Clearly, gossip traveled further amongst the staff than Hermione realized.
Defense Against the Dark Arts class had barely begun and already she could tell a significant change in Lupin's behavior towards her.
He had always been a kindly instructor, quick to respond and patient with his time, ready to lay down whole afternoons of remedial instruction for any student who seemed apt to stumble. But Hermione had never experienced him with such overbearing attentiveness, stumbling through his words to exhaustively define every concept, reiterating instructions she could recite in her sleep, treating her as though she were a wit-addled First Year.
And all of this specifically to her, not the class at large.
The only assumption she could make was that he must have recently learned about her Ministry match, her marriage (marriage! she still blushed at the thought) to the much more senior and enigmatic ghoul of the dungeons.
Though Lupin and Snape seemed to have mended their ties, Hermione couldn't imagine that someone as proper and mild mannered as Lupin would find it easy to accept his vicious colleague had been foisted so forcefully upon one of his young students.
At the same time, she could tell that Lupin was attempting the discretion that Flitwick seemed so keen to propose. He wasn't outright saying anything related to the subject, but his actions belied a yearning to offer something more paternal and supportive than mere classroom acquisitions.
Only, he couldn't quite figure out how to offer it. In that clumsy, male sort of way, he fumbled with the tactful expression, instead spouting meaningless didactics and hovering close by, frequently "checking in" on Hermione's progress as she and the other students split into pairs for their afternoon practice.
Throughout the hour, Lupin would make up the most trivial excuses to pass by her table, inquiring about the state of her wand, or if she had enough burn salve on hand, somehow managing to mumble the phrase, "I'm available if you need," three separate times in one interaction, as though the invitation was in danger of expiring if Hermione doubted his sincerity.
This new behavior was particularly bothersome to Hermione because she purposefully wanted to keep her privacy for this lesson. It was the first time she'd managed to secure Lavender as a partner in the past several weeks and she finally felt the time was right to test the waters of their friendship, to broach the fated subject and ask her how she was handling it all. (Hermione's heart still ached remembering the night Lavender had wept so openly in Madam Pomfrey's arms).
"Are you being mistreated?" Hermione whispered in undertones, watching Lupin slouch away once again.
"Oh, not mistreated, no," Lavender responded immediately. Her voice sounded sincere. "I know I made a scene that first night. It's not that I was harmed, just… rejected. Temporarily. We're working on it."
Hermione pursed her lips, thoughtful. "I'm not trying to pry. And you can keep his name to yourself of course, I'm not asking, I just want to make sure you know that you don't have to suffer needlessly. The Ministry is cruel but surely even they have laws against neglectful abuse."
Lavender seemed pensive as she prepared her flame safe spell, tapping her wand along her palm and producing a shimmering, oil-like coating that stuck to her skin.
Their lesson for the day involved producing a fire repellent charm on their hands and then testing its efficacy on a candle flame shared between them.
"I'm not unhappy, truly," Lavender said finally. "We hardly know each other. It will just take time. Every relationship needs work, and I know this isn't exactly – Ouch! – like other couplings, but that's all the more reason to make the effort. Besides, arranged marriages have been around for centuries, it's not as if it's anything new." Lavender gave another small yelp and pulled her hand back from the candle, sucking on the pad of her thumb. "Blast it! That stings."
As though summoned by an errant accio, Lupin reappeared at their table, all worry-eyed and earnest, checking again to make certain that their stores of burn salve did not need replenishment.
"We are fully supplied, Professor, thank you," Hermione said pointedly, trying not to let her annoyance get the better of her.
Lupin looked at her again with that expression of wounded concern. "Miss Granger, I…" He cleared his throat. "I have observed that this particular spell can be most effective when you hold your wand…"
Hermione raised her wand hand immediately, displaying the perfect grip.
