Something Happens

Worshipful adoration to JKRowling for creating the world and tolerating our presence in it.

Kudos and thanks to GinnyW for betaing and Juno Magic for an extra set of eyes when I needed them!

A/N: I'm flattered and honoured to be nominated for a Quill to Parchmentaward as best new author. I'm not sure when voting will commence, but there are so many wonderful fics and wonderful authors and betas nominated that I hope you find time to go there and read and vote!

And please, please vote for my fabulous beta, GinnyW! I've been blessed with wonderful betas, both those who have been regular and those who have pitched in when I needed extra help. But GinnyW regularly puts up with my constant emails, my incessant dithering and my whining and moaning and angsting, and she deserves your vote just for always being there!

Thank you!

47. SOMETHING HAPPENS

Despite the fact that they apparently resisted wrinkles and stains (if their stint as picnic blanket was any indicator) she decided not to wear her new robes to her session with Madam Hooch. The idea of dodging Bludgers or doing untidy things with quill and ink in her beautiful green silk made her nervous.

"How's the birthday going?" Madam Hooch asked over the edge of her mug of tea.

Before Hermione could respond, Madam Hooch held up a cautioning hand. "Don't say it. It's written all over your face and evident in the glow of your freshly scrubbed body, and I'd rather not think beyond the superficial, thank you very much. Although you do have a very pretty blush, don't you?"

"Will you stop it!" Hermione blurted. And then, "Although at least you come right out and say it. The other professors either get huffy or spill things."

"All because you and Severus are sexual creatures?" Madam Hooch let out a sharp bark of laughter. "I'm sure they do."

Well, if she insisted upon talking about it, Hermione intended to press the advantage. She sat down in her usual chair and propped her feet on the desk as if she owned it, folding her hands across her stomach. She raised her chin. "But, since you mention it, maybe you can explain a few things to me."

"That's what mothers are for, girl."

"Not those things." Hermione fought the blush that threatened to reassert itself. "Why aren't I your type?"

Madam Hooch choked on her tea.

Hermione smirked.

Madam Hooch glared.

Hermione grinned.

Madam Hooch finally gave in with a lack of good grace. "If you must know, I have a taste for the more... exotic."

"I'm certainly not that." Hermione nodded, realizing she wasn't prepared to probe further. Using a silent command, she drew a blank parchment to her, a quill and the pot of green ink.

Madam Hooch watched her supplies slide away from her with arched brows.

"Everyone was upset that we got married," Hermione remarked idly, sending the quill across the page, leaving one word in its wake. "And everybody has their reasons, of course." She started the second line. "But beyond the 'he's a teacher, I'm a student,' and 'he's older, I'm not,' nobody ever addresses the issue of are we suited?"

She sent the sheet of parchment back to Madam Hooch and watched it spin carefully until it faced the Quidditch coach.

Well?

Are we suited?

Madam Hooch read the words, then looked up at Hermione. "You don't want me to answer that question."

"I believe that could be taken as an answer," Hermione said wryly. She concentrated until the quill formed two more words.

Why not?

"Why are you asking me, of all people? I'm not your head of house, I'm not your mother, I'm not your..." Madam Hooch leaned back in her chair. "I set myself up for this didn't I?"

"Yes." Hermione smiled. "When you started acting like a friend."

"Bloody hell." Madam Hooch put her mug down and sighed. "No, you're not suited. He's volatile and sullen and a raw nerve either painfully exposed or painfully hidden. He's Slytherin to the core, distrustful and scheming."

Hermione shrugged. It wasn't as if this was news to her.

"You can discount your age, but your vast experience of eighteen years on this earth has done nothing to prepare you for the man who is Severus Snape, and for that you should be eternally grateful."

Again, Hermione shrugged. This time she added a sigh.

"He's not a man who can be handled intellectually, but instead, instinctively."

Hermione frowned.

"He's like a Bludger. You don't have time to think about him. You just have to react, and in his case, there's only a tiny wedge of a chance that you'll react correctly."

"Oh, that's certainly true." Hermione laughed and nodded, waiting for whatever point Madam Hooch was closing in on.

Madam Hooch, for her part, only seemed frustrated. "Granger, you think. A lot."

"Yes, I plan. I definitely plan."

"You can't plan for Bludgers. You don't have time. You only react to them, often on blind instinct. And if you're wrong...the damage is sometimes beyond repair." Madam Hooch leaned across her desk, her eyes intense. "Bludgers hurt, Hermione."

"But, I know that. I know he hurts," Hermione explained softly. "Why do you think I forgive him for so much?"

Madam Hooch caught her breath. "That's not what I meant. I meant he'll hurt you."

"So what you're saying... if he's a Bludger, he hurts everyone. It's not that I'm not suited for him; it's that he's not suited for anyone?" Hermione met Madam Hooch's steady gaze. "Well. That's interesting."

"Interesting?"

"You don't know him as well as you think you do," Hermione responded, and felt a sharp pang. "I thought you might be the one other person who understood him, but you aren't."

