The night air was warm and humid as the Gryffindor girls clustered together at their instructed meeting spot in the front courtyard of the castle.
McGonagall stood straight-backed in the lamp light overseeing a tidy row of Thestral carriages that had been lined up before them in the grass. Doing a preliminary count, Hermione assumed that there was one for each of them.
The Slytherin girls were also in attendance, gathered just as Hermione, Lavender, and Parvati were, with their familiar tribe. While the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had clearly been given other arrangements, (as determined by their Heads of House), apparently McGonagall would be in charge of the Slytherins.
With an uncomfortable jolt, Hermione realized why. Their Head of House was not currently available.
The past two days had gone by in such a blur, she couldn't believe the time had already arrived.
When told about the particulars of the infamous conjugal proclamation, Ginny was rendered so speechless, she couldn't produce a coherent sentence for almost twenty-four hours. But, after another night of terrorizing Lavender with questions, and poking Parvati for every possible detail, she exploded into fury once more, organizing a school-wide letter-writing campaign with the intended purpose, she claimed, of having all marriages annulled and Dagmar's mandate criminally prosecuted.
Hermione participated in this hesitantly, signing her name to the petition, scrawling out the heated template that Ginny had convinced as many students to write as she could manage. Which was not a small number of students, as it turned out. Ginny's popularity made her well suited for organized uprisings and she inherited many devoted followers. (Neville, who had taken Luna's departure particularly hard, became Ginny's right hand man, scurrying behind her from classroom to classroom, laden with reams of parchment and extra quills).
Hermione's hesitation in joining was not because she disagreed with Ginny. Of course, she found the mandate on the extreme side of insanity. She felt victimized, bullied, bartered off for auction like a caged animal, and she was gutted to her core by the despicable dismissal of those girls who dared to refuse.
But, time had taught Hermione how ineffectual such campaigns could be, how impossibly slow the needle was to turn on such institutionalized violation. House-elves were still a sore subject that she mourned more often than not.
What Hermione saw this time around, and with startling clarity, was that Ginny was not offering a solution. She was only offering resistance. Dagmar Vance offered action. Unconventional, yes, but swift and, though untested, theoretically sound. Not many in power were likely to bend.
Producing no ceremony, McGonagall opened up the first of the covered carriages and beckoned Parvati forward with a jerk of her hand. "Miss Patil."
Parvati, looking nervous, obediently clambered inside.
"The carriages will take you to your destination and wait for you as you complete your visit," McGonagall announced to the watching group. "When you are ready to return, they will bring you back to the castle and you will check in for assessment."
There was clearly no room for questions, as McGonagall promptly closed the door of Parvati's carriage, said "Keenbridge," to the snorting Thestral (which almost everyone could see these days), and watched as it surged forward, pulling the carriage with spectral speed into the darkened night.
Hermione was next. At McGonagall's indication, she too, stepped forward and climbed into her assigned carriage.
"Hogsmeade, Miss Granger," McGonagall said sternly, then shut the carriage door.
McGonagall's manner was all business, no sympathy. She gave off the air of someone who, if she had qualms or disputes, (which Hermione assumed she must have), she had made her case behind closed doors. Now, given her obvious defeat, she intended to follow through with her head held high. A stalwart soldier to the last.
Hermione rode in silent apprehension to Hogsmeade, less anxious as she was mystified about what to expect. Snape's behavior was so volatile. Yet at other times, he was equally distant and placid.
Thankfully, she'd only had to endure one potions class since the Ministry letters were sent out, during which Snape continued his primary tactic of ignoring her entirely.
And mercifully so, she concluded. Since this was more or less his usual behavior, Hermione was able to pass off their hidden pact without any trouble.
But while he avoided looking at her, she did not do the same. She studied him with rapt curiosity every chance she could get. Almost out of self defense more than anything, she adopted the mannerism of a scientific observer, noting his patterns of movement as he paced the classroom, the way he slipped so stereotypically snake-like into his chair, his infamous lank hair and pale complexion, the rigid grip of his long fingers as he grasped his quill.
