The French Knot

A/N – Oh, how angry you all must be with me! My life has been completely nuts, and I totally forgot to update! *headdesk* Anyway, here's chapter fifteen and I PROMISE that chapter sixteen will be hot on its heels. A thousand thank-you's to my darling friend and beta, Maggiferous, whose fantastic education and semester abroad was graciously put to the test when I wanted Severus not to sound like an idiot. Vive la Sorbonne and vive la Maggiferous. *snerk* Yeah, I know, I'm the idiot.

^_^

Enjoy,

~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~

Chapter Fifteen – The French Knot

The French Knot – "This knot is used often in hand-embroidery, but a lot of people avoid it, because it intimidates them. Once you work one correctly, you'll find that it's really easy!!! There are different methods to making French knots. Some people twist their thread three times, some only two. ...You can also achieve larger knots by changing the weight of the thread you are using. ...The trick to French knots is to keep tension on your working thread while you're pulling your needle through so that your coils stay in their proper place on your needle." from Needle-N-Thread.com

Hermione's stomach was aflutter, and she couldn't seem to keep herself from reaching up to smooth the long, tidy plait of her hair periodically. She'd chosen to put it up in a braid, reasoning that she'd look a fright if she left it out and had to keep pulling things off and on over her head, and had selected a blue striped blouse over her best pair of grey trousers. She kept walking back and forth across the entrance hall stones a few steps, smoothing her hair and trousers as she moved and waited. Ginny had Hermione's black traveling cloak over her arm.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" the redhead asked, glancing around the hall.

"Yes, I'm sure," Hermione said, finishing her pacing towards the House points glasses and turning to walk back towards the stairs. "Anyhow, I don't think he'd let you come. He'd probably get all shirty and then deduct House points."

"Would you stop pacing?" Ginny said, her voice a tad hysterical. She grabbed the older girl's shoulders and held her firm. "You're making me nervous."

Hermione took a few deep breaths and she slumped within Ginny's grasp. "I'm sorry, I just," she stammered. "It's just so ... awkward. I'm not exactly leaping at the idea of spending a day with him, especially where he's picking out my clothing, and then it reminds me that the reason he's picking out my clothing is that we have to spend an entire weekend together. Obviously Snape's father must be a total bastard," Ginny raised her eyebrows at Hermione's use of such a relatively harsh word, "because if Snape thinks he's bad ... Oh, Gin, how in Merlin's name am I going to manage this?"

Ginny guided the other girl over to the stairs to sit and then gently pushed Hermione's head against her shoulder, stroking the curls that had been beaten into submission. "Breathe. Just breathe," Ginny said soothingly. "You'll manage it. You're the strongest girl I've ever known."

Hermione's head shot up, and she cast Ginny a dubious look. Her friend merely pushed her head back down and resumed stroking. Hermione eventually relaxed.

"I mean it," she continued, "you are. You're a match for Snape any day of the week and twice on Sunday. And if Snape's father's a bastard, then you just draw yourself up, tell him a precise orifice into which he can stick his wand, and march right out of there."

Ginny looked up when they heard footsteps echoing across the hall. Snape approached them, his appearance typically severe but a small sneer on his face.

"That might not make the acceptable impression," Snape said. "Not to mention that such a statement would garner my extreme displeasure. Weasley, you're supposed to be at lunch. Ten points from Gryffindor."

Ginny scowled at Snape, but deliberately turned away from him to regard Hermione again. "You're sure that you're going to be all right?" she asked.

Hermione laughed, especially at the fierce look on Snape's face that she just noticed out of the corner of her eye. Pulling the other girl into a hug, Hermione whispered, "Thanks for that," and then louder, "I'll be fine, Ginny. Have a good afternoon. And start putting your heads together about a solution for," Hermione glanced guardedly at Severus, "Harry's problem with the letter."

Ginny blanched a bit, but nodded and rose from the step. Taking an inordinate amount of time to brush off her robes, she offered Hermione a hand up from the stairs, handed her the traveling cloak, and then turned a beaming smile to the still-scowling Potions Master, who had now folded his arms across his chest and begun to glare.