Madam Hooch let out an exasperated gasp. "What is your point? Why are you asking me?"

"I'm trying to anticipate problems and be ready for them. I'm planning for the future, the future we'll have when...when it's all over."

She watched Madam Hooch's eyes cloud over and knew why, even as Madam Hooch opened her mouth to respond.

"Today is my birthday," Hermione stopped her firmly. "I know that the future may not be what I want it to be. But for today, I'm planning." She dragged her eyes away from the older woman's and said softly, "I like to plan."

"How about planning some wandless curses?"

"Oh, that sounds splendid!"

An hour later, Hermione had managed two decent Stunners and a dozen or so that failed.

"That's not too bad for your first attempts," Madam Hooch admitted. "You need work, though." She broke out her bottle of firewhisky. "It's your birthday. Share a tot with me."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Does it mix well with champagne?"

"Breakfast was a long time ago."

"Lunch. I had champagne at lunch, too."

"Did you, now?" Madam Hooch's eyebrows arched high.

Hermione felt herself blushing, though she wasn't sure why. There was something so... thoughtful about the way the older witch was looking at her.

"Go ahead. I don't think this is going to hurt you."

This time, Hermione found that the firewhisky went down a little more smoothly than the first time, and the aftertaste was still quite lovely. She sank back in her chair and enjoyed the warmth, watching miniature Harry and the Weasley twins zipping around the sky in one of the team photos.

Her eye skimmed around the room until she spotted the photo turned face to the wall. "Why did you turn your All England team photograph around?" she asked. "I would think that would be the highpoint of your..." Something about Madam Hooch's expression silenced her. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's none of my business."

The photo slowly righted itself against the wall so that the Quidditch team with the Cross of St George emblazoned on their robes was visible again. But Madam Hooch didn't even look in that direction, her eyes pinned on Hermione.

"Friends share things." Her voice was not at all friendly.

"You don't have to. It's not my business," Hermione repeated.

Madam Hooch sighed. "I'm actually surprised you didn't already know. Did you ask Weasley?"

"No." It had never even occurred to her to ask.

"The official version is that I simply wasn't good enough. That half a season was the limit of my ability and as soon as the player I replaced healed, I was benched and then removed from the team."

Hermione remained silent. It was hard to imagine something worse than not being good enough to achieve your dream.

"If the truth had been known, it would have caused an international scandal." Madam Hooch's gaze dropped down to her heavily calloused hands. Those hands, accustomed to handling Bludgers and Snitches and long hours on brooms were harder and coarser than Professor Snape's would ever be, nor had they ever been as elegant. "The truth is that my wandless magic, long a secret, was discovered and revealed by a jealous lover."

Now there was pain, and Hermione wondered if it was the pain of a lost dream or a lost love, or maybe both. A tug of sympathy pulled at her heart, and she longed to have words or actions that would soften the moment, but there seemed to be none.

"Wandless magic is impossible to detect. It's impossible to prevent. And in an arena of sport, an open opportunity to cheat. Had I wanted, I could control a Snitch or a Bludger. I could have sent hexes and curses. I could have done anything at all to cheat our way to a win."

"But you didn't."

"Of course not." She jerked her head up and her eyes were glassy with memory. "But once it was known that I'd hidden my gift, everything was subject to question. I was lucky it ended without the scandal. At the time I thought my betrayer acted out of anger and jealousy. Now I think it's possible that she might have simply been trying to do the right thing for everybody, even me."

"Was she a Gryffindor?" Hermione sighed. What a Gryffindor thing to do.

"Hufflepuff."

Hermione's eyes flew open at that. "What an incredibly brave thing for a Hufflepuff to do!"

"I see you're quite capable of tossing a few Bludgers yourself, Madam Snape." Madam Hooch aimed her an acid look. "I'm so glad you weren't my friend at the time. I'm not sure I could have tolerated your support."

Hermione winced.

"And yes, she was brave."

"So this is why you told me too many people know I have wandless magic."

"Having a secret of this sort is never a disadvantage. But you never know who may betray you, because someone doesn't have to intend harm to betray."

Hermione stared at the few smoky drops of firewhisky in her tumbler. She dragged a forefinger through and collected them, then slipped it between her lips to savour.

"Bloody hell, girl." Madam Hooch was staring at her fingertip where it rested on her lower lip as she sucked it. Then Hooch laughed. "You must drive Severus mad."

This time there was no controlling the fire in her cheeks as she yanked her hand from her face and sat up straight.

"It's a shame you can't fly, Granger. Something tells me you'd have been a hell of a Beater." Hooch grinned. "Something also tells me that in eleven or twelve years we'll have a young Snape who will be a force to be reckoned with on the Quidditch pitch, and I think I can hold out that long."

"Thank you." Hermione blinked. "I think." A young Snape.

The idea made her stomach clutch in a new panic.

"Oh, god," she said. "I have to go. I have to..." She leapt to her feet. "I really have to go!"

XX

She ran.

She couldn't breathe.