She noticed for the first time how meticulously tailored his robes were, fitted to him like a second skin. She tried but failed to imagine the body beneath.
He just seemed so unilaterally formed, like a gargoyle affixed to the ramparts.
In the seven years that she had known him, she had only ever seen him as this shadowy figment, a procurer of tasks and dispenser of lectures. Her mind just couldn't find its way to a reality in which he existed as a man of flesh and breath. How could he, she thought, possess any of those tender and vulnerable afflictions of the human condition? He wasn't human. He was… Snape.
With a sudden jerk, the carriage stopped. Hermione peered out the window to see that she had been led to an inn on the outskirts of town called "The Stoat and Satyr."
Signage overhead depicted a stern, half-goat half-man, holding a lyre, with the ermine figure of a stoat perched across his shoulders.
Hermione knew of this place but had never been inside. There was a time during her early school days that she had considered booking a room when the idea of bringing her parents for a visit was still being entertained.
Her parents…
This was a subject she had been avoiding.
What could she tell them? Because furthermore, what could they do ? She knew they would yank her from school in a heartbeat, pressure her to accept the excommunication, (after all, there was truth to what Snape had said about them being a reliable safety net). But she wasn't ready to give up, not by a long shot. Her future was here, in the wizarding world. She would do anything to protect it, even if that meant keeping such a detrimental truth from them. For now, at least.
She had no idea what the future held. Her mind was still revving its engines, sorting through the myriad of thoughts and possibilities. She would hold off on making any decisions until she knew more. She was being forced into so many steps and situations of late, she would rather hold back the things she still had the power to control.
When Hermione entered the inn, a breeze of wind blustered as she straightened her hair and unclasped her traveling cloak.
She looked up and was then surprised to see a familiar face.
Madam Rosmerta, in all her red-haired refinement, sat at a table in this small foyer. She was joined by another woman with similar features and coloring. The two of them had obviously been waiting up, sharing mugs of ale by the window.
Hermione remembered vaguely being told that Rosmerta had a cousin who ran an inn. She supposed that this was the one.
Hermione said nothing when she closed the door behind her, turning again to face them, but Rosmerta rose from her seat at once and went to her, pulling Hermione into her arms. "Darling," she said sweetly.
Then she pulled back and tucked Hermione's hair behind her ear, giving her neck an affectionate squeeze.
"If you have any questions," Rosmerta said. "If anything isn't right, you call for me. I'll be there in a jiff and blast him two ways 'till Sunday. We'll go on the lamb together. Understand me? You just call."
"Thank you," Hermione croaked. "I… I expect I'll be alright, but thank you."
Rosmerta gestured at the other woman who walked serenely up to join them. "This is my cousin, Niamh. She runs the place."
Niamh gave a nod of welcome. "We've been asked to be discreet, Miss Granger, but my cousin knows everything in this town. I could hardly help it."
Rosmerta gave an impudent shrug.
"Well," Niamh huffed, "I suppose putting off the bitter doesn't make it any sweeter. Here you are, Love, and you can give me that cloak."
Hermione looked down to see Niamh take her traveling cloak and press a key into her hands in its place. The dangling tag read: #23.
"All the way up," Niahm continued, gently steering Hermione past the check-in desk towards the far left side of the room where the stairwell waited. "Just keep taking the stairs and you'll find it. The only room at the top."
Hermione did as she had been directed.
Step after step, she methodically ascended to the very highest peak of the inn (which was certainly several stories higher on the inside than it appeared on the outside).
Her heart gave a curious tremor as she reached the final landing and saw the closed door with a golden number 23 etched into its facade. Taking a deep breath, she reached out and rapped smartly on the door.
There was no answer.
She fumbled with the key, inserting it into the lock. Perhaps he hasn't arrived yet, she thought. Perhaps he'll never arrive. Perhaps …
But, as the door swung open, revealing a spacious and lavishly furnished sitting room, there he was:
Severus Snape stood by the fireplace, tall and dark, resting one forearm against the mantlepiece as he focused intently on an open book.
Snape looked up when she entered. His expression did not change, remaining curiously neutral and intimidatingly unreadable. His dark eyes were fathomless as he watched her step over the threshold.