"Like that, yes." He cleared his throat again, shuffling from one foot to another. His graying hair was trimmed neatly and swept back, but errant locks were always falling askew, giving him this perpetual look of boyish dishevelment. "You see, there are practical theories behind certain casting forms that are easier to read than execute in practice. But… er… you seem to have made adequate study of–"
Lavender suddenly butted in, her voice sharply irritated. "There are those of us who grow tired of roasting like a spit pig and could use instruction," she snapped.
Lupin seemed flushed with embarrassment, giving Lavender a startled glance as though just realizing she was there. His expression when he saw her, if anything, only deepened with that same ardent concern.
Hermione wondered if all the married girls must seem to him these tender, porcelain dolls, so mishandled by men and authority figures alike.
As he leaned over to assess Lavender's wand grip, Hermione could see, hidden beneath the highly turned up collar of his shirt, a rosy slash of skin. She looked closer and observed a long, wiry scar that wrapped around half of his neck, almost as though he had been in the process of being garroted and only narrowly managed to get away.
Which, Hermione realized with a jolt, was supposedly true.
This scar must be a leftover mark from that hideous curse Bellatrix had cast on him. The one that had nearly taken his life and which Snape, allegedly, had saved him from.
Lupin's interactions with Lavender proved just as awkward as they were with Hermione. His attempts to correct her grip were so timid, his hands all but anchored behind his back, clearly terrified by even the thought of touching her, his instructions were rendered essentially useless.
"Yes very well, I understand," Lavender quipped finally. "Thank you, Professor." Though it was obvious her wand grip had become even more confused than before.
As Lupin conceded defeat and walked away from their table, Hermione reached over to adjust Lavender's fingers.
Lavender simply rolled her eyes and sighed impatiently, "Men."
Hermione dove head first into developing her research proposal over the next few weeks. Or did the best she could, in any case, because with no real direction or foundational texts to study, she was working entirely from scratch.
As usual, she utilized all facets of the library, the restricted section, historical archives, pulling mountainous towers of ancient reference books and modern medical guides. The problem wasn't a lack of information by any means, it was finding the right lens through which to bring what she was seeing into intentional focus.
There had been no word from Snape following their fiery interlude in his office. All was quiet on the western front, so Hermione assumed that his final declaration still held true and that he would genuinely consider her offer if she managed to present him with an actionable premise.
Meanwhile, Snape continued his long favored tactic of pretending that she did not exist.
If she spent time dwelling on this, she would find his behavior more perplexing than comforting. Snape was not the kind of man to take a hit and hide. If Harry had said even half the things she'd said, he'd be eating breakfast through a straw for the rest of term. Either Snape was biding his time, shoring up his artillery, waiting for the right moment to strike her down in flames of vengeance, or there was something else going on that she didn't understand.
In any case, she decided not to dwell. There were more important things to occupy her mind.
Hermione scribbled another long thought into her notes only to discover something in the next paragraph of her reading that caused her to promptly scratch it all out.
She knew at bare minimum, her proposal would have to include not one but two magical innovations. Aside from the solution itself, she would also need to create a reliable test in order to prove it. Any science she attempted would be excruciatingly slow and nigh impossible if she had to wait nine months every time to see the results.
Vaguely, she had a notion that she could produce a workable test by making use of the scout flies, leveraging their already inherent and delicate system of detecting "foreign invaders" amongst their established home.
Since their "home" was determined by pollen extract of a specific flower which the girls would ingest, this seemed the likeliest place to make adjustments. In addition, Hermione had recently learned through her readings that the flowers seemed to vary from region to region, so her theory was that this "home" had even more potential for influence, possibly open to her intervention in order to create different properties and triggers.
Her current snag was that she wasn't sure how to differentiate the fetus as a "foreign invader" inside the host. But, that was also a problem she conjectured to solve through her research project in time. She had to keep reminding herself that she didn't need to have all the answers for this proposal, she just needed to prove that the questions she proposed were answerable. And that they were worth answering.
Ultimately, her real hurdle, of course, was the solution itself. The "save-us-all potion of saintly ascension" as Snape had put it, that would somehow guarantee a magical progeny from a coupling no matter what their blood lineage might be.