"Professor," she said and made a show of curtsying deeply in front of him.

"Another ten points from Gryffindor for mocking a teacher, Weasley," he snapped. "Potter's attitude will not be allowed to become infectious."

When Severus turned swiftly and began to stride towards the door, Ginny pulled a horrendous face at his back, tongue out and all, causing Hermione to stifle a few giggles and wave her away into the Great Hall for lunch. Hermione scurried after the retreating form of the black-clad professor, who had already thrown open the enormous front doors and started moving down the steps. By the time she was within hearing distance of him, she was panting slightly from having to jog.

"I thought we discussed you not galloping if you expect me to keep up," she said when he slowed enough for her to keep level with him. "You have a stride like a giraffe. It's impossible."

Snape smirked. "I also believe we discussed you not lolloping around. I am accustomed neither to waiting nor to marking my steps."

Hermione grabbed the sleeve of his robe at the elbow. She tugged to get him to slow to a more reasonable pace and hung on. "You'd better get accustomed to both. I'm not getting any taller; you're not getting any shorter. I don't intend on dying any time soon, and that's your only way out of this marriage."

The thing that melted across Snape's hawk-like features probably would have been called a smile, had it not been Snape's face that bore it. He even chuckled just a tiny bit before his features straightened and he looked down at her hand, still clutched around his robes. With a jolt of surprise, Hermione unclasped her fingers from the black wool, and then cast a hasty glance at the windows of the castle, wondering if anyone could see them walking together. For good measure, she swung her cloak around her shoulders, hoping it might help mask her identity somewhat. Snape sighed but did not comment.

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked after a few minutes of walking in silence. She thought that she recognized the path towards which he seemed to be tending but he veered in a slightly different direction. "Hogsmeade?"

"Near enough," he responded. "There's a seamstress outside of the town with whom I am acquainted. She has the appropriate materials and an eye for the style I am looking for."

"You know a dress maker?" Hermione asked, surprised.

Severus did not comment, so she fell silent again. Her stomach in knots, she had no choice but to follow, as his very presence made her too nervous for conversation. That he probably wouldn't return if I did speak, she thought to herself, and hadn't realized that she was grumbling in her throat slightly until she felt that dark-eyed stare on her face. She fumbled for a few moments within the pockets of her robes, fingering her wand and a small satchel of money, before realizing the silence would drive her mad.

"Don't you ever just talk?"

Snape turned to regard her, raising an eyebrow. He did it so often she was surprised his face wasn't lopsided. That muscle in the top of his forehead must be strong until to lift a small dragon. "Idle chatter does not interest me," he said shortly. "It is wasteful and pointless."

"Well, how about actual conversation then?" she retorted. "If I'm going to meet your father, perhaps I should know something about you or your family?"

He pursed his lips thinly, his hands digging even further into the inner folds of his robes. "I was born on January 9, 1956, to Tobias Snape and Solange Etienne de Lorraine, a daughter of the House of Guise of France. Her father had been the last duc de Guise until he passed away shortly after my first birthday, passing the title," he scowled heavily, "to me, unfortunately. My younger brother, Septimius, was born in May of the year I turned four. My mother passed away when I was nine, seemingly having hung herself by the neck from the crossbeams of the chapel on our family's property. After that, I was raised by my father who, regrettably, is still alive, though my younger brother is not."

Hermione blanched. The way he spoke of his family, especially of his mother's and brother's deaths, had been so cold, so cavalier, that she couldn't help but believe that he didn't really care at all. His posture was as rigidly straight as always, but something seemed to tick in a muscle here and there as he continued his bland narrative. She was absolutely positive he had no desire to go home again, but whether it was out of fear of reliving the events he recounted or total detachment from them, she couldn't quite discern. And it made her want cry, wondering what kind of man she had agreed to marry.

"Septimius, being the younger child as well as the less able wizard and lacking a title, always felt he had to prove his superiority to the family which, I suppose, is why my father always favored him. He never ceased with showy theatrics of his accomplishments – or his attempts, I should say, at accomplishments – and my more intellectual pursuits and achievements either went largely ignored or completely misunderstood. Septimius thought himself quite the military leader in the making in his early years ... went on to see himself as something of a General within the Death Eaters. He was killed in Paris during a raid when he was twenty."