Beyond the sitting room, Hermione could see through open doors, an equally lavish bedroom, and further on, through another open door, a small study with a writing desk and various shelves.
Unsure how to begin the conversation, Hermione commented lightly, "I never knew there were such accommodations in Hogsmeade."
Snape closed his book with a snap. "They were not inexpensive," he said. The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss.
Hermione cocked her head. "Then, why–"
"At our Headmistress's insistence," he cut her off venomously, "that such things should not take place on school grounds."
If Hermione had expected Snape to appear any different outside the castle than he did in the classroom, she was sorely mistaken. His robes were exactly the same, his complexion just as dour, his countenance just as sneering and authoritative.
Hermione was more than used to this, however. As such, the cattiness she sometimes felt in his presence began to remerge. She could feel it welling in her chest. "And you disagree with her?" she asked, eyebrows raised.
Snape flashed her a look of annoyance. "There is no part of this arrangement that isn't malignantly inconvenient." His knuckles were white where he gripped the spine of his book. "My opinions are of little consequence, as are yours. Now, if we are quite finished remarking on the draperies, I'd rather not waste time in idle talk."
Giving her no time to adjust, Snape deposited his book on a nearby chair and gestured for Hermione to follow him. He strode to the bedroom, waiting in agitated silence for her to follow.
Hermione balked. "I'm not a spaniel," she said, refusing to move.
Snape's reply was cuttingly swift. "My mistake, Granger. After your mute acceptance of Miss Vance's sentencing, I rather thought docile adherent was your new nom de guerre."
Hermione squared her shoulders, her cheeks burning. "You complied with the mandate too, Professor," she said stiffly. "And just because I didn't have much to say in that room doesn't mean I can't have my say in this one."
"So optimistic of me," Snape sneered, "to assume your silence a permanent affliction. Would you rather take the reins of this ridiculous exercise? By all means, Granger, direct me."
"Look, I'm not trying to argue," Hermione countered. "But I do think it's worth mentioning that accepting this sacrifice was not for myself alone. I am here out of consideration for your benefit as well."
The malice that oozed from Snape as he rolled his eyes was almost palpable. "Oh, she is a martyrish Gryffindor, isn't she?"
Hermione scowled.
"You and your juvenile compatriots know nothing about sacrifice," he continued, "and I don't give a damn for your reasoning. You will complete the task at hand or you won't. I don't much care which it is. Now, make your choice."
Hermione seethed in silence, pulling in a deep breath and then letting it out again slowly. She was getting nowhere. Snape, it seemed, was determined to be a prickly bastard.
She could, obviously, call it quits and leave. The empathy she previously had for Snape's position was quickly diminishing.
But, then she thought again of those empty seats in the Great Hall...
Despite everything, she knew she didn't want to become the vacant space at her own House's table.
At last, Hermione moved herself to cross the room and join Snape in the well-furnished sleeping quarters.
Snape closed the door abruptly behind her as she entered and regarded her with his arms crossed, clear disdain carved into every line of his scowl.
"In a moment, I will turn out the lights. You and I will undress and attend the bed. We will… prepare ourselves in whatever fashion suits, and then we will complete this act in the most efficient and expedient manner possible."
Hermione rankled at his presumptuous tone, his commandeering of their situation, bossing her like a student, though she knew full well this was not the place for him to play teacher.
But… " efficient," he had said.
Well, that was a word she could work with.
True to his statement, when Hermione approached the far side of the room, Snape waved his hand and all light in the room summarily extinguished.
Her last glimpse of him was his looming and rigid figure, his dark brows narrowed in contemptuous anger. Then, nothing. Cut to black.
The darkness was so complete, Hermione could only find her way to the edge of the bed by feeling for it.
In all fairness, the absence of light did give her more courage than she expected. She was able to strip down without much trouble, clicking into that task-oriented state of mind she found so familiar. Perhaps there was something to Snape's total takeover after all. The pressure was off of her to think, to anticipate or suggest. She could react without responsibility. Approach each new experience as it appeared.
Clothes now shed, entirely naked and shivering slightly despite the warmth of the room, Hermione lifted the sheets and slipped into bed.