She wasn't breathless from running.

She was breathless from fear.

She flew down the steps to the dungeon, treacherous steps that could easily trip her, easily send her flying to the bottom in a heap if not in death, but didn't care, didn't care, didn't care.

She didn't go all the way to their quarters but, instead, took the shorter path by entering his office...the wards dropping and then raising again behind her without hesitation...and through the door...

To be grabbed by one, strong arm.

To be hauled against a deceptively hard, lean body.

To feel fingers dig into her hair, her scalp.

To be swallowed whole by black, black eyes moments before his lips captured hers.

And she was lost. Lost to the thrill of it, the absolute thrill of him waiting on her like a snake waiting on its prey. Of him pouncing and grabbing and devouring, and, oh, god, no part of her, no small part of her even considered doing anything but submit. Her passion rose to meet him without hesitation.

One hand...oh, god, cold!...slid under her jumper and climbed her midriff, slid under her bra, and tormented her breast until her nipple was tight and aching. She twisted away from his icy cold fingers even as she responded with a quick hot heat between her legs.

"Wait!" she gasped into his mouth. "Wait...wait!" It was the only word she could manage, yet she was caught be surprise when his lips finally broke from hers.

"Wait? Why?" he ground out.

"Because...we forgot," she gasped. "My contraceptive potion." And fear bloomed in her anew.

"Oh fucking hell, I gave it to you with your bloody cloaking potion," he snarled against her throat.

"You said what you took was just as vile as what I took..."

"I'm a liar, Miss Granger. Now do you have any more questions?"

"As long as you're not lying about the contraceptive potion," she snapped back.

"I would never lie about that. I don't want brats any more than you do."

"Oh." She melted into him with a sigh. "Then go ahead. Ravish me."

"I think you've ruined the moment." He released her.

She pulled back, horrified, to find his most evil smirk aimed at her. "Liar," she said.

He leaned into her again and this time when she opened her lips to him, his tongue dragged lingeringly through the interior of her mouth... tasting.

"You've been drinking," he announced softly into the shell of her ear, sending tremors through her body.

"Just a little," she agreed, arching into him. And then, as if revealing a great secret she whispered, "It's my birthday."

"If Hooch were a man I'd have to call her out," he growled.

And it crossed her mind to tell him that she wasn't exotic, that she wasn't Hooch's type, but then his mouth was doing things to her throat that made her forget everything else but the whimpers and moans he drew from her.

XX

Her birthday was lasting too bloody long.

He sat in the semidarkness with only a floating oil lamp to cast light across the table beside him. She was with her bloody Gryffindor prats, receiving her presents and having a meeting in his classroom, and this time he had no desire to observe.

He had a strong desire to blow in and clear them out.

He had a strong desire to remind her...and them, oh yes, certainly them...that she was his.

And that would never do. Feeling this way would never do. Being this way would never do. With relief, he felt his rage coming to the forefront of his mind. Yes, that was good. That he could handle.

But not this.

Not this birthday of hers, this one day when she wanted to pretend that they were ordinary, real, not being watched, free....

Merlin, fucking bloody Merlin, each moment of this endless day emboldened that seductive notion tenfold.

It was the fucking, oh yes, definitely the fucking.

But there was more than that. There was the unfettered joy on her face as she revelled in his slightest attention. There was the delight...genuine and unbelievable, but pure delight...when he'd given her the gifts...the potion, the robes. There was the lilt in her voice and the way she leaned into him, pressed against him, touched him...constantly touched him...

And why wasn't she touching him now? Why was he alone while she...

He snapped his head toward the door to his office the moment he heard her. Some fucking spy he was. He dragged his gaze back to the air in front of him, feeling his scowl in the ache of his jaw.

"Don't you dare."

He jerked his head up again.

She stood with her fists on her hips, glaring at him. "I know what you're doing, and I won't stand for it. Not on my birthday!"

"I think I'm tiring of hearing you prattle on all day long about your bloody birthday. The earth does not stop spinning on its axis just because it's your birthday."

She strode closer and scowled down at him. "And just because you've treated me nicely doesn't mean it's time for you to settle back into a sulk and be a bastard."

A sulk? She dared accuse him of having a fucking sulk?

"Remember, Professor, you have a birthday, too, and you're setting a precedent." The last was delivered with an annoying snip in her voice that made him want to throttle her...but a better response suddenly presented itself.

He snagged her hand, yanked her to him, pulled her into his lap and kissed her. And when he was quite certain that he'd kissed her bloody senseless, he finally pulled away and, toying with a strand of her hair, murmured into her ear, "You were saying...?"

She gasped softly against him. "I'm sorry... I must have been mistaken!"

"Indeed."

With an impish smile she added, "Will you forgive me if I share my tokens?" She held up three book tokens from Flourish & Blotts.

He took them from her hand, noticing that one of them had an odd cast to its bronze surface.

"Finite incantatem," she said, and with a brief burst of shimmer it gleamed gold. "It's a flex token. Harry always gives me one, but disguises it so it won't make Ron and Ginny feel bad."