So much unhappiness in his life, and yet, he seemed unaffected, almost indifferent to it. Furrowing her brow, Hermione searched for something appropriate to say. "Septimius ... Severus," Hermione actually chuckled as she mulled the names over aloud. "Either your mother or your father had a fondness for the Romans, eh? I suppose it was fate that you became acquainted with Lucius Malfoy. It completed the trifecta."

A little smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he walked, but Snape didn't look down at her. "You do know your history." He sounded obviously impressed now. "Yes, I suppose the names are a tad dramatic and pretentious. Hermione."

She laughed as he said her name, knowing he was mocking her but she didn't care; somehow, she sensed there was a helping of conspiratorial sympathy and humor in it. "Yes, my parents had a flair for the dramatic. Literally."

"To say the least. One good deed dying tongueless/Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. /Our praises are our wages.' Sounds like a typically Gryffindor statement, don't you think?" he said, the edges of his mouth curling up further. "It seems the name was a suitable choice."

A look of distinct shock etched itself across Hermione's face and, despite her best efforts, would not go away. The other night it was Oscar Wilde, and today, Shakespeare. "I just can't figure you out," she said after a long moment debating whether she should speak at all.

"Nor should you," he said, the smile disappearing from his face. "It would be an arduous, futile task unworthy of your time and effort. Keep up; we've still got quite a walk."

Hermione increased her pace along side him and fell into silence. The man next to her was going to spend the rest of his life in her company, and yet, felt it was a waste of time for her to try to understand him. Which just made her want to understand him more. Her brows knit as she pondered all the information – both spoken and silent – that she'd gained as she followed him down a path that wound far around the outskirts of Hogsmeade village.

*****

By the time they reached the quaint but sizeable cottage at the farthest edge of Hogsmeade, Hermione hunched a bit under her cloak and ran her hands across her arms. Despite only being September 7th, the air had a distinct chill to it that she hadn't accounted for when choosing her attire for the day. Her blouse seemed thinner than she remembered and she noted with a slight scowl that it wasn't only her arms that were reacting to the cold. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. Perhaps she should leave her cloak on when they entered the shop. She looked up at the small sign hanging just over the lintel, showing a picture of a bending, winged woman, tapping a wand on a needle stuck in a spool of thread. Beneath the spool read the words, "La Fée d'Aiguille." Though she certainly wasn't fluent in the language, Hermione could glean the meaning, from both word and picture: The Needle Fairy.

Striking his wand on a plate next to the door, Severus nodded as the door clicked and opened in front of him. He stepped over the threshold and into the cottage without checking to see if Hermione was following. Scowling just a tad, she did. The interior of the building wasn't at all what she expected, given the outside. It was more spacious than the she'd imagined – no doubt with the use of several well-placed expansion charms – and every available inch of the walls was covered floor to ceiling with row upon row of bolts of fabric. Deep grays and moody blacks stretched out next to her right arm, near the door, and the colors bled as the shelves wrapped all the way around the one room main floor, winding behind a spiral staircase leading to the upper floor, and coming to rest a few feet away to her left with bright, cherry reds. It appeared as if every kind of fabric was available as well. Wandering away from her fiancé, she skirted the large wooden slab table that monopolized the center of the room, covered in various stacks of bolts, tools, and pattern pieces, and ran her hands across the shelves at her shoulder's height, her fingers passing across silks and satins, brocades, cottons, and even some scratchy wool that her skin remembered from walking practice a few evenings ago. No doubt who did his tailoring then, she thought with a smirk. Several feet above her head – at the very top next to the ceiling – were bolts of lace so finely woven they looked made of spun sugar. Hermione stood on her toes and reached out a hand towards a bit that was dangling just out of her reach.

"Ne les touchez pas!" a haughty, raven-haired woman said, appearing at Hermione's side as if out of thin air. "Zey are antiques and could be damaged by ze rough fingers!"