Almost in the same moment, she felt the mattress shift as Snape entered the sheets beside her.
The silence pressed in. Hermione was aware, dimly, that there must be a clock somewhere nearby because she could hear the faint ticking of its hands as the seconds dragged on.
She wasn't sure what to do next. Just when she was about to throw all caution to the wind and ask aloud, she felt Snape moving. She immediately braced herself. Except... he didn't move to touch her. He was touching… himself.
Ah, she thought, with a sudden flash of understanding. That's what he meant by "prepare."
Snape was getting himself ready. She could hear him slowly moving, methodical and continuous, the stroke of his hand beneath the covers.
Her stomach began to writhe with nerves all of a sudden, her spine sparking with a jolt of unfamiliar energy. Though she didn't need to, she screwed her eyes shut, forcing herself to block out Snape's presence as best she could.
She had to prepare herself. That was next on the to-do list. One task at a time. If she could just take one task at a time, perhaps the expedient and efficient forecast Snape had so proclaimed would quickly come to pass.
Sending her thoughts deeply inward, she tried to think about… Who should she think about? The boys of her past were not of current interest, and remembering girlhood crushes served only to embarrass her rather than ignite her. Finally, she settled on a friend of her family's. A work colleague of her father's. She had met him this past summer at a family banquet and though she wouldn't call it an official crush, he did make her realize that perhaps she might be a girl more suited to the maturer man.
She thought of him approaching her, his neatly trimmed beard and sandy hair, his hand grasping hers in salutations but then lingering, his eyes suggestive, looking her over in a flash of reserved appreciation. She imagined him cornering her at the drinks table, slipping an arm around her waist to steady her as he reached past her for another beer, his chest pushing against her shoulder. She carried these thoughts further and further, touching herself beneath the covers until her breath came fast and her body throbbed with warmth.
When she felt that she was as ready as she would ever be (and she could all but hear Snape's growing impatience), she tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
In a flash, Snape rolled over, lithe as a panther. He was hovering over her, she could feel the weight of his arms pressing into the mattress on either side of her head.
The musk of him was immediately overwhelming. Not unpleasant, but completely new and unexpected. She had never considered before his scent, or that he even had one. He carried with him the latent oils and powders he used in so many brews, the smoke of sage and singed cedar.
Snape's breathing was very controlled. She could tell that he was trying to restrict himself, yet the ghost of his exhale still tickled across her collarbone.
His weight shifted. Then, very gently, the firm grip of his hand pushed against her inner thighs, parted her legs so that he could position himself between them.
She couldn't believe it.
Naked. She was naked. And in bed. With her professor.
Professor Snape of all people.
He was so close, yet still rigidly maintaining distance wherever he could. Between her legs, she could feel him just barely graze her, readying himself to enter.
"If you ask..." he said gruffly into the darkness. His voice was so near. "I will stop."
Hermione nodded. Of course, he couldn't see her but she assumed he could sense her movement.
At once, giving no further warning, he thrust forward and entered her.
A brief pinch of pain followed but nothing more, just sensations, deep, and alien, and unyielding.
Snape paused, clearly noting the hitch in her breath.
"It's alright," she said softly.
With a slower ease, he continued, sliding in deeper and then pulling out, then in again.
His breath grew less controlled as he went on, moving languidly at first and then faster. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her left ear, the movement of his body against hers, reigniting that wild and unfamiliar jolt of nerves that sparkled up her spine.
For a moment, a lock of Snape's hair brushed along her cheek. He realized almost at once and flicked it away, but somehow, that moment was more intimate to Hermione than anything to do with him being inside her and she blushed fiercely in response.
Just when she thought she was beginning to understand the rhythm of it all, and her muscles at last began to relax, a pool of heat spreading through her abdomen, Snape increased his tempo briefly and then gave a great shudder, making a short and strangled groan.
Breath still restrained but notably ragged, he pumped in and out one more time and then, in the blink of a moment, rolled off of her and was promptly out of bed.
Hermione felt a tickle of warmth leaking between her legs.
