Shamed

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit spin on the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein. No offense is intended, and it is hoped that none will be taken.

Many thanks to Leigh-Anne, my beta!

4. SHAMED

Hermione followed Professor McGonagall into the Gryffindor common room with a sense of homecoming and relief. She sank into an overstuffed chair, and even though the room was cold and the fireplace bare, she felt at peace.

Until she looked up into Professor McGonagall's stern face.

"Miss Granger, whatever are you thinking?"

"I know it seems odd – "

"Odd is not the word I would have chosen," the older woman snapped.

"Everyone is upset and I understand that, but I don't really think Professor Snape can be that bad." She peered up hopefully. "Can he?"

"Is that what you think this is about?"

"Well, I realize he doesn't seem the most likely candidate, but I gave it a lot of thought and – "

"Miss Granger! You gave it no thought at all! If you had given it thought, you would have realized that you are piling even more pressure and responsibility on a man who is already pushed to the breaking point. No one in the Order has as dangerous an assignment as Severus Snape, and you think I'm unhappy because he might not be a good husband?" She flung a handful of Floo powder at the fireplace and it exploded in flames. She whirled back to Hermione. "I can guarantee you he will not be a good husband. But I find myself hard pressed to care at this moment!"

Professor McGonagall pressed her fist to her mouth and exhaled. "And I believe – I believe I have said as much as I wish to say at this time. You'll be alone here tonight but you'll be safe. You know how to order food from the kitchens, and the prefects' bathroom is available should you feel the need to freshen up. Good evening, Miss Granger!"

She stepped into the fireplace and vanished.

Hermione clutched her robes in her numb fingers and stared blindly at the fire. Professor Snape hadn't even been that angry when she'd disarmed him.

And she didn't believe she'd ever felt so stupid in her entire life.

An hour later, she stepped through the Fat Lady's portrait and into the dark corridor carrying a rucksack with her toiletries and nightgown and a couple of textbooks.

Never had she been at Hogwarts when it was so empty.

Which, logic told her, should make it feel safe, after all.

Nobody here meant nobody here to hurt her.

But her logic seemed to be a bit shaky these days, and it took all the courage she could muster to proceed to the fifth floor and the prefects' bathroom.

At the first turning, a familiar, milky-white figure sailed toward her. "Sir Nicholas!" she said, relieved. "I'm so happy to see you!" Then, as he drew nearer, she added, "Unless you're angry at me, too?"

"Of course not, my dear," Nearly Headless Nick said, his voice echoing and hollow and the most comforting thing she'd heard all day. "Do you perhaps need an escort?"

"Thank you," she sighed. And felt much better as they made their way companionably through the empty castle.

When they reached the fourth door beyond Boris the Bewildered's statue, she paused to thank Sir Nicholas. "And, would you mind too terribly – "

"I shall wait for you here." He bowed deeply and doffed his plumed hat.

She smiled forlornly and entered the chamber.

In no time, the vast white marble tub was filling with pink-tinged apple blossom-scented bubbles, and she was ensconced in one corner of it, her Advanced Level Arithmancy text floating in front of her face as she soaked away the tensions of the day and read the chapter on divining arithmantic equations for charmed potions.

She could almost feel normal again, if she didn't have such guilt gnawing the edges of her attempts to focus on numbers and formulas.

Her plan had seemed so simple. She certainly hadn't meant to be a burden on anyone. Especially not Professor Snape. She shivered, even in the satiny warm water. He was not one to suffer burdensome Gryffindors with grace.

But Professor McGonagall had made it clear that she was being both selfish and stupid – and these were two things Hermione rarely, if ever, could remember being.

She ducked under the water and held her breath, desperately trying to erase the shame that burned in her. Suddenly, something heavy landed on her head – she came up sputtering.

Her Arithmancy text. When she'd gone underwater, the spell had broken. She touched her cheekbone and flinched at the pain.

She hurled the soaked textbook across the bathroom and burst into tears.

XXX

By the time he reached his private laboratory, the doors were slamming open before him without his bothering to even wave the wand.

Wave after wave of fury erupted within him, but only when the door had slammed shut behind him did he finally allow it to spill over.

With a vicious slash of his wand, he exploded a shelf of earthen beakers.

Another slash – a stack of cauldrons melted one into the other until they were a mass of bubbling hot metal.

He flung his head back, whipped the wand again – and again – until the stench of sulfur and lacewing and copper and blood-ore rose in waves, choking him so that he dropped to his knees.

If it had been anybody but Draco Malfoy, he could have forgotten about it. But if Lucius wanted her for Draco, he couldn't stand back. He had to stop it before it was too late.

And the death threats. He wondered if Dumbledore recognized their source as quickly and certainly as he did.

He hurled a beaker across the room and watched it explode against the wall.

That – that little Muggle-born fool!

And now, he was forced to marry her?