Hermione retracted her hand quickly, coloring in embarrassment. "Excusez-moi," she said. "I meant no harm. They are lovely."

The woman only sniffed in response before turning to regard Severus. Her face became slightly less upturned and conceited as she greeted him, permitting him to bend and place a kiss on each pale cheek. Too bad she is so snooty, Hermione thought ruefully, returning to stand in the doorway. A smile and she'd be quite lovely. With a quick eye to her features, Hermione judged the woman to be approximately Severus's age, though she looked a few years older. She was no less striking for it, though. A wealth of black hair had been swept away from her face in a swooping and intricate series of knots at the back of her head, with several long, loose ringlets dangling to the middle of her back. Her cheekbones were high and prominent underneath dark eyes and brows that stood out against her alabaster skin. Quite tall for a lady, she did not need Severus to bend very far to take both hands in his and reach her cheeks.

"Etoile," Severus said, his voice now languid and deep. "Je suis toujours heureux d'être chez toi. A pleasure to see you and your fine work again."

"Merci," the woman responded, touching a hand to his cheek and smiling thinly. "And you, as always. What brings you 'ere today?"

Following Severus's studied gaze to the doorway, Etoile cast Hermione an appraising and somewhat disapproving look. She fought not to squirm under the twin scrutiny of both pairs of dark eyes and managed a small smile. The smile disappeared from her face, though, and was replaced by an open stare as Severus began conversing with the woman in the most rapid-fire French she'd ever heard.

"Un petit projet, Etoile," he said. "T'as entendu parole de cet loi de mariage?"

She made a disapproving noise at the back of her throat. "Une vraie insulte, ça, aux gens de sang pur autour de monde. En particulier quelqu'un avec une histoire comme toi, Votre Excellence." She made a very small curtsy. "Mais, qu'est-ce que c'est avec la fille?"

Severus's face dropped into a heavily put-upon scowl. "Elle est ma fiancée."

"Nom de dieu, quelle désastre!"

"C'est pourquoi nous sommes ici, Etoile," he said, turning back to Hermione. "Ses vêtements sont limités aux robes d'école et les bêtes choses Muggle. Nous rencontrerons mon père ce week-end, et il faut la préparer proprement. Je ne mis ma fois en personne que toi, parce qu'il faut le faire si vite. Je suis certain que tu comprends l'importance de sa comparution et le style que je cherche. Je comprends que tu es artiste, et je te compenserai de bonne manière."

From the way the seamstress's eyes suddenly began to glitter, Hermione surmised that Snape must have offered her a great sum of money. The distaste that had been in her eyes while the two spoke had melted into surprise and then that hungry, ambitious look. Hermione felt distinctly unsettled in being studied as if the woman – Etoile, she thought she'd heard Severus call her – was a large cat and Hermione a particularly fat wounded robin. Doing the opposite of her original instinct, Hermione took a few steps towards the pair and swung her cloak from her shoulders. Obviously, they were getting somewhere and she'd have to be fitted soon.

"Le sang boueux?" Etoile asked Snape without taking her eyes from Hermione.

"Bien sur," Snape answered. Hermione didn't like the tone in his voice; it was nearly a laugh, but just far enough away from one to be suspicious.

The seamstress crossed the distance between them and made a slow circle around her, running an appraising glance over her whole body. Hermione cleared her throat. Loudly. Etoile glanced back at Snape over Hermione's shoulders. "Donc, comme une pucelle ou une putain?"

This time when the woman spoke, Severus did laugh. "As my wife," he said, surprising Hermione by reverting to speaking English. "For now. But I may take you up on the latter one at a later date."

The woman laughed, and Hermione found it unpleasant. She had a very deep suspicion that they were mocking her, which made perfect sense, seeing as it was plainly clear that the woman spoke perfectly acceptable English. She crossed her arms around her chest and scowled at her fiancé.

"Finished talking over my head, are we?" Hermione snapped.

"Your manners, Miss Granger," he said smoothly, sneering down at her. "Madame Etoile Moreaux, may I present Miss Hermione Granger, the future Duchesse de Guise. Miss Granger, Madame Etoile Moreaux, proprietress of The Needle Fairy."

