passing over the bumps and valleys of her knuckles, just barely brushing her ring and his chest warmed again. "This is right, isn't it? Your being mine. You felt it too."
She nodded quickly, catching her lip between her teeth. "I think I was always meant to end up here. With you. It was meant."
Still holding her fingers, his other hand came up to pull her lip from her teeth with a gentle wiggle. "We will be most fearsome, Hermione. Our... mingled magics will simply terrify the populace."
A wicked grin met her mouth as she descended on her wizard, catching his lips. "Let them be terrified," she cooed. "I have a soul-bonding to consummate."
Snape chuckled. He was becoming a rather bad influence on his wife.