Severus turned it in his fingers until he could read the back. "Redeemable for any book." Unlike the others that would be spelled for a certain amount of money, this one was for any book, no matter the price.

Flourish & Blotts had some very expensive books.

"Do I get my choice?" He gave her a sidelong look as he continued to toy with the token.

"No. That one is mine," she said crisply as she retrieved it. "But I will let you help me spend it."

"Just so that I will forgive you for attacking me so unjustly?" he asked, the sceptic in him making itself known.

She scanned the bookshelves. "Because I don't want to buy something we already own in our library.

Our library? The wench.

Her kiss caught him off guard, and ended before he could react. She picked up two of the closest vials on the table beside them. "What are these?"

"I've been waiting for you so we can return your memories. And don't play with the vials. They're in sequence."

She stiffened in his lap, and to his surprise, eased out of it and stood. "Do you have a good place to store them?"

"You said you couldn't bear to part with them, and now you want to store them?"

She gave a little shrug, avoiding his eyes.

"What changed?" he sighed. She was going to drive him to madness.

"Before, when I didn't remember so clearly, it all seemed very beautiful, the one beautiful moment in the midst of all the confusion." Again, the small shrug. "Now that I've examined them, it's clear it was a hashed up attempt to make something right out of something that was..."

He felt something tighten in his chest. He suddenly didn't want her to finish the statement, yet had to know how it ended. "That was what?"

"That...at the time certainly...was stupid and a mistake."

Well, she'd finally gotten there. Finally accepted the truth. The fucking, painfully obvious but tragic truth. A bloody mistake, indeed.

"I was confused and afraid. You were angry and in pain. Professor McGonagall was enraged. Hagrid was... well, sweet, but hardly discerning. Professor Dumbledore was calculating and attempting to salvage something out of the mess. Father Gadbury was Confunded. Before, it seemed almost...almost beautiful. Now it's just a calculated hash." She looked at him, her eyes huge and dark and hollowed in the semidarkness. "I liked it better when, when...when something happened."

"When what happened?"

She shook her head helplessly. "You wouldn't understand."

"That sounds like a challenge, and as such, you must now give me the opportunity to rise to it," he said, easing back into his chair, a new tension in his spine and shoulders.

Her cheeks were blazing and she couldn't meet his eyes. She was embarrassed. Not at thinking their mockery of a wedding was beautiful...no, this was something different. He sank back into his chair, watching her carefully.

"What do you know about the Eucharist?" she asked suddenly.

He stared at her blankly.

"Communion. Mass."

"A religious ritual," he answered, and that was about the extent of it.

"In sacramental theology, it's more than just a ritual. Something happens. That's what Father Gadbury told me about it, his best explanation. Something happens. You see, some believe nothing happens at all, that they swallow a bit of wine and a dry bit of bread simply to remember and honour something that happened two thousand years ago. But in sacramental theology, it's believed that it's not just a remembrance...it's believed that God is present. That it's...it's real. That in that moment, you're part of something bigger, something divine, an ongoing celebration that never ends, along with all the angels and archangels and all the company of heaven..."

She attempted to dig her toe into the stone floor, embarrassed. "Some have tried to explain how it works, even claiming that at that the wine actually transfigures into blood, which believe me, even at eight years old I didn't believe. I'd bit my tongue and tasted blood and I'd tasted wine, and nobody was convincing me of that. But Father Gadbury said that how it happens isn't important, that it's enough to know that something does happen. That's what makes a sacrament a sacrament, the belief that it's not just words, it's not just actions or decisions by mortal men and women...that something bigger happens that's beyond the scope or possibility of mere mortals."

His blood froze in his veins. "We did that. We drank wine and..."

"Yes, that was the Eucharist."

He stared at her. Didn't she understand? "Blood magic," he said, his mouth dry.

She stopped, stunned.

"It wasn't just Muggle vows...it was a blood oath."

"No, not like that..." Her cheeks were blazing and she tore her eyes away from his. "Not in the way that you think."

"Then what?" he demanded.

She sighed and looked so delicate, so forlorn, he knew a moment's need to touch her, to caress her, to reassure her. But just when he'd started to believe that their Muggle vows were benign, she sprang this on him? Fucking blood magic?

"Our oaths were to each other. About how we would try to treat each other, and honour and respect our commitment to each other. I understand that it was ridiculous for us to make those kinds of vows when we...we didn't even really know each other, much less love each other. And I understand that what Professor Dumbledore did, a ritual without such silly promises, was practical and wise and the best for both of us." She dug trembling fingers into her hair. "My ten-year-old self clearly wanted to believe that something would save us. That by making that sacramental marriage...something would happen to save us from the horrible thing we were being forced to do. And my ridiculously and unexpectedly romantic seventeen-year-old self clung to that instinctively and looked back on that night and hoped that maybe, just maybe... something did happen." She raised her eyes to him, those beautiful tea-hued eyes, and added, "And that it wasn't a bad thing."