Hermione turned to Madame Moreaux, hoping simply to keep from scowling at the woman, but found it difficult when the seamstress held and shook her hand as if Hermione had offered her a used tissue. Hermione fought not to roll her eyes.

"A pleasure, Madame Moreaux," Hermione said in a clipped, tight voice. "I appreciate you seeing us on such short notice and for agreeing to aid us in what I'm sure is a much tighter time frame than you are accustomed to."

Madame Moreaux nodded, her face resuming the look of cool arrogance that had marked in when she had first entered. She completed her circuit around Hermione, poking in a few places, smoothing her hands here and there over Hermione's shoulders and hips, drawing her arms out away from her body and then returning them.

" 'Ow many robes would you like for ze girl?"

Severus studied Hermione thoughtfully. "At least four, six if you can manage."

"Six is ze bare minimum, in zis case," Etoile intoned, returning to speaking about Hermione as if she weren't there. "I would say more, but zere is no time."

Severus nodded and waved his hand dismissively. "Six will do fine."

"Six?" Hermione asked incredulously, determined to reinsert herself in the conversation. "Why in the world would I need six sets of robes for two and a half days?"

Etoile looked thoroughly scandalized and muttered something under her breath in French. Hermione thought she caught the word "trash." She scowled when she noticed that Severus had adopted the patient countenance of someone explaining a difficult concept to a very small child.

"Three for day wear, including Friday afternoon's arrival," he said, "two that are more formal for each evening's dinner, and dress robes, just in case my father decides to pull any tricks. If luck is on our side, that one can stay packed, but it is better to be prepared. Is that possible, Etoile?"

The seamstress nodded shortly and thrust her hands into the pockets of her cornflower blue robes, withdrawing her wand, a measuring tape and a small notebook. She took a few quick steps back towards the spiral staircase and clapped her hands sharply, speaking a few quick words up towards the second floor. Hurried steps pounded the ceiling over her head.

"Etoile," Severus said, walking over to meet her, "I don't suppose you have any ready-made pieces that you might be able to fit to her immediately, do you?"

Again the woman nodded, and their voices dropped too low for Hermione to hear. Instead of allowing her temper to gain her, she took the opportunity to wander the perimeter of the shop, running her hands along the selection and making a mental note of the colors she liked best. With a bit of a start, Hermione turned when two girls in blue robes just like Madame Moreaux's scurried down the stairs just behind her. Hermione craned her head around to regard the flurry of motion that had overtaken this end of the cottage. Two girls that were likely not even as old as Hermione had lined up next to Etoile, their heads inclined towards the floor but both were eyeing Snape with interest and ... something else. The older of the two was blushing furiously.

"Good day, Your Grace," both girls said in unison. French accents tumbled thickly out of their mouths as well, and given the chocolate eyes, high cheekbones and tumble of inky curls framing both faces, Hermione figured that these must be Madame Moreaux's daughters.

"Good afternoon, ladies," Severus replied. "Fabienne, Amelie."

Hermione whirled around in surprise at the fluid tone, nearly bobbling the bolt of fabric she had pulled out, but pushed it back in delicately and found herself staring at the sudden, silky smile on his face. Flabbergasted, Hermione fought to keep her jaw from dropping at the mischief alight in his eyes as he took up and kissed each of the hands of the two girls, both of whom dissolved into giggles. Amelie, the older of the two, blushed herself practically crimson and stared down at her shuffling feet. Hermione nearly broke a rib trying not to laugh. What is wrong with those two girls? Etoile cleared her throat pointedly and glared at the girls, who instantly ceased shuffling and snapped to attention.

"Girls," she said, "you will take Miss Granger to ze changing room upstairs and asseest 'er in disrobing. You will please also place on 'er one of ze sizing pieces and bring 'er back down 'ere to me."

The girls nodded but looked uncertainly between Hermione, Snape, and their mother.

"Now!" Etoile said sharply.