While there was plenty written about fertility potions and conjugal tests (honestly, it was remarkably disgusting how fixated the wizarding world tended to be on the post-coital condition of young women), there was hardly anything on the subject of manufacturing magical offspring that she could find. Scattered studies and old wives' remedies. It seemed to be something a taboo topic even in historic times and she often wondered if there wasn't a deeper meaning to be gleaned from–
Hermione gave a startled jump as an enormous pile of parchments were suddenly slammed down on the table beside her.
Ginny, red faced and wild eyed, stared her down in a fury. "I can't believe you're so preoccupied with homework instead of helping me destroy this foul mandate!" She threw herself into a nearby chair, crossing her arms and scowling. "Not that you've asked, but I've started a support group for the girls who are suffering through traumatic matches, which must not be the case with you, as you're so selfishly quiet I have to imagine you must be all set up, then, with some bully great legend, he must be a right old catch, some magnificent, rich, specimen of a man with a handsome face and a mile long co–"
"Ginny! Stop, please." Hermione gave Ginny's knee a strong shake, snapping her out of her tirade. "I am helping, I am. I'll tell you all about it but please don't make assumptions. For as long as you've known me, do you really think I would ever choose my own self gain over the health and safety of others?"
Ginny's anger melted out of her almost immediately, her face crumpling. "I'm sorry," she said weakly, pressing her fists against her eyes. She seemed utterly exhausted. "I didn't mean that." She took a shuddering breath and looked up. "It's just that I know the clock is ticking. They're going to keep doing it, nothing will stop them. My classmates and I will turn eighteen so soon and you know I'll be top of the list for the next priority match." Ginny's mouth quirked. "I'm clearly made from fertile stock."
Hermione burst into unexpected laughter before she could help herself. Ginny, too, gave over to trembling giggles, burying her head again in her hands.
Before long, her laughter turned to tears, and Hermione reached over to pull her hand into a comforting clasp.
"I'm trying to solve it, Ginny," Hermione said solemnly. "That's what I'm working on right now. A research project to present to the Ministry that will hopefully not only reverse their decisions but also solve the declining birth rate at the same time. I just need space to work."
Ginny gave a small hiccup and wiped her eyes. "Oh Hermione, thank Merlin's ass. I knew you weren't the sort to roll over. Is it anything I can help with?" Her eyes eagerly scanned the piles of texts Hermione had accumulated. "I'm no great shot at potions or history studies but I've got a knack for charms and I take meticulous notes."
Hermione smiled and shook her head. "Right now, I barely know which direction to go. I've got several conjectures but they are novice at best. This is high level magic that needs a Master's expertise. I've convinced Professor Snape to hear out my proposal, so if I can convince him to work with me, I think with our combined efforts we may have a chance at success."
"Ugh," Ginny's lip curled. "Working one on one with Snape? Talk about taking it for the team. You really do care."
A strange emotion shuddered through Hermione. She wasn't sure what it was. The feeling was so fleeting, however, she let it slip by without further thought.
"Yes, well, I have to prove myself first in any case. I'm getting closer to a partial draft, but the real issue is still eluding me."
"The real issue," Ginny said bitterly, "is that horrid woman at the Census Bureau. Why doesn't someone marry her off to some great lump? I swear if I had a dollop of Polyjuice, I'd impersonate her and propose on one knee to Filch in front of the entire school." Ginny gave a companionable snort and waited for Hermione to respond.
Hermione did not respond. Hermione had stopped listening. She was staring distantly, unblinking, her mind working furiously on the one particular thing Ginny just said that had ignited her creative engines.
Ginny gave Hermione a poke in the shoulder.
In response, Hermione abruptly stood up. "That's it," she said breathlessly. "Ginny, you're a genius."
Ginny's eyes widened, her hands raising defensively. "Woah woah, wait wait wait, I didn't really mean—"
Hermione took off through the stacks, hair flying, knowing exactly which books she needed next, the framework of her proposal building rapidly in her mind.