He stilled the frustration roiling within him, the helpless feeling of always being the pawn, always being buffeted about by the whims and lusts and needs of others. He even reminded himself that he had chosen to do this, he had chosen to marry her. But finally, the only thing that brought him even a moment's peace was the need to give her back what she had lost, to restore her trust and her solace.

"You need your memories" he said flatly. He stood and opened the first vial, used his wand to withdraw the silvery stream and drift it to her. "Look at me." Her eyes widened in trepidation and yet she stood still for him, and it tugged at him as he watched the stream absorb into her temple. "I performed a consecutive linking charm to meld them together in the Pensieve, but it's best to return them individually, as they were removed."

She stared up at him, leaned into him, until the last one had been replaced.

"Close your eyes, now," he said and stroked her temple. He watched the emotions play across her face...tension as she catalogued the memories, touching them mentally like physical objects, reassuring herself that all was well and none had been harmed. He knew the subtle tension, and he recognized and knew from his own experience the soft expulsion of air when she was reassured.

His hand on her temple stilled as he waited to see what happened next.

Her lips opened with a soft gasp. Her hand went to her breast. Her eyes opened and she stared up at him, and he watched the glimmer as they filled with moisture. "It came back. It all came back."

He stroked his thumb across her lower lip.

"It's still beautiful." She sank against his chest and wrapped her arms around him.

He stroked her hair, her horrid hair, and thought yet again how easily she was pleased, how little it took to make her happy. "You lost it when the memories were gone, but having them returned restores the total experience."

He pulled her trembling body against his and held her tightly, and he knew when it crept into her, that sense of rightness and peace. And just as she clung to it, he clung to her and felt it, as well.

XX

She helped him gather the vials and return them to the lab where he taught her a cleansing spell safe for memory storage. "You can't Scourgify. It might leave infinitesimal debris behind. This type of cleansing is a much more delicate and complex bit of spellwork," he explained.

Her eyes glowed and her wandwork was meticulous and expert within three tries. She wasn't simply a sponge that soaked up learning. She was a being that thrived on it. The simple act of acquiring a new spell shone from within her until she was almost painful to observe.

"It's impossible to experience it fully," she said, straightening, her brows pulled taut in thought. "Through the Pensieve we can see what happened as it happened in all its detail, but it was only when Colin's camera caught a frozen moment in time that we see the silver bonds. And the only way to feel it is inside me...or Legilimency. But it's impossible to truly experience a moment to its fullest, isn't it?"

"I suppose so, when you put it that way. But there aren't many moments that reveal things like magical bonds being formed. Most moments are quite satisfactorily experienced and then forgotten, you have to admit."

"That may be true of most people, but it doesn't seem to be true of us. It seems as if any single moment when we're together, if photographed, would reveal realms of magic beyond our knowing," she said dreamily.

"And here I was going to crack open a bottle of your father's finest with our dinner. You're already pissed."

"Do we have to go to the Great Hall for dinner?" she asked hopefully.

"Alas, Albus put Dinner Patrol on my rota for tonight." He didn't miss the irony that he could clear the day with the Dark Lord but not Albus.

She sighed and cast a wistful glance around the lab. "Well, let's get it over with." And then, that smile. "I'm sure you'll find a way to make dinner as perfect as the rest of the day has been."

"Wear your mother's dress," he responded, knowing exactly what would happen and finding it within him to allow it.

XX

It wasn't until she slipped the green robes over the cashmere dress that she saw their true magic. Threads hitherto unnoticed now shimmered with bronze and gold and copper, drawn out of hiding by their proximity to the topaz Chanel. She stared at her shoulders and face in the mirror, no longer a cheval.

She blushed.

She was embarrassed at her own thoughts, but couldn't restrain herself from thinking them all the same.

I'm almost pretty.

And the idea that she might be pretty embarrassed her.

How could she walk into the Great Hall looking like this, feeling like this? It was somehow different at the Yule Ball on Viktor's arm.

But why?

Why was this different?

She didn't know. She just felt exposed, somehow, and that she very much wanted to stay in their quarters and be pretty just for him.

She was so weary of the eyes, always the eyes, always watching her, always watching the both of them.

She picked up the hair comb and left the bathroom to find Professor Snape.

He was grading papers in his office. She leaned over his shoulder. "First years? I could help you with those."

"I've seen the way you help. Thank you but no thank you," he sniffed, as he wrote a nasty red comment in the margin of the parchment.

"Just because I'm not harsh enough..."

"Not harsh enough! You count off for misplaced commas!"

"Of course I do. You always count off for misplaced commas!"

"Only on your papers." Another nasty comment joined the first.

She gasped, outraged.

"Miss Granger," he said, his tone as silky as it had ever been, "there are times when your commas are the only thing that save me from having to give you perfect marks."

"That's...that's unfair!"

"It's Slytherin."

"Same thing!"