The girls nodded again, but this time moved over to Hermione, Amelie taking her elbow and gesturing for her to trail the younger, Fabienne, up the stairs. Hermione followed, casting a glance at Snape as she made her way up the case. Between the rungs of the wrought-iron balustrade, she saw him smirk just a tad as his gaze tracked her. She narrowed her eyes at him, and then focused forward so she would not fall.

*****

Once on the second floor, Hermione smiled genuinely for the first time. Again, the entirety of the cottage had been consolidated into a single, large area dressed out as a changing room. In one corner, a rose-pink fainting couch stretched out from behind a lace curtain. Not far away, a tea service sat on a silver cart, steam rising in delicate curls from a tall silver pot. Next to the wall on her left was a full-length stand mirror made out of a deep, curving mahogany. A few other pieces of boudoir-like furniture – including a matching mahogany wardrobe and a beautiful privacy screen with herons painted on it – scattered themselves about the room. Hermione wandered into the center of the space and smiled. The carpet was plush beneath her feet, the room was warm and inviting, and she felt like she had just stepped into a romance novel. It was something akin to the feeling she'd gotten when she first came through the platform at King's Cross, only that being a fantasy epic. She turned and, with a smile, hung her cloak on a nearby peg before moving back to the two girls standing at the top of the stairs, clearly waiting for her to beckon them over.

"I'm Hermione," she said, offering each her hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you."

The younger shook her hand politely, curtsied and mumbled, "Enchanté, Mademoiselle."

Amelie, who looked to be about fourteen or fifteen, took her hand, but it was her face that the girl studied with rapt interest. "Are you truly marrying ze Duke?" she asked excitedly.

"Erm, yes," Hermione answered, surprised, as the girl continued to pump her hand and blush at the same time. "Yes, I am. In a few weeks. How did you know that?"

Fabienne giggled. "You don't speak French?"

"Not much," Hermione admitted guiltily. Etoile Moreaux's daughters proved far more charming the she. "A little, but not enough to follow along with your mother and Sn...the Duke. How did you know?"

"Maman said zat ze Duke 'ad arrived with a fiancée," Amelie answered. She seemed almost in a breathless hurry.

"Do you know ... er," Hermione stammered, "the Duke?"

"Oh, yes," Fabienne answered and reached for the buttons on Hermione's blouse.

"That's all right," she said quickly, putting a gentle hand to the girl's to stop her progress. "I can do it myself. Have a seat and tell me what you know of him."

Drawing up two chairs nearby, the girls began to bubble over with stories of how they'd been helping their mother outfit 'the Duke' since they were little girls. Somehow, the picture that the two painted of him – as a moody but quietly roguish mystery man– just didn't fit, and Hermione bandied between laughter and complete bafflement as they spoke.

" 'e is 'andsome, no?" Amelie asked, Fabienne giggling in return as she clipped Hermione's trousers to a hanger so that they would not crease. The older girl bustled around as Hermione stripped to her knickers and bra, gathering a lightweight beige chemise from a rack next to the stairs. "Just like tragic 'eroes in zose gothic novels, yes?"

Hermione tried her best to stifle a look of bewildered distaste. He was nothing like that. He was more like Snidely Whiplash ... only not so humorous. "I suppose," Hermione said noncommittally, "though I hadn't really thought about it. We're getting married for ... other reasons."

Amelie nodded and looked suddenly pensive, but Fabienne seemed not to have noticed anything. "He is very secretive, ze Duke," Amelie whispered, holding out the chemise to her. "I think zat 'ee is eenvolved with You-Know-'Ooo."

Hermione was taken aback. Obviously the girl had seen a different side of Snape than she over the course of the years, but she hadn't expected such perception. "Well, I," Hermione stammered, but stopped when Amelie raised a hand.

"Fabienne is scared of zuch theengs," was all she said in response.

Nodding, Hermione hid her puzzlement at Amelie's appraisal of Snape behind fabric as she dropped the garment she'd been handed over her head and shrugged her arms into it. The confusion didn't abate, however, as she stared at the voluminous garment as it bagged around her arms and torso, nearly falling off her at the shoulders.

"Erm," Hermione said, not wanting to be impolite. "It's a bit big. And a bit see-through."