To bed her?

This was simply too rich.

A mirthless chuckle bubbled up from the depths of him.

If only she knew.

If only any of them knew.

And having her not just walk into it open-armed, but beg for it? Ah, now that was an unexpected boon. Because, suddenly, it gave him all the power.

And power was something Severus Snape understood.

She was lucky – very lucky – that she would not be in his bed tonight. He knew from long experience that this rage within him, so rarely ignited anymore, would not be exhausted quickly.

He staggered to his feet, coughing.

He turned his back on the destruction he'd wrought and sealed the door behind him. Time enough for it tomorrow.

Firewhisky and his bed were all that he wanted this night. Perhaps his last night in blessed solitude. He grabbed the bottle from a drawer in his desk and didn't bother to take a tumbler.

But when he arrived in his cold quarters, he found a stack of missives awaiting him on his bedside stand. A single floating oil lamp shed dim light across the room. Who had been here? Who had invaded the sanctity of his sleeping chamber? Again, the rage bubbled.

The familiar scrawl on the top sheet of parchment did little to calm him. He took another swig of firewhisky, savored its burn, and then lifted the sheet closer to the light.

"These arrived shortly after your unexpected announcement of impending marital bliss, Severus. The Ministry's efficiency is to be admired if not appreciated.

A~~"

Splendid. He crushed the note and tossed it into the cold fireplace.

Next on the stack was a form with the terms of the Marriage Law spelled out and a place for two signatures.

He tossed it aside.

A ring catalogue.

He tossed it aside as well.

Then. Wait.

He blinked, grabbed the catalog.

The Seal of the Ministry of Magic adorned the lower right hand corner. Officially "approved by" and, upon reading further, "required by" the Ministry, these rings would monitor –

"What the bloody hell?"

He pointed his wand at it and watched it go up in flames.

There was not enough whisky nor would there be enough hours in the night to drown his fury, but he would be damned if he didn't try.

XXX

Hermione stood, wand raised and glowing in the inky dark, within sight of both the Potions classroom and Snape's office. She had no idea – none at all – where his quarters were, where he'd be. She just knew she had to see him, to explain.

She took a deep breath and aimed her wand at the door to his office. "Alohamora!"

Nothing.

Of course.

She waited, listened intently and then raised the stakes.

"Mobili door!"

She sighed, did a quick ward-releasing charm, which resulted in a burst of green sparks as the door quite visibly announced the attempted meddling.

And of course, still, nothing else happened.

Which was very strange.

"Bloody hell..."

At last. She raised her wand to peer down the cold passageway. A dark-robed figure stood there, leaning against the wall, watching her.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Trying to get your attention," she replied. "It worked."

"You're lucky I didn't hex you, you little Muggle-born idiot."

"Are you feeling quite all right, Professor?" she asked, concerned.

"Splendid," he snarled. "Because having bratty little Gryffindors attempting to break into my office – "

"If I'd wanted in, I would have broken in," she replied snippily. "I was just trying to get your – " She craned her neck, squinted at him, saw him raise a bottle to his lips.

"Professor, are you drinking?"

"Fifty points to Gryffindor." She could dimly see his Adam's apple move and his throat convulse as he drank deeply.

She nibbled her lower lip, frustrated. She had so much to say to him, but not now. Not when he was –

Like lightning, he closed the distance between them and roughly dug his fingers into her hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to pin her against the wall.

"Miss Granger," he hissed, "let me do that for you."

She tried to pull away, but her hair – her scalp stung – and suddenly his face was swooping toward hers and she couldn't move, and he was close – so close – staring at her, staring at her mouth.

And then she felt him nip ever so gently at her lower lip, and she gasped...and he sucked it into his mouth and laved it slowly with his warm, wet tongue.

And all the bones in her body turned to liquid.

His mouth released her, and a rush of cold air washed over her. "Oh, yes..." he purred. "Delicious."

She didn't know whether to run, or cry for help, or ... maybe, just wait. Wait and see what he was going to do next. She shivered and would have been lying if she claimed that shiver wasn't as fueled by fear as it was cold. But yes.... There was something delicious about that fear.

"You're so very intelligent, Miss Granger. Most brilliant witch of your age..." he whispered in her ear, and his hot whisky-flavored breath tickled as she squirmed. "Or so they tell me." He moved to the other ear. "Of course, I've never seen it."

He pulled away from her but never slacked his grip on her hair. He ran a free finger down her throat, let it draw a lazy circle on her collarbone. "I'm drinking because ... haven't you heard? I'm getting married."

She froze, ice in her veins at his words, his voice so seductive, but his meaning very different.

"Oh, what am I thinking, of course you know." He chuckled mirthlessly, wound his hand more tightly in her hair and pulled her toward him until she was pressed against his body. "And you'll be oh so very happy to know that the Dark Lord is angry, very angry that I'm stealing you from Lucius Malfoy, who was so dead set on introducing your muddy blood into his pureblood line through his son."