"Indeed." He put the parchment aside and swivelled in his chair to face her, and her outrage faded as she saw his eyes darken. He slid his hands inside her robes to smooth against cashmere, and they both caught their breath. It seemed that exploring her body through cashmere was as enticing an experience for him as it was for her.

Or... maybe not, she thought with an internal snarl when he pulled away as she was trying to press closer.

"Dinner," he said. "Required by Albus."

She pouted.

He kissed her pout.

She stored that reaction away for later.

And leaned across him and marked a comma for good measure.

XX

He had brought this on himself, he reminded himself firmly.

He followed her to their seats at the High Table, watching her from behind. There was no cheeky sway to her hips, not even the merest twitch. She was, if anything, more primly proper than usual. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was actually embarrassed.

And of course when put that way, he did not know better, and thus he was forced to ponder, why would she be embarrassed?

But that head held high with hair barely contained, that straight, stiff neck, that quick fluid pace...none of it altered the fact that a stunned silence crept across the hall as she crossed the front of it.

Yes, the gold dress and dark green robes were beautiful.

But what they did for his Miss Granger...her skin, her hair, her eyes...was transcendent.

She glowed.

Even Hooch did a double take, and allowed her eyes to do a leisurely drag down and down and finally back up, and only Severus's direct glare caused her to retreat to her wine goblet with an arched eyebrow and a smirk.

Belatedly, he realized...as he held her chair for her and watched her settle into it with downcast eyes...the effect she would have on Draco.

Draco, whose eyes smouldered with envy as they shot from her to Severus before settling into his trademark scowl.

Severus leaned close and murmured in her ear, "On second thought, only if you insist, of course, we'll crack open that bottle with dessert."

She looked at him with an unspoken question.

"In our quarters," he clarified.

"Only if I insist?" The corner of her mouth quirked with the ghost of a smile.

"It's your birthday," he offered magnanimously, "or so the rumour goes."

She looked blithely over to the Gryffindor table as if they'd exchanged a pleasantry, nothing more. "I suppose I could be convinced."

Her calf found his with a long, catlike rub.

Yet again, he was grateful for the heavy brocade tablecloth that hid their feet from the rest of the Great Hall.

He flashed another quick glance at Draco and wondered at which point he'd landed himself so firmly in the handbasket to hell that he took pleasure in making a teenaged git jealous.

He spent the rest of dinner languidly ignoring everything she did, choosing instead to focus his attention on the threatening scowls he aimed at three of the four House tables. This was, after all, the reason for his presence. While professors generally could choose to eat at the High Table or in their offices or quarters, the Rota maintained a consistent calming presence by insuring that at least five professors would be present at each meal.

Of course, it was a lot easier (as if it were ever difficult) to work up a scowl when so many male eyes were glued on his wife.

"Whatever were you thinking, allowing her to come in here looking like that?" Hooch drawled softly. "I thought she looked well-fucked after lunch but now she..."

Her voice broke off under the force of his glare. But it didn't stop her from staring at him with a very calculating gleam in her eyes.

Which, at least, kept them away from Miss Granger.

But the hell of it was, he'd given this to her, this gift of walking into the Great Hall and revealing her future to the stupid dunderheads who had overlooked her for so long.

Just as when she'd gone to the Malfoys, she was transformed into a woman by that dress, those boots, that upswept hair. This wasn't about glamours and tortured hair and padded (yes, he'd checked out the photograph closely) bodices and attempts to look glamorous. This was about a peek into the future when her body and face had left girlhood behind. There was no artifice, here. Just potential fulfilled.

The dunderheads didn't recognize that, of course. They just reacted on a visceral level. He saw it in their eyes. Many of them were more confused than anything...confused by the fact that they found themselves unable to pull their eyes away from the Potion master's wife.

His wife.

None were more confused than Potter, however. Sullen, as always. Confused, as befitted a nitwit Gryffindor. Unfocused, despite the lovely Miss Weasley's attempts to draw him into conversation.

And speaking of Weasleys, wasn't young Ronald's reaction interesting. No confusion there, only sadness.

Severus felt an all-too familiar twinge of sympathy for the young man, even though he still couldn't stand him. Whether Weasley knew it or not, he clearly was seeing his own future when he looked at the High Table...his future without her.

Severus glanced back at the quiet witch by his side and finally cast a Muffliato and asked, "What's wrong now?" And yes, after his earlier successes, this sudden lack of enthusiasm for something he definitely viewed as a birthday surprise left him feeling quite peeved.

"They're annoying me, that's all. The staring. I hate it." She dragged her fork around her plate without actually eating a thing.

"You look very attractive tonight. Surely you must realize that."

She gave an angry half-shrug. "So?" And then, then she had the nerve to give him a filthy look.

"What in Merlin's name is wrong with you?" he demanded. "Most women would enjoy..."

"I'm not most women. Why do I want those gits looking at me, just because I'm wearing a pretty dress and robes?"

"It's not just because you're wearing..."