"I understand you have the means to find your way back to the castle," Snape's voice said curtly.
There followed a heavy silence, expectant, as though he were preparing to say something more.
But, then, he didn't.
Hermione heard a door open and close, then she could see several threads of light against the floorboards, indicating that he had shut himself in the study.
Apparently, she was dismissed for the evening.
Task complete, I suppose , she thought dazedly. She used the sheets to rub herself clean, then cast a quick Lumos spell and put her clothes back on by wand light.
Arriving downstairs, she nodded farewell to Rosmerta and Niahm. Not wanting to linger, she simply deposited her room key on the check-in desk, plucked her cloak from the hanger beside the door, and departed.
The Thestral ride back to the castle seemed to take no time at all. Her mind, again (like it had so many times in these past few days), sank into a distant static. It was so difficult to process, to take in. Her emotions felt incredibly complex, it would take time to sort them through. Like plucking a knot in a necklace chain, the harder she pulled, the tighter her mind contracted. She had to go slow, tease her thoughts into a graceful release.
McGonagall was waiting for her when she made it back to the Hogwarts courtyard. She sat in a rocking chair by the castle doors with a blanket over her knees, knitting by lamplight. As Hermione exited her carriage and approached the stairs, McGonagall set her knitting aside and conjured a parchment and quill.
"Miss Granger," she greeted solemnly, giving Hermione an observant look over the top of her spectacles.
Hermione answered with a pert nod.
Flicking her wrist, McGonagall crossed Hermione's name off the parchment and then waved at the castle doors which opened creakily of their own accord.
"You will go to the hospital wing, now," McGonagall said, "and check in with Madam Pomfrey. There is a woman from the Ministry there as well. They will want to assess you."
Hermione nodded again and, having nothing further to say, went on her way.
She half expected Dagmar herself to be waiting for her, but Hermione was relieved to see that it was Cerise, her assistant, instead. The white-haired woman stood just inside the hospital wing doors with a clipboard and quill.
Madam Pomfrey was further into the room, guiding Lavender (who seemed to have arrived just before Hermione did), to one of the empty cots.
"Oh, Miss Granger, join us over here, please," Madam Pomfrey said when she saw her. "I'll have you both assessed together."
Hermione approached them. She tried to make eye contact with Lavender, but Lavender refused to meet her gaze, staring determinedly at her shoes as she sat on the edge of the cot.
"As you can see," Madam Pomfrey explained. "We are being observed this evening." Her tone was decidedly neutral, but Hermione thought she could detect a hint of bitterness layered beneath. "What I am going to do now will be very quick. I don't want either of you to worry. Just a brief little test to make sure that… ehem, that the men have…" Pomfrey's cheeks glowed with a faint blush, "...made their business."
Hermione watched curiously as Pomfrey doled out two spoonfuls of liquid from a bright red bottle and magicked each spoon to their respective patient.
"Drink up," Pomfrey encouraged. "It isn't bitter."
Hermione accepted the spoon and drank her mouthful of mysterious liquid. As advertised, the potion was not bitter and in fact was more sweet than anything else, almost floral in taste. She immediately felt something inside her react, her skin tingling as though her bloodstream was very subtly humming.
Pomfrey whisked the spoons away and flapped her hands. "Now lay back, the both of you. That's it. This won't take a moment."
Wary of the next step in this "test," Hermione watched Madam Pomfrey pull a glass terrarium from one of her cabinets, set it on a nearby table, and open it. Inside the terrarium was a cluster of green, glowing insects, that drifted lazily out of their container the moment the opening was released.
Pomfrey raised her wand and whispered a swift charm, leading the glowing swarm across the room to Hermione's bedside.
"What are those?" Hermione asked, wide-eyed.
"They are called scout flies, Miss Granger. They will react with the potion I just administered. If you do have… inside you… they will turn blue. If not, they will remain green. Now, hold still, please."
Fascinated despite everything, Hermione stilled her breathing as Madam Pomfrey directed the scout flies to drift downward and hover closely over Hermione's abdomen.
Almost at once, they flashed a bright blue, their lazy movements becoming agitated as they flitted and flickered around.