"You aren't really expecting me to follow through on that, are you?" Ginny called after her loudly. "Even Dagmar doesn't deserve Filch!"
Just a few days later, Hermione felt she had finally made enough headway that she could formally present her proposal to Snape. Despite the fact that it was all ambitious conjecture she hadn't the first clue how to execute, she was nonetheless delirious with optimism.
She paced outside Snape's office, heavy book bag thumping against her thigh. She had meant to catch him immediately after their morning potion's class, but another Slytherin girl, Daphne Greengrass, had somehow swooped in after Snape before Hermione could prepare and now the two of them were shut up behind his closed office door.
Almost twenty minutes went by before the door eventually opened and Daphne emerged.
"Thank you, Professor," she said in a watery voice. True gratitude seemed inherent in her words and her eyes were red and puffy as she wiped her tears on the back of her sleeve.
Daphne gave Hermione a wounded look, as though Hermione had caught her in a shameful act and was silently judging her for it.
Before Hermione could say anything (though, really, what could she say?), Daphne brushed past her and made a hurried exit.
Through the open door, Hermione could see Snape was not at his desk as she expected.
Instead, he stood near the mantle of the unlit fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, lost in deep contemplation. His face was all harsh lines and angles, ever so much the gargoyle everyone thought him to be.
Still, Hermione felt a strange twinge of jealousy. Daphne had sounded so sincere. Thanking Snape? What could he have offered her that she would be so grateful for? Hermione never really thought of Snape outside of his classroom duties. But she supposed there had to be another realm in which he existed as Head of House that she had never (nor would ever) see. Just as McGonagall was a familiar presence in their Gryffindor common room, it stood to reason that Snape was equally obligated to provide guidance for any Slytherin who sought it.
Snape gave a sudden jerk when Hermione entered the room. Clearly, he had not been expecting visitors.
When he saw who had newly appeared, his dark features contorted, as though whatever he had been ruminating on was newly inflamed by Hermione's presence.
"Must I play nursemaid to every female in the castle today," he snarled.
Hermione considered a venomous retort, ("I don't know, Professor, dress the part and we'll see"), but she thought better of it. His words felt infused with a different manner of annoyance that was not necessarily aimed at her.
"I've brought my research proposal, sir," she said, approaching his desk as he made his way around to the other side.
Apparently, both of them felt more comfortable with a sturdy object between them.
"Very well," Snape said. He extended an elegant hand.
Hermione's nerves sparked. She had expected to make the presentation herself, elaborate verbally on certain parts of her writing that may be a bit opaque on paper. Still, she passed over her notes as indicated and sat in her chair obediently. Snape, too, took his seat and began to read.
He read in total silence, dark eyes scanning rapidly across the page.
His pace was offhand and fast, his hand flicking over the parchment with brusque impatience.
But then, he paused. His eyes remained still, pondering quietly. After a moment, he turned the page back over and his eyes returned to the top of the page where he began to read again, this time much more slowly.
Several times, he opened his mouth as though to ask a question. On each occasion, he seemed to think better of it and then continue on in silence, his eyebrows furrowed in diligent concentration.
After what felt like hours, he spoke at last.
"The test…" he said, his voice impassive, "is going to be a problem." He did not look at Hermione as he talked, his gaze still fixed on her proposal. "If we can't reliably prove the efficacy of what we've synthesized, then there is hardly any reason to carry on with the exercise."
We?
Hermione's head was ringing.
Synthesized?
He was speaking as though he'd already decided.
Snape's gaze flicked up to meet hers. "You enumerate a salient point about scout flies that I imagine no wizard in his right mind has ever considered. Though your use of Erumpant hair is a categorically absurd idea that you clearly have not properly researched." He sneered. "I imagine you thought you were clever exploiting its latency to better assimilate the Boomslang skin in early stages." His snide tone was somehow less cutting than usual, muffled by the overwhelming smugness he exuded in such full, lustrous force. "It behooves me to inform you that such missteps are what lead to catastrophic eruptions. There are easier ways to flee this mortal coil, Miss Granger. You needn't concoct an experimental incendiary from your cauldron. Though, I suppose you and your kind are prone to dramatics."