"Of course it is! And why should I care? You don't have to see me wearing fancy robes to look at me. I don't have to primp and spend preposterous amounts of time in front of a mirror for you to think I'm, well, not pretty, but..." She stopped short. "For you to be attracted to me," she said, more softly. "So why would I want to primp or dress up for them?"

He stared at her, hearing her words echo. Well, not pretty, but... How could she look at him with those eyes and even think the words, much less voice them, and surely not believe them, not pretty, but....

"Professor..." She cast him a glance from beneath her lashes. "It's drafty in here."

"Drafty?" Now what?

"It's my knickers," she said confidentially.

He darted a quick look to make sure the Muffliato was working.

"You know, I wore a thong to the Malfoys' so that I'd have a smooth line under my dress?"

"I seem to recall something about that," he admitted smoothly, his mind's eye supplying a vision of said thong, not to mention vast expanses of flesh that it didn't cover. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, I'm not wearing it," she said with studied nonchalance.

He narrowed his eyes and then, blinked. "And...?"

"You didn't notice any knicker lines did you?" she asked.

"What are you telling me?"

"I'm not wearing anything under my dress."

His mouth went dry as the Sahara.

"In fact..." She blinked up at him. "Ooops, I think I just vanished my bra, too."

His eyes were drawn to her breasts like steel filings to a magnet, and fucking hell, those impudent nipples were doing their best to poke through the cashmere.

"I'm cold," she said, quite unnecessarily.

"Miss Granger," he growled. "You have ten seconds to become ill. Believably ill. An illness that doesn't involve any bodily functions, but that otherwise..."

She slumped sideways.

The wrong direction.

He had to lunge to catch her and pull her back upright. Within the blink of an eye he'd released the Muffliato and was saying, quite clearly and with a healthy dose of bored disdain, "Rolanda, will you please complete the dinner hour for me? It seems my wife has celebrated her birthday too heartily, and I don't trust her to make it down to the dungeons on her own recognizance."

He stood, bringing Miss Granger to her feet, only to have her slump heavily against him. "Take my arm," he snapped, thinking she was laying it on a little thick, and then he guided her as quickly as her faux illness would allow through the open double doors, into the Entrance Hall...

And then swept her into his arms and carried her, giggling, down the dungeon stairs.

XX

She'd done it.

She'd wrested the last hours of her day away from the Headmaster.

She wanted to crow and, instead, buried her face in his chest, listening to the hard thump of his heart as he whisked her down the corridor and into their quarters.

He sank into the nearest chair...the ridiculous chintz from her childhood bedroom...and she stood before him, her triumph still burning within her.

She stepped between his open knees and pressed against him, drinking in his touch, kissing his hair, his forehead, his eyebrows, his closed eyes, his cheekbones, his nose, working her way down to his perfect, supple lips.

His hands smoothed the cloud-soft wool against the flat of her abdomen, the jut of her hipbones, the nip-in of her waist, and finally up her ribs to her tight, aching breasts.

Could he feel her heart pounding against his fingertips? Could he feel the air rushing into her lungs, and then back out again, as she first gasped and then sighed? Could he smell the heat throbbing in her veins, pooling in her belly, and settling into a sweet ache between her legs?

"Wait." He took several breaths. "You...you have one more lesson to learn tonight."

"Right now?" she asked. "Can't it wait?" She leaned forward to press her lips to his, but he pulled away.

"Now."

He was playing games with her. She wanted to just yank away and go to bed without him.

Except, she really did not want to do that. "Then go ahead, but hurry. I'm listening."

But it was hard to listen, because he was stroking her arm absent-mindedly as he spoke, and that was highly distracting.

"You saw through my lies to the Dark Lord. You saw the truths amongst the lies. You're correct about the fact that the more truths I tell to the Dark Lord, the easier it is to slip in a lie. Especially when the truths are painful or revealing...."

He raised his eyes to hers, and she, yet again, was struck by how long his lashes were. It was easy to lose sight of that fact when lost in his black eyes, but oh, his lashes....

"But there's another skill to lying. The most successful lie can be when you tell somebody something that they already believe to be true. They will accept it without question, even if it's a blatant lie."

She looked at him, waiting, but managing to stay silent.

"When I said that you weren't beautiful, he believed me. You believed me. Neither of you caught me in an out and out lie."

Her cheeks burned. "But it's not a lie. Nobody would believe you if you said I was."

He yanked her to her feet. "Miss Granger, if we are to totally explore the power of the vows we took, I must tell you that over the past three weeks, you have become all that is beautiful to me."

Her heart didn't know whether to break or sing. If the vows made him feel this, and it wasn't real, then what did it mean? But if he felt it, if he really felt it...

She gave her head a fierce shake. "Then it's clearly the stupid vows. A...a blood oath, even, if it's that bloody powerful!"

"I'm not so certain..." He caught her face in his hand and held it still as his eyes roamed it, and everywhere his gaze touched she burned and at the same time felt frozen, unable to move any more than a rabbit caught in the hypnotic gaze of a snake.

"Professor," she sighed, her throat tight.

"Is it real? Or is it because of those horrible vows? Or... " His voice drifted until she thought he'd abandoned his thought, but then he finished, "Are the two mutually exclusive?"

She closed her eyes against him. "I think I'm totally embarrassed now. You can let go, and I'll..."

He stilled her with a gentle, "Shhh." He eased the robes...the magnificent robes, his beautiful gift to her...from her shoulders and placed them carefully on the arm of the chair.

He knelt before her, then. He placed her hands on his shoulders and, first left and then right, slipped the boots from her feet.

He slid his hands up her ankles...

"Have you ever seen such delicate ankles?" he asked softly, dragging his thumbs over them.

Her calves...

"Look at them," he urged her. "So feminine and still so strong." He kneaded them with his fingertips, and the pressure sent warmth skittering up her legs; she almost collapsed with her reaction.

Her knees...

"You are not going to convince me that my knees are..." she began, and broke off as he placed the tip of his tongue behind one knee and, ever so delicately, tasted his way up the back of her thigh, until not only was she unable to finish her thought, she could only gasp as he reached the sensitive crease and swell where thigh ended and bum began. His nose, his breath, his tongue, his lips...he was behind her and she had nothing to hold onto, nothing to support her, and when she thought she would collapse...

He scooped her into his arms and simply leaned against the cold, stone wall as he nuzzled her cheek and hair.

"Miss Granger..." His voice was rough velvet, a gentle rasp. "A mere three weeks, do you understand? Three fucking weeks."

Nothing that real, that powerful, could have started from nothing and come to this point in a mere three weeks. It was a painful fear, this thing that clenched her heart in a vise.

Until...

She felt laughter bubbling up in her. Pure and clean in her veins, in her heart, her lungs, her soul...

Her soul.

"A mere three weeks," she repeated. "Like puppies, newborn, waiting for our eyes to open."

He arched one brow at her, one perfect black brow, and if she could have hugged it, she would have, but instead kissed it, and the soft skin beneath it, and the delicate skin of his eyelid, and his gorgeous long eyelashes, and again, the bridge of his strong, beautiful nose. "It happened to us together," she whispered. And then, because she couldn't resist, and because it was true, she added, "Professor, I think you're quite beautiful, too."

"Oh fucking hell," he snapped. "I'm trying to be serious and..."

"So am I," she said, happily nuzzling his cheek with hers. "So am I."

XX

"Professor, what time is it?"

Her voice in the darkness was both irritant and blessing. Irritant, because the day had exhausted him, and he thought she finally slept. Blessing, because it was, after all, her voice in the darkness.

"There are precisely thirteen minutes left in your birthday," he said into her ear, so make the best of them, because I certainly am not up to letting this day stretch into the next."

"We need to plan," she said. "For after."

"After..." he prodded, along with a not so gentle prod of her naked hip pressed so delightfully into him.

"After it's over. After Halloween."

A chill settled over him.

"Because it's still my birthday and we are still an ordinary couple who get to make plans," she added.

"Indeed," he breathed, trying to calm his pulse.

"We haven't argued about the kinds of things married people argue about, and I think we really should, if we're to be ordinary, and so we must plan..."

"And argue about our plans?"

"Exactly."

He took a deep breath and then released it. "You may begin."

"Christmas."

"What's there to plan about Christmas?" Although the thought of an entirely new set of gifts for her was daunting.

"A panto. We must see a panto."

"Is it time for me to argue with you, yet?"

"Only if you want to." She pulled his arm more tightly about her waist. "And midnight mass at Winchester Cathedral."

"Now I will argue." He felt her stiffen in his arms. "I am not attending some ridiculous Muggle ritual to celebrate the birth of someone who has been dead for two thousand years, when we have very suitable rituals of our own to celebrate here."

"Oh, do be quiet. We're going to Winchester Cathedral. You'll like it. It's quite magical with chant and music and candlelight and...yes, Muggle magic, and...incense. We have incense."

"We, is it? You're regressing to Muggle?"

"Only on Christmas Eve, and believe me, you will be happy you went, I promise." She turned her face to seek his in the darkness and bestowed him with the sweetest, most gentle of kisses...off-center, but it was the thought that counted. And perhaps, well, it wasn't as if they'd actually be following through on any of these plans...

He felt the chill, again.

Perhaps it didn't hurt to agree to desperate plans whispered in the cold dark of the dungeon.

"And then, we'll go home to The Grange, and wake up on Christmas morning...I feel you glaring at me, and I simply don't care. You haven't experienced Christmas morning until you've been at The Grange..."

"We are officially ordinary. I'm married to a nag."

She gasped and rolled over to face him, and her intake of breath warned of a fresh diatribe, but he stopped her with a quick stroke of his tongue, which luckily managed to hit her lower lip.

Instead of arguing, she sighed and sank into him.

"We'll do it all, whatever you want, Christmas is yours. And now--it's midnight," he told her. He felt her smile against him, and finally allowed himself to relax, perchance to sleep and, if he were very lucky, to have very ordinary dreams.