The Weaver's Eight

A/N – Just a reminder before this chapter begins: Sevvie's background is mine, not J. K.'s. The 'heritage' that you'll read about is for spice, so don't get too embroiled in historical accuracy. Oh, and also much of the content of the "lessons" that Severus is giving in the first third of this chapter is entirely from my own imagination. I have no idea if that actually conforms to any actual written or unwritten rules.

Enjoy,

~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~

---

Chapter Fourteen – The Weaver's Eight

"The Weaver's Eight: This is the best weaver knot I know. Although it looks difficult to tie, it is actually very easy. Fast to tie with small material, and reliable for wool, linen and most other weaver materials. Because both loose ends fall back over the standing part, it has an almost perfect lead. ... A weaver on a traditional weaving loom never knows in advance in what direction the next line has to be tied." from Real Knots

Hermione had to jog to keep up with the long-legged gate of her fiancé as he strode down the corridor, away from the headmaster's office. "I think," she started, but had to stop to catch her breath for a moment before continuing after him.

"You do?" Snape said, glancing over his shoulder at her without breaking his stride. "Well, call the Daily Prophet."

A grimace heavy on her face, she sprinted down the hall to catch up with him and grabbed a fistful of the back of his billowing robes, heaving hard on them to stop his progress and force him to wait for her. No surprise showed on his face but he glowered down at her as she stood clutching a stitch in her side.

"That little comment just added extra items to the list of things I think and will proceed to tell you about," she rebutted.

He grimaced. "Goodie."

"First of all," she said, as her panting slowed and she stood straight. "I think that you could have slowed your pace if you expected me to follow..."

"Possibly."

"...secondly, I think you could be nicer..."

He smirked. "Unlikely."

"...thirdly– which, incidentally, would have been my first and only point had you not been such a git just now – I don't think this is going to work."

Severus leaned back to look at her and sneered. "Oh? Do regale me with the multitudes of flaws in my logic."

She couldn't help the flare of temper. Hermione glared back at him. "You know, you don't have to be so snarky all the t..." As his smirk increased, much to her annoyance, she bit down on the rest of her tirade. Bickering would get them nowhere. "I don't think it's going to work. Going to visit your father for a weekend, showing up out of nowhere I might add, and then saying, 'Hello, Dad! This is my student – whoops, I mean fiancée, Hermione. You know, the one you threatened to disallow me to marry? Well, she's joining the family whether you like it or not, so stop being a prat and hop on board! See you at Christmas!' It's ludicrous and liable to annoy him even further than we have already."

"Thank you for that well-informed opinion," Snape said. Hermione just narrowed her eyes. "But sadly, it means practically nothing in the grand scheme of things. Do you think we should just leave him to his own devices and ignore the letter he sent me?"

Hermione grated her teeth. "No."

"And do you see any other way of potentially rectifying the situation?"

She thought her jaw might crack from the force of her clenched muscles. "No."

"Then what other choice do we have?"

Hermione made a noise that was half-growl, half-sigh. "None."

"Excellent," he said, his sneer turning to a mocking smile. "Glad you see reason."

Her fingers itched to smack that sanctimonious grin right off of his face.

"Now," he said, straightening and glaring down at her as if she were an unpleasant chore he was loathe to accomplish, "if you're going to be acceptable to present to my father..."

"Acceptable?" she exclaimed indignantly.

"...you need to learn to recommend yourself in a manner befitting a pureblood."

"You arrogant son of a b..." Hermione growled, unable to stop herself.

"Lesson number one," he interrupted smoothly. "Your language and tone. My father and mother both stemmed from some of the most noble and ancient bloodlines in Scotland and Europe. The community to which you are aspiring," he pointedly ignored her dark glare, "is one of ... tradition, you might say. Classic gender roles. As such, you will watch your tone and temper when speaking to anyone older or of a higher station than you. And before you get onto one of your tirades, which I can see blossoming so prettily in your face, this does not mean you are expected to be withdrawn and archaic in a 'speak when spoken to' fashion. It simply demands high manners at all times. Think of your mother, for pity's sake; that woman at least had some semblance of politeness."

All of Hermione's patience and concentration went towards wiping the annoyed glower from her face. "All right," she managed through clenched teeth. "I believe I can manage that." Snape looked doubtful. She sighed for a moment, knowing that if this was going to work, she'd have to play along. "What else?"

"Lesson number two: carriage and posture."

Hermione looked down at herself unconsciously. Perhaps she wasn't straight as a turret, like he was, but she saw nothing wrong in the way she stood. She brushed her hand across her clothes and looked at him expectantly. He sighed. Moving around behind Hermione, Severus grabbed a firm hold of her shoulders, causing her to stiffen in surprise and nervousness.

"That's better," he said, "but still not quite right. Shoulders back," he pulled on them as he said it. "You must align your shoulders so that they are centered over your hips, your hips centered over your ankles. My father comes from the line of King James V of Scotland and my mother is from the French line of the ducs de Guise. The fam–"

"Didn't James V marry Marie of Guise?"

"I'll let that interruption slide on the merit of knowing your history. Yes, he did."