"That's – that's why I'm here," she fought to say, the words raspy and hoarse. "To tell you that you don't have to marry me!"

But she could say no more because suddenly his mouth was closing over hers, hard and punishing and not at all delicious and wonderful, and it hurt – her hair, her mouth, even her body where he pushed her against the icy-cold stone wall. He was so angry, and she didn't blame him, she blamed herself. There was nobody to blame but herself.

She willed herself to go limp. No fighting, no twisting to get away.

And when he broke the kiss, if that's what it was, with a harsh growl deep in her throat, she said, "I'll marry him. I'll marry Draco."

At first she thought he hadn't heard her. His hand stayed fisted in her hair, and he continued to press her against the wall, but finally he seemed to understand what she was telling him.

He snatched her wand out of her limp hand. "Lumos," he snarled and held it to her face. His black eyes drilled into her, and she couldn't look away.

"You will not marry Draco Malfoy!"

"Professor, don't you see? I – I can be a spy. I can report back to the Order like you do, and –"

He released her hair and she gasped her relief, but then he jerked her away from the wall. With his fingers biting into her shoulder – surely he had no idea how rough he was being, she thought desperately – he forced her down the long passageway until they came to a shallow alcove where a shimmering, silvery-white marble snake twined itself around a woman's body as she appeared to writhe in pain.

He was going to shove her into the wall! She braced herself.

But he pushed her, and suddenly the alcove was gone, and she was falling through into a new chamber.

She whirled on him then, caught him off guard. Maybe it was the firewhisky, but for once she got the better of him and retrieved her wand before he could react. "Don't touch me!"

The opening behind him closed silently. He leaned back against the wall. Folded his arms. "Or ... what?"

She rubbed her head where her scalp still stung. "I'm sorry! That's all I came down here to tell you is that I'm sorry and that I never intended to be a burden on you! I thought we could just sign some papers and pretend to be married. I never intended..."

In the low light of the room, she saw his dark shirt hanging open over his black trousers.

But it was his skin, the angel-white skin of his sharply-defined chest that took her words away.

"The Dark Lord ... is very angry with me," he repeated. And lifted the bottle to his lips once more. And drank.

"I'm so sorry."

"Miss Granger, let me explain something to you. Very soon, in mere days, you will be my wife. You can't change that now. It's too late."

He put the decanter down and walked slowly toward her.

"You really have no choice. If you don't marry me, you won't survive until Christmas."

As the distance between them closed, he pressed on. "You can't possibly believe there was any intention of soiling the Malfoy bloodline. You can't possibly think you could survive as Draco's wife. You can't possibly think you could serve the Order in that way, as admirable as your desire to martyr yourself for the cause might be. You will marry me. You will be under my protection. You will share my quarters. And if you are really intelligent, you will learn how to do this with as little fuss as is humanly possible."

Her heart hammered in her chest. She looked around at the dark, almost monastic quarters. A narrow bed against a wall, surrounded by stacks of books. A small table with one chair. One leather reading chair. And walls filled with books. More books than she could comprehend in such a small place.

She had never seen so many books look so forbidding and cold.

She dropped her gaze to the floor and nodded.

"Miss Granger... I'm drunk."

She wasn't sure whether she was supposed to respond to that or not. But she felt way too vulnerable in this cold room in the dungeons of Hogwarts to risk speaking the wrong word.

"I'm drunk. I'm angry. I'm going to sleep now. And tomorrow, when we see each other again, it will be as if none of this happened. We will be polite. We will be –" he heaved a deep breath, and she felt as well as heard the snarl deep in his throat as he finished, "adults."

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

"And we will marry."

She nodded, her mouth dry.

"And Miss Granger."

She raised her face to his in question.

"I don't know what is ahead of us. I don't know which role we will play for one another or for others. I am treading on dangerous ground and don't know whether to appear to treat you harshly or with tenderness. I don't know whether the Dark Lord is prepared to let this pass or whether he will allow Malfoy to interfere. I can protect you. I will protect you. But ... I don't know yet what 'protecting you' means."

His face was rigid, the contours a stark contrast in light and shadow. "Do not make the mistake of thinking I hate you, because I don't, even if my ways are sometimes difficult. But do not make the mistake of ... forming an affection for me. You are getting your wish. You are a spy, just as I am. You will have a role to play, just as I do."

"Even though we don't know what that means," she whispered softly.

"Precisely." He studied her through narrowed eyes. "Do you need help finding your way back to Gryffindor Tower?"

She shook her head mutely.

He waved his hand at the wall, and the stones rearranged themselves once more to reveal the passageway outside.

And wrapped in a tartan bathrobe, hair in disarray, and eyes wild with fury stood Professor McGonagall.