Madam Pomfrey glanced at Cerise over her shoulder, making sure that the results of the test could be seen. Cerise nodded and wrote down something on her clipboard.
Clearly, Hermione had passed.
Next, Madam Pomfrey used her wand tip again to guide the scout flies from Hermione's bed (the flies flickered back into their familiar green) over to Lavender, who was lying with her eyes closed, looking white as a sheet and gently trembling.
Lavender didn't even watch as Madam Pomfrey performed the test. But, when a full minute had passed by and the flies remained green, Madam Pomfrey made a clipped "Hm," of perplexity, causing Lavender to crack an eyelid and see the result.
At once, Lavender burst into tears.
"Oh, darling." Madam Pomfrey waved her wand, sending the flies zooming back to their terrarium and then she pulled Lavender into her arms, rocking her as she cried. "It's alright."
"He didn't want to," Lavender sobbed into her shoulder. "I couldn't – couldn't convince him to..."
"Shhh," Pomfrey soothed. "It's alright. There's plenty of time. You needn't go back tonight."
"Before the end of the week," Cerise piped up from the doorway.
"Yes alright," Pomfrey snapped back over her shoulder.
Then Pomfrey looked at Hermione. "You may go, Miss Granger. Clearly, there is nothing more needed of you." Her annoyance with Cerise had apparently gotten the better of her.
Hermione returned to her dormitory in the same thoughtful silence she had spent in her carriage ride back to the castle. Though, she lingered for a while on Lavender, her heart giving a squeeze of sympathy. She wondered what had happened, who she had been with, and how he had treated her. She supposed Lavender would share (or not share) when it suited her, and it might be best to give her space for at least another day or two before making a friendly inquiry.
Ginny was waiting up in the common room when Hermione entered through the portrait hole. She had settled on one of the sofas with a plunder of blankets and pot of tea like she was determined to stake out for the night.
Ginny jumped up to greet Hermione, wrapping her in a tight hug. "You're the first to come back," she said.
Hermione gave Ginny a squeeze and then disentangled herself from her arms. "I didn't go very far," she admitted. "And he didn't um… take his time."
Ginny looked her over with concern. "Are you alright? Is everything alright?"
Hermione nodded quickly, still unsure which words to use to describe her sense of malaise.
"Who... was it?" Ginny asked tentatively.
Hermione shook her head. "I really don't want to say."
"I understand," Ginny replied sagely. Then she gave Hermione's hand another short squeeze. "Go on to bed, I'm sure you're exhausted. I'll be waiting up for the others."
Hermione returned to an empty dorm room. She hoped that Madam Pomfrey could spare Lavender the comfort that she needed, perhaps offer her some privacy in her office and give her some time to herself. It wouldn't be easy to stay in that room watching the rest of the girls' assessments. Though… who's to say they would all pass?
Hermione also wondered dimly how Parvati was faring. Of course there was no way to know, but instinct made her think Parvati might be gone for most of the night, given all the expectations of "wooing" she had discussed with Ginny in the lead up to this conjugal night.
Lying in bed, Hermione let her thoughts continue to drift along a rather directionless path, contemplating each new thing as it occurred. She did not so much linger on the big event itself as the aftermath, the magical test that Madam Pomfrey had performed. A test to prove that Snape had... that part of him... Hermione pressed her hand to her lower body… was inside her.
A studious mind despite it all, Hermione felt drawn to things she didn't understand. Sex... well, that wasn't altogether mysterious. And not altogether revolutionary. She'd known from a young age the general mechanics, her parents being rather progressive and supportive of such education.
But new magic and its applications, that was always of interest to Hermione. How such a charm had been made, its uses and why. Scout flies... that concoction. All of it was so mystical and strange.
Her thoughts did return to Snape, eventually, near the precipice of sleep.
She remembered his voice in the dark, his pains to remain distant, his discomfort but, also, his efficiency. He wasn't tender by any means. Yet the practicality of his actions made sense and was itself a small comfort to her.
Hermione was practical herself. She valued it in others.
Perhaps, after all, there was the smallest bit of reasoning behind the matchmaking of particular pairs...