Hermione's breath quickened, her hand clutching compulsively at her skirt as she tried to formulate the correct reply. "I wasn't aware Erumpant tail could be so volatile, considering the fluid normally used in explosives is so exclusive to the horn."
"You'll find there are an infinite number of things you are not aware of in the steps that you have currently outlined. However, your core conjecture is not without promise. Aspects of inheritance with manipulation of chance," he quoted directly from her paper. "A theoretical union of Polyjuice, Felix Felicis, and garden variety aphrodisiac. While simple in concept, you understand that it will be nearly impossible to execute."
Hermione nodded, the excitement in her chest threatening to bubble up and take her over in an overwhelming wash of nerves. "Ironically," she replied quickly, "the potion itself seems relatively easy to theorize while of course wickedly difficult to make, but the test seems entirely the opposite."
Snape gave a disapproving grunt. "Difficult to theorize, yes. I can see your struggle in the asinine way you've taken to over-describing every obstacle. How can you possibly postulate about the ease of its execution when you can barely articulate the first step?"
Hermione's cheeks grew warm. "I believe there is an elegant solution. I just… don't know what it is yet."
Snape narrowed his eyes but said nothing more.
Clearing his throat, he pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from beneath a stack of books on his desk and began to scrawl quickly with his quill. Moments later, he stood and held out the parchment for Hermione to collect.
Heart squirming, Hermione jumped to her feet and accepted it.
"Very well," Snape said without ceremony. "You will meet with me on Tuesday and Thursday evenings in the advanced laboratories from the hours of seven to nine. I have given you a list of texts to collect from the library. If you are not able to acquire them, don't bother showing up for your lesson. I will never assign you anything that is not strictly essential, is that perfectly understood?"
"Yes," Hermione said immediately. She felt almost lightheaded, her mind swimming. "Yes sir."
As she left Snape's office, parchment clutched protectively against her chest, she was all but bouncing on her toes. She'd done it! He'd accepted! Her giddiness continued to grow, hope blossoming in her chest like a riotous rose. There was still a chance to make everything right again, to take back her life and those of so many others.
She was unashamedly smiling herself silly as she sat down to lunch in the Great Hall, anxious for her friends to appear, for Ginny to arrive, so she could tell them all the good news.
Harry and Ron were just entering the hall, waving back at her with puzzlement as Hermione hopped so cheerily in her seat, beckoning them to join her.
But, before they could reach her, there came a flurry of flapping wings and whirling of air, a full parliament of owls descending like cherubs from the rafters.
Hermione's heart plummeted, her smile vanishing in a blink.
The Ministry owl alighted before her on the table, ornamental letter attached.
She opened it with trembling hands.
Dear Madam Snape,
Your next conjugal visit has been scheduled in coordination with your Head of House for this Saturday eve. Assessments will be conducted upon completion of your visit. Please see your Head of House for any additional questions or concerns.
Warm regards,
Dagmar Vance
She had forgotten. Somehow, through all of her elation and triumph, Hermione had managed to forget what was coming again.
She hadn't solved anything yet. Everything was just as it was. She was still married to Snape, the mandate was still in effect, and any attempt to escape would still result in excommunication and decimation.
As Harry and Ron approached her, she tried to mitigate the sudden blow that had so overcome her, to pull herself back to that place of optimistic joy she'd been basking in only two seconds before.
"What is it?" Ron asked immediately. Her attempts at schooling her expression were clearly not working out the way she'd hoped.
"Nothing," Hermione insisted, folding the letter and slipping it deep inside her robes. The words Madam Snape kept flashing across her vision as though emblazoned into her retinas.
"Nothing," she said again. More insistent this time. "I'd rather not discuss it. Cornish pasty anyone?"