Hermione couldn't help a smirk. "So your mother's family married your father's family and they married each other, knowing they were related?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "Purebloods."

"They were eighth cousins by that time. Hardly incestuous." Severus grimaced and tightened his fingers at her shoulders. She winced. "As I was saying, the familial lines that raised me are a refined people. They demand adherence to things such as good posture and high manners. You must give the illusion at all times that you are haughty and arrogant, as that is how they raise their children and would demand such a quality in a spouse."

"Star pupil, were you?"

He sneered. "You have no idea. Now if we are to get anywhere, stop yammering and start listening!"

Hermione grimaced and did her best to tamp down on her indignance. They needed to at least mollify Snape's father and she had to admit, he knew best how to do it. He gave another pull on her shoulders to straighten them and then circled back in front of her.

"You're still slouching somewhat. If this helps, think of the posture necessary being rigid: you are a straight line from the base of your skull to the tip of your tailbone, being unable to bend except at the waist."

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to follow his instructions. Grating as the man was, he was still her teacher (for now) and she still a good pupil, determined to succeed at his instructions.

"Good," she heard him say. "Good, now the head. Open your eyes."

She startled at finding him surprisingly near. Hermione jumped when he laid one hand at her chin, the other behind her ear, his fingers wrapping underneath her hair to the nape of her neck.

"In the particular case of purebloods, much of the arrogant posture necessary can be accomplished in the proper way to hold your head." Hermione tried to make the carriage of her head match her body but she felt his fingertips, surprisingly cool against her skin, guiding her movement. "The chin a little higher. Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn..."

"They are worn very high, just at present," Hermione finished in a character voice, a smile on her face.

Snape looked surprisingly unsettled, his train of thought clearly derailed at the warm, laughing tone in her voice and the pleased smile on her face.

"I know that play, too. You were quoting Oscar Wilde," Hermione said in answer to his questioning expression. "The Importance of Being Earnest. Lady Bracknell's lines in the third act, to be specific, instructing Cecily on how to appear higher class. I didn't know you knew Oscar Wilde."

Severus's face twisted even further in shock and Hermione saw his sallow skin flush with color at the cheeks. She found herself unaccountably delighted by this and had to work not to laugh.

"Yes, well," he cleared his throat before his face melted back into the arrogant disdain she knew so well. "That's neither here nor there. The chin, as I said, must be worn..." Hermione smiled, "...at an upwards angle. This will help you achieve the heavy eye and slack, disapproving expression seemingly preferred by pureblood women the world over." This last was said not with an instructive tone but a combination of aggravation and fondness.

"Ah," Hermione said, "literally looking down your nose at people. How ... cliché."

"Stereotypes exist for a reason," he said and pushed at her chin and neck with his fingers again until she achieved what he considered a desirable result. "If you do something to restrain that shrubbery attached to your head," Hermione scowled at him, "the weight of your hair will help you keep your head back. Now, the most important times where this posture is necessary is walking. It sounds silly," he said, in answer to her raised eyebrow, "but walking is crucially important to the first impression. Positive first impressions are imperative, especially with my father. Everything he feels he needs to know about you, he will decide within the first fifteen minutes."

Hermione quailed a bit and shook at the harsh, biting tone that had leapt into his voice so suddenly. "Walking, then?"

"Indeed. That is lesson three. In our situation, walking must always been done as a pair. We move as a unit. Despite the fact that this is technically improper, I will measure my steps to you, seeing as how you are decidedly shorter than I am. But we step together, we must compliment each other visually, and you must carry yourself as a proper compliment to me."

"This all seems so..." Hermione groped for a word.

"Pretentious?"

Hermione nodded. "And far fetched. Will he really be so strict that he will disallow our marriage based on my posture or how I walk?"

"Most likely not," he said, thoughtfully, "but with my father it is not so much one thing, as a collection of many. You will need to present yourself as close to a pureblood as possible, so that they only thing he could possibly point at would be your parentage, which he can't change, as it's the basis for the law itself and thus our predicament. He will most likely sneer at it, but not fault you directly. Regardless, we must adhere as much as possible to his standards, if only for the weekend."

She couldn't stop herself from sighing heavily. "What a tremendous waste of our collective energies." When he opened his mouth to rebut, she held up a hand. "Nothing for it, though. I know, I know. Lesson three; instruct away."

Severus pursed his lips and glowered at her unpleasantly, but straightened his back. "Indeed. Walking. There are two ways to conduct yourself when moving as a couple: informal and formal. Hopefully we won't have an occasion in which to use the formal manner. If we do, we have larger problems than walking. But I shall teach you both. Firstly, the informal. We always walk side by side, the husband as an escort. Think of the commonly perceived nineteenth century manners. I offer you my arm," he positioned himself at her left side and crooked his arm at an angle across his mid-chest, extending his elbow towards her, "and you take it from underneath with your left hand. Hold just at the elbow, curling your fingers over my arm to the outside, with enough tension in your hand to hold your arm straight within mine, but not so much that you're pulling at my robes."

Hermione's stomach seemed to have a flock of owls in it, but she didn't want him to chide her for hesitating, so she raised her left arm and took the proffered elbow. His robes felt unspeakably scratchy and she couldn't help smirking just a tiny bit at the idea that this might be an insight into his surly demeanor. She stifled a chuckle.

"A little looser grasp," he said, seemingly noticing nothing. "Good. Don't turn into me; face straight forward. If we speak while we walk, turn only your head and only if necessary. There is a certain coldness to the proper bearing of a pureblood. Now, we shall practice moving together as a couple. I will walk you back to your dormitory."

Hermione abandoned her posture to glance around the hall. There hadn't been any students passing by this way, but she couldn't guarantee that there wouldn't be elsewhere, and the last thing she needed was someone spotting her arm-in-arm with Snape. Her reputation was odd enough already; this would doom her. Severus rolled his eyes.

"It is past curfew. No one will see you until you enter the Tower."

Hermione scowled at having been read so easily. "I dunno. I just ... you never know..."

"Oh, fine," Snape said, biting off her excuse. "I was trying to be gentlemanly," Hermione snorted derisively, "and save you the trouble of walking back on your own, but if you're so concerned with your popularity, I won't sully your reputation. We'll walk to my office and you can bloody well escort yourself home."

"Fine," Hermione snapped. She wanted to unleash some fiery invective upon him, but, annoyingly, she also knew that he had a point. "Walk me to your office and I'll patrol the castle before going to my room."

Severus exhaled breath heavily and scowled at her thinly veiled excuse but stiffened both his arm and his back. When he started to turn her towards the dungeons and stride away, Hermione had to admit that walking as a couple with him proved harder than she thought, as he easily had over a foot in height on her. His strides were long and quick and she rapidly felt outstripped.

"Would you slow down, please?" she asked, panting slightly again. "I thought you were going to match your steps to mine?"

"Well, perhaps you could give it a bit more effort instead of lolloping behind," he said, not even looking down at her. "Posture, Miss Granger."

She straightened her back and scowled at him. "I am not lolloping. Your legs come up to my ribcage, how am I supposed to keep up with you?"

He leered down at her, but she noticed that he slowed his pace and clipped the size of his strides. Hermione tried to keep from smiling triumphantly. He murmured little comments to her every now and then, reminding her of her posture and directing her about little things such as the placement of her free arm or how to go down stairs without "jouncing around like an amateur equestrienne riding a bucking stallion." When they reached the lowest level of the castle, turning onto the floor where his office lay, he stopped just before they entered the doorway.

"One last lesson on walking. God help us if we ever have to use it, but I should teach you the formal presentation, just in case." He straightened himself even further – which she didn't think possible, given that his spine nearly always resembled a girder – and bent his left arm behind him. This time, instead of offering her his right elbow, he extended the arm straight out in front of him, elbow bent at a right angle from his shoulder, his fist closed firmly and angled slightly towards her.

"This time, do not hold onto me, but rest your arm upon mine. Take your left forearm and lay it on mine, aligning your hand so that it drapes over the end of my fingers."

The owls began flapping around her belly again. Hermione didn't particularly want to touch him, but after the insult regarding being seen with him, she didn't want to be so uncouth as to give him another reason to snipe at her. She raised her arm and placed it flat against his, matching her wrist with his and allowing it to lie all the way to her elbow. Her fingers curled over the top of his fist and she couldn't help but notice how cold his skin was. She looked up into Severus's face for direction. His expression was surprisingly devoid of his usual sneer or mocking. Severus raised his free hand and corrected her positioning, pushing her elbow off and angling her hand towards him.

"The tension should be in the hand and arm," he said, positioning her over his closed fist, "not the wrist or fingers. The wrist should drape loosely, but not wobble like cold spaghetti."

Something strange gripped her. "Don't they usually hold hands?"

"I beg your pardon?" he said. He once again looked as if she had interrupted an internal thought process and startled him.

"I said, 'don't they usually hold hands?' Whenever I've seen films or read books where men and women did this sort of thing, the man usually held her hand in this position." Without thinking, Hermione turned his fist sideways, loosened his fingers, and placed her own inside of his. "Like this. Isn't it supposed to go like this?"

Strangely, Severus blushed. "Well, perhaps in Muggle culture they do. But purebloods generally seem to want to touch as little as possible. Most don't even sleep in the same bedrooms, which would make the intended result of this new Marriage Law much more difficult, I'm sure."

Hermione laughed at this, imaging people like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy trying to touch each other through holes in the walls, with determinedly disgusted scowls on their faces. Much to her surprise, Severus began to chuckle along with her for a moment, but when her eyes met his, he stopped quickly. And then pointedly withdrew his hand from hers. A strange, shaky nervous feeling creeping into her stomach, Hermione allowed him to turn his hand back to the original fist position.

"As I was saying," Snape resumed, most of the typical cold smoothness back in his voice, "tension in the hand and arm, but not the wrist or fingers. Our joined arms remain presented high, typically at the mid-chest for the man. However, since you are so much shorter than I, we shall modify it to here, level with your sternum."

She couldn't help blushing just a tiny bit when his arm brushed her breast. She wanted to squirm away, but fought the impulse. Severus continued as if he either had not noticed her reaction or did not seek to identify it with a response. He began to walk.

"The general posture is the same, but the tone must be one of regality. Slow and elegant. Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded. His hands were so cold. She thought idly that she should knit him gloves now that she had abandoned her efforts for the house elves.

"When would something so formal and grandiose be used?"

"Oh, balls, formal dinners, affairs of state, that sort of thing. That is exactly why I said that if we find occasion to actually use this, we have much larger problems."

His voice sounded oddly conversational, Hermione thought, discussing such functions that, nowadays, would only be required of someone of very high rank. As they rounded the corner and walked the last corridor towards Snape's office, Hermione could feel her posture change. Something about walking like that – almost a promenade – with a man next to her so straight and tall and strangely dignified, she could nearly feel a crown on her head. Which tickled something in her mind.

"Did you say your mother came from the line of Marie of Guise?"

"Yes," he said, still walking slowly, not even turning to look at her when she spoke.

"The House of Guise and the male line had a number of dukes in the fifteenth and sixteenth century, didn't it?"

"Yes." She thought he stiffened just a tiny bit. His muscles felt just the tiny bit tense.

"The ducal line de Guise died out in the sixteenth century."

His voice was definitely tenser. "No, they were forced into hiding."

"Hiding? Why?"

"Magical blood was discovered in the line."

"So? At that time, it would have been revered, wouldn't it?"

"Miss Granger," his voice was decidedly clipped now, "do think about what was happening on the continent in that era."

A moment or two passed where they simply walked past several dungeon classrooms. And then it hit her: dungeons. "You mean the witch trials?"

"Indeed. And given the involvement that the dukes de Guise had in the religious turmoil and massacres in France at the time, it was doubly dangerous and discouraged."

"So if the line didn't die out, that means that the line of dukes still exists?"

"Yes."

A one word answer. Hermione was on to something. "How far does it extend? Is there still a duke of the House of Guise alive?"

"Yes."

Snape turned with a small flourish and dropped her hand. At that moment, she realized that they had reached his office. He took a moment to open his door behind him before turning back to Hermione. Muddling her thoughts completely, he bent down and took up her hand in his.

"Who is the living duke?" Hermione asked, sensing him stemming the flow of information.

"Both a complete disappointment to– and the star pupil of his family."

Hermione's heart nearly seized when he bent over her hand in a bow reminiscent of something she'd read in a historical novel and for a wild moment, she thought he might kiss her hand. She nearly wept with relief when he didn't. He began to close the door, but realization hit her.

Star pupil!? "Are you the duc de Guise?"

"Goodnight, my Lady," Severus said, his face a blank, inscrutable mask as the thick mahogany door of his office closed in her face.

"Oh, come on!" Hermione shouted to the door.

Severus's deep voice practically rattled the frame when he called back to her. "Practice your walking, Duchesse."

"Merlin's teeth," Hermione said, her head to dropping to the cool wood in front of her. "Just when I thought the plot couldn't thicken any further. He's a duke. Not only have I gotten engaged to an unpleasant, unresponsive, sarcastic and sadistic man who happens to be my teacher, he's also a duke from a bloodline that was entwined in some of the bloodiest, most corrupt scandals and religious wars in French history." She banged her head against the door a few times, punctuating her words. Just for good measure. "Perfect. Just perfect."

****

Hermione felt somewhat foolish as she walked back to Gryffindor Tower, her back straight and chin high, but she practiced anyway. Following Snape's "advice" (which more resembled royal directives), Hermione kept her arm raised as if he was with her, practicing the proper placement of her arm and getting used to the feel of the posture. She didn't look down at the steps when she climbed each staircase as he had directed, and the lack of it caused her to trip numerous times, resulting in several near-falls. Each time she tried to recover as quickly as possible, muttering darkly to herself as she did. When she arrived at the seventh floor portrait hole, she practiced a small curtsy – which caused the Fat Lady to beam and bow to her – and mumbled the password. Entering the Tower, Hermione started a bit to see so few people in the Common Room. Harry sat in one of the armchairs at the fireplace, his legs curled under him, staring into the flames. Only a handful of people occupied the room's chairs, sofas and tables, and none of the typical boisterous chatter flowed through the room. Only a smattering of low conversations hit her ears. She moved over to where Harry sat, pulling up another armchair and smiling when he looked up at her.

"You were gone a long time."

Hermione merely nodded, not wanting to divulge where she'd been for the evening.

"Nobody wanted to sit around and talk about the memorial," he said, seemingly reading her previous thoughts. "And I think that everyone wanted to ignore how many are missing. Don't know how they're doing it though, staring at all the empty beds." He didn't look at her, but sighed heavily. "Lavender's engaged to a Ravenclaw."

"Really?" Hermione said, shocked. The girl was silly enough for anything; Hermione didn't know how the scholarly, serious Ravenclaws would take to that. "Which one?"

"Anthony Goldstein, apparently." Harry's voice was heavy. "She's heartbroken, so I hear. According to Demelza, she had her heart set on Seamus."

Hermione didn't speak. What was there to say?

"And I've gotten my first marriage petition."

"What?!" Hermione leapt out of the chair towards Harry. He raised a hand that had previously been buried in his robes and Hermione grabbed the letter he held in outstretched fingers, tilting it to get the light from the fire. Her heart dropped away and her stomach churned. "No."

"Yep."

"No!" she said loudly, garnering the stares of several other students. "No, it's impossible!"

"What's so impossible about it?" Harry said, his voice still lifeless. "If Snape can petition for you, what's to stop Pansy Parkinson from petitioning for me?"

Hermione thought she might vomit. She actually had to clutch at her stomach and curl her legs up under her to keep from shaking. "She can't ... you can't ... you can't marry Pansy! It's obviously a trap!"

Harry's hand darted out and snatched back the letter. "Of course it's a trap, Hermione!" Harry spat out. Now his eyes burned with fury. "I'm not daft, you know! Don't you think I see that they're trying to bait me and serve me to Voldemort?"

"Well," she said, her voice quivering, "we'll just have to find a way out of it. Someone else to petition." Harry made a noise in his throat but didn't speak. "We'll find someone else, Harry."

Harry, having resumed his study of the fireplace, remained silent for so long that Hermione eventually just mumbled that she needed sleep and when she got only the barest of nods from Harry wandered off towards the girls' dormitory.

*****

Breakfast was just as somber an affair the next morning as going to bed had been the night before. Hermione had felt a wave of sorrow wash over her as she noticed Parvati's empty bed in the darkened dormitory. She sat on the foot of her own four-poster and just stared at the crimson curtains that stood open across from her. She hadn't even particularly cared for the girl, but Hermione's vision blurred behind tears when she stared at the empty bed, devoid of sheets. The bare mattress looked like a corpse, and Hermione couldn't help but wonder what its former occupant had looked like when she died. Had Death Eaters tortured her as they had Ron? Did she die as he had, wracked with pain, her satiny spread of dark hair gnarled and knotted, drenched with blood and tears? Was she peaceful, knowing the end was coming? Perhaps she had just dropped into the afterlife, a look of slight surprise on her face as death had come, like the spider she'd seen Moody kill in Defense Against the Dark Arts so many years ago or like Harry's parents must have done. Her throat ached, and she tried not to sob aloud, especially when she heard sniffling from behind Lavender's drawn curtain. Parvati Patil had been far too young to die. Just like Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan and Colin Creevey and any one of the countless others. Without removing anything but her shoes, Hermione curled into a ball in the middle of her bed and cried until she passed out from exhaustion.

As a result, she wasn't exactly in top form when she woke the next morning, sunlight streaming in from the window across from her bed. Sunrise prodded her from sleep, being unencumbered by her bed curtains as it usually was. She hadn't realized that she'd forgotten to close them last night. Her throat was raw as she made her way to and from the prefect's bathroom. She wasn't crying anymore, but she barely saw what was in front of her. More than once, she realized that she was trying to put pieces of her clothing on incorrectly before she forced herself to pay closer attention. She wandered down to the Great Hall, not caring that her hair was slightly askew or that her Head Girl badge was crooked. Trying not to look around the Great Hall, she sat morosely chewing a piece of toast. There were too many missing. Nearly a third of the entire school. But she didn't want to think about that, so she scowled down at her schedule instead. One class and it wouldn't even meet until tomorrow. Her Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule was completely empty. And who even knew if anyone would actually come to her for help and advice? People already thought her a swotty know-it-all; would they really want to share their troubles with her? She grimaced at the parchment, wondering what she would do with her free time until people saw fit to meet with her.

"Plan the wedding, I suppose," Hermione mumbled to her pumpkin juice, which reminded her of a few ideas that she scratched down in the notebook she extracted from her schoolbag.

"So you are getting married?" she heard a voice say near her.

She looked up to see Lavender Brown standing over her, bag in hand and looking nervously between Hermione and the empty space on the bench next to her.

"Who are you marrying? I always thought you'd marry Ron," Lavender said uncertainly, "but now..."

Her eyes teared up a bit. Carefully avoiding the question, Hermione regarded the girl in front of her, sighing at the realization that the girl must have been totally blind-sided, having so many of her friends killed and being forced into marriage with a Ravenclaw she barely knew. A small but hopefully reassuring smile on her lips, Hermione pulled her bag from the bench and patted the empty space, silently inviting Lavender to join her. The girl looked overwhelmed with relief.

"Yes," Hermione said, trying to keep her face as light and steady and she could. "Yes, I was supposed to marry Ron, but ..."

"Do you," the girl started, but had to slash at a few tears before continuing, "know what happened? To Ron, I mean?"

Hermione nodded, her stomach roiling. "Actually, he was killed because ..." Well, they're all going to find out somehow, she thought. Better to hear the truth from me. "He was killed to get to me."

Lavender gasped loudly, covering her mouth with her hand. Hermione just nodded.

"I had a petition from ... someone else who we thought might be trying to either hurt me or hurt me to get to Harry. Unfortunately, I ... well, we didn't take the better advice of someone trying to protect us and we got engaged anyway." Feeling him as a magnet dragging her attention over to his pull, Hermione turned just her eyes to Snape and nearly upset her glass when she noted that his gaze had already been on her. His scowl deepened but he nodded at her just a tiny bit. "The Death Eaters tortured him to death." Hermione's voice steeled when she told Lavender the truth, but her eyes watered as the girl sobbed. Completely taken off guard when Lavender threw her arms around her in a bone-crushing hug, Hermione took a few seconds to recover before hugging the girl back.

"I'm so sorry," Lavender sniffled at Hermione's shoulder. "I know we haven't always got on so well, but ... but I really am sorry."

"It's all right," Hermione said stiffly. The girl had always treated her rather poorly, but if any time was ripe for banding together, this was it. "I've ... well, it still hurts, but I'm getting along."

Lavender backed away, wiped at her red-ringed eyes and shook a few of her chocolate curls away from her face. "If you ever want to talk or something," she said, "I would be happy to help."

"Thank you," Hermione said, genuinely surprised and pleased. "That's very generous of you." Her face sobered. "I'm sorry about Parvati. I know you two were close."

Lavender nodded and started to tear up again. She tried swiping her sleeve at her eyes, but when they kept flooding, she mumbled, "Excuse me," and got up to head out of the Great Hall.

"Of course," Hermione said, and stared after her, nonplussed. When she turned back to the table, she noted that Harry and Ginny both looked just as surprised, but oddly, Neville didn't.

"I think it's hit her really hard," Neville said quietly. He was pushing a piece of bacon around his plate. "I went to Seamus's and Dean's funerals. She looked like she'd lived about 15 years in the couple of weeks since I'd seen her. I think she feels guilty about Parvati; she was supposed to visit Lavender that weekend and was killed just after getting off the Knight Bus about three blocks from Lavender's house."

Hermione's eyes widened in shock and she turned to where the other girl had gone. No wonder she shared some kinship with her about Ron's death. Hermione shook her head, sighing.

"She shouldn't feel guilty, but it's normal, you know. Survivor's guilt. Happens all the time when somebody dies ... in your ... care...." His voice broke. For a mad moment, Hermione thought Neville might cry as well. She was equally stunned when he, too, got up from the table, muttering excuses and dashing out of the Hall.

"What is going on there?" Hermione asked Harry and Ginny, receiving only shrugs in return.

Not long after, Professor McGonagall bustled down the table, distributing schedules to the younger students who had needed additional advisement. Looking harassed, she stopped at Hermione's place on the bench.

"Miss Granger, you'll be interested to know that the Headmaster has decided that your 'counseling sessions,' such as they are, should be scheduled through me, so as to ensure you do not get overloaded in your eagerness to help others."

The older witch's lips drew into a thin line and she could see the wrinkles on her forehead become more pronounced. Clearly, she was annoyed at this, but whether it was the supposed slight to her Head Girl's sensibilities or the idea of Hermione being forced to counsel her peers, Hermione wasn't quite sure. Either way, she looked thoroughly displeased as she held out a piece of parchment for Hermione to take, which she didn't dare to glance at until the Professor had finished.

"You will note that three students have already requested a session with you. An hour each, Miss Granger, at most. I do not wish to have you overtaxing yourself, especially if your studies are to be more irregular than usual." At this, her face softened into a more pleasant expression. "On that note, please visit me after dinner to discuss the terms of your independent study in Transfiguration."

Hermione nodded and as soon as the statuesque professor left their company, her eyes devoured the paper. There they were, three names penciled into the open slots on Wednesday afternoon, Thursday morning, and Friday just before lunch: Neville Longbottom, Lavender Brown, and Charlotte Greengrass. She could only assume – though she felt it a highly logical assumption – that this was Daphne's younger sister that she'd seen in the memorial ceremony the previous evening. With a determined expression, Hermione stowed the paper in her bag. She would certainly find out what was going on with Neville and would have the chance to help poor Lavender out with the whole confusion and grief of the situation. And the little Greengrass girl ... well, that was an interesting thing, wasn't it? She wouldn't have expected a Slytherin to come to her for help. She had believed Hufflepuffs would seek her out, perhaps Ravenclaws, but she had never dreamed a Slytherin would. Though, considering the circumstances surrounding her sister's death, it seemed logical. It showed good judgment in the girl to seek out help and counsel, but also incredible courage, to surge away from the prejudices of her House and brave the taunting and trouble sure to come to her. And then, with a start, Hermione realized that it may not have all been good sense on the part of the tiny towheaded girl. She looked up to the staff table and again found Severus's dark gaze on her. Had he been the one to suggest the girl seek out Hermione's advice? As his gaze searched her face, she fought the slight panic that always flowed through her when under his scrutiny and managed a smile. Much to Hermione's astonishment, Snape looked genuinely startled at her response. Unable to contain her amusement at this heretofore unseen discomposure, Hermione nearly laughed when the usually-scowling professor made great work of rearranging his place setting before getting up and stalking away from the staff table. The panic resurfaced in her when he stalked directly to her.

A few well-placed scowls at Gryffindors who dared to look at him inquiringly quelled any eavesdroppers, with the exception of Harry and Ginny, both glaring defiantly. His face petrified into smooth marble as he returned his attention to Hermione. "Miss Granger, you will meet me in my office after first lesson. I have several things to discuss with you. Alone."

He said the last sharply, matching Harry's angry stare without so much as a flicker of emotion crossing his face. Hermione nodded and tried not to feel queasy. Being around the man still made her nervous, not the least because she'd had to be so very close to him last night. She could nearly still feel his cold fingers beneath hers. And the second-to-last time she'd seen him, her father had hit him and he'd scandalized both of her parents by kissing her. Yes, the man was certainly dangerous and most definitely made her uneasy.

"Yes, Professor," she mumbled. "I'll be there directly after the bell."

"See that you are." He turned with a flourish of his robes and moved away, seeming not really to walk, but to glide like a giant bird of prey on the wind. She shivered.

"What's that all about?" Harry asked. His face was set into a scowl.

"What?"

"Snape wanting to meet with you after first lesson," Ginny finished for him.

Harry's scowl deepened and he leaned across the table. "What does he want from you that you have to meet him alone?"

Harry looked so suspicious and accusatory that, despite the lingering trembles, Hermione felt her temper rise up in her. "I don't know, do I?" she snapped. "Otherwise I wouldn't have to meet with him. Besides," her voice dropped to a hiss, but there was venom in it, "you should get used to the fact that I won't always tell you exactly what goes on between me and my future husband."

Her stomach had dropped away when she'd said it, but the effect had been exactly as she intended: Ginny paled and Harry's eyes flashed with anger. Recognizing that she should quit while she had the upper hand (and the shocked silence), Hermione hefted her bag up from the floor and stalked out of the Great Hall. She was simply heading back to Gryffindor Tower to unpack her things, but Harry didn't need to know that.

*****

Back in her bedroom, Hermione stared uncertainly at a few boxes that she had shrunk magically over the summer so that they'd fit in her trunk to return to school. Upon starting her quest to unpack, she'd returned them to normal size but now scowled at them, unsure of what else to do. The nine boxes that she'd brought were filled with many books, pictures, mementos and other personal items that had come with her to Hogwarts this year that had been left in Bedfordshire previously. When she had gotten word of the Marriage Law, even though it had made her uncomfortably sad to think of not returning to her parents' house, she had packed them on the possibility that whomever she married might require her to move a difficult distance from her parents' home. Charlie lived in Romania, Remus in London – she hadn't known whether she would have to relocate in hurry, especially if trouble arose. Then, the visit with her parents had gone so poorly she wasn't sure if she'd ever go home again. As such, she was happy that she'd had the foresight to pack her most treasured items, but they did bring up the sticky point of feeling like an orphan. So here sat the boxes. Her first instinct had been to unpack all the things, knowing that the items themselves would comfort her. But if she was simply going to relocate to another place – though admittedly not as far as she had first considered – was it really prudent to relieve them of their contents? Hermione hated wasted effort and it seemed silly to display items that would just remind her that she couldn't go home anymore. Seeing the boxes sitting around the dormitory, however, would just remind her on a constant basis of the impending marriage and surly fiancé that she currently wanted to think as little of as possible. She hadn't even seen his chambers and soon they would be her home. Hermione sat down on her bed and allowed out some tears. After a few rasping breaths and much sniffling, she stood up again and turned her attention back to the boxes. With a sigh, she stacked them neatly in the corner. However unpleasant it was to think about marrying and cohabitating with Snape, Hermione was a pragmatist. She was getting married to Snape and it couldn't be avoided, changed or wished away. The boxes remained unopened. But the wedding dress remained neatly folded within its bag at the bottom of her trunk.

*****

Severus Snape scratched away at the parchment in front of him, a small tick in his eyebrow as he scowled at the letter he'd received the previous evening. It wasn't enough that the Ministry was now reaching so far into people's lives that they were reaching into their reproductive organs, now he would be forced to deal with his father as well. Nearly twenty years in blissful silence and now, when he had quite enough to juggle without further aggravation, he'd be forced to return to that dreadful place with an annoying little chit and play nice with the last vestige of family that held him enchained. The old man surely clung to life just to spite him. Severus still grumbled fiercely until a flicker of light caught the corner of his eye. Fingering the handle of his wand through the sleeve of his robes, Severus checked the Foe Glass he had stationed just behind the cauldron station on his front work table and then cast a quick eye at the mirror positioned behind his quill cup that reflected several other mirrors placed at key points throughout the room. His lips drew together in a thin line and he fought not to sigh when a reflection of Granger met his eyes, poking her head around the door frame, looking as if she were going to burst into tears at any moment.

"Come in, Granger," he snarled. "For heaven's sake, come in."

She startled for a moment, which made him smile, but quickly gathered herself and walked straight to his desk. He could see her setting her chin – readying herself for battle, it seemed – as she stood in front of him. And her little front of bravery would have worked had she not fidgeted a few times, unsure of where to place her hands. She settled for a wide-legged stance something akin to a military rest, hands behind her back. He smirked and glanced back to the letter he'd been reading. When he noticed that she focused her attention there and recognized it from the previous evening, he took the time to crumple it thoroughly and deposit it in the wastebasket beneath his desk.

After a long moment of silence, Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes?" When he slowly leveled a potent glare at her, she added, "Professor. What did you want to see me about?"

"The charm of your company, to be sure," he said dryly. She narrowed her eyes and began to speak but he continued over top of her. "We must discuss the details of this coming weekend's visit to my family estate."

Hermione looked distinctly unsettled for a moment before she smoothed her features. Well done, Severus thought, if a bit slow on the uptake. He was impressed that her voice was steady when she spoke, though his face betrayed nothing of the approval.

"What would you like to discuss, sir?" she asked in a ruthlessly polite voice. Anything you can do ..., Hermione thought.

"The more obvious though slightly problematic details of presenting an acceptable impression to my father: your clothes."

Hermione raised an eyebrow to match his. "What about them? Sir," she added.

"You have dress robes?" he asked, though it didn't seem like a question. He smirked slightly at the idea that this little Gryffindor thought she could best him in a staring contest. His gaze was merciless and unwavering after years of practice. He laid down his quill and gave her undivided attention, watching to see if she would fidget.

"I do."

"And the only other clothing you own is school robes, correct?"

"No," she said, looking distinctly puzzled. "I have plenty of skirts, a few dresses, several nice pairs of jeans, and lots of..."

"I said clothing," he interrupted smoothly, "not that rubbish Muggles wear. Do you have any robes other than school robes and dress robes?"

Hermione scowled fiercely at him. "No, sir."

A slow smirk crossed his face. "We must remedy this situation. I will take you to an appropriate shop this week and select enough robes for you so as to correctly navigate the weekend."

He made it sound like a battlefield. Without her being able to restrain it, Hermione's throat tightened. "Sir, I don't ...." She knew she sounded strangled and embarrassed. "Since my parents have ... cut me off, I don't ... I don't have the money to buy that many pieces of clothing, sir. Certainly not up to your father's or your standards, I'm sure." She felt her face flush nearly purple as his gaze remained on her face for several long moments.

"I will provide you with the funds for new clothing," he said at length.

Hermione looked up into his blank face, startled, and rambled, "Sir, that's very kind of you, but I'm sure your teacher's salary can't be so large that you can flounce around buying me all sorts of robes, and given the circumstances, you shouldn't have to..."

"First of all, Miss Granger, I rarely flounce. Secondly, you are going to be my wife, shortly."

"I know that, sir."

"Hence the origin of this entire ordeal, Granger."

"I know that, sir."

"Would you consider it odd if I gave you money for clothing once married?" he asked.

Her brows knit together as she considered this. "I suppose not, sir. Not while I was in school and unemployed, certainly, as I have no means of income."

"Would you consider it odd if I gave you clothing as a gift once we are married?"

Before she could stop herself, she laughed. "Aside from the fact that I can't imagine you giving gifts to anyone, I suppose not." Her laughter stifled itself in her throat at his blank stare.

"Then why should now be any different? You are my fiancée, I am taking you to meet my father, and you do not have the finances to support the burden of the necessary clothing. I do not see the problem."

"I suppose I can see your point, sir, but it still seems like..."

Severus sighed in frustration. "Granger, you are making this far more difficult than it needs to be. Stop wittering, say thank you, and suggest a time when it would be convenient for you to leave school to go shopping with me."

For a moment, Hermione had the inclination to continue the argument, but then she realized that Snape had been offering her an olive branch (of sorts) and thought about how ridiculously impolite she was being to a man who rarely, if ever, made gestures of this sort. "I'm sorry, Professor," she responded slowly. "You're right. Thank you very much for your kindness; that's very generous of you."

He nodded shortly and Hermione could see just a flash of surprise exit his face. Most likely, he had not expected to acquiesce so quickly nor go so far as to apologize. She found herself quite amused and pleased at catching him off guard.

"Now, a time?" he asked.

"I have no commitments after double-Defense Against the Dark Arts tomorrow morning. I have a counseling session Wednesday afternoon, but am free for a few hours in the morning or afterwards in the evening, if that suits you better, Professor."

Snape had regained himself fast enough to reposition his trademark disdainful sneer. "Tomorrow will suffice. You will meet me in the Great Hall at 11:30 am."

"But sir..."

"We will eat a late lunch, once we have visited the clothier."

Both her temper and her pride chafed not only at being told where to obtain clothing but also when and where to eat lunch and the fact that he intended to pick out the clothing for her, but she swallowed her annoyance as quickly as she could manage. His talents were in angering and upsetting her; if she refused to allow him to goad her into a rage, perhaps she could gain a step or two on his arrogance. "Yes, sir," she said.

Severus raised his eyebrow further and smirked amusedly at the hard quality to her voice. After decades of watching students squirm in his classroom under his scrutiny, he could tell she just barely had a rein on her temper. Perhaps little exercises in patience would school her in stilling her tongue and listening to her elders. A nasty little voice in the back of his head reminded him that he was considering himself the elder of the young woman who would, not so long from now, be sharing his home. And his bed. He felt very nearly ill at that idea and waved a hand dismissively at her.

"You're free to go," he said, bringing the hand up to massage his temples.

He could almost hear her roll her eyes, so obvious was her annoyance, but after a moment, she turned with a flounce and strode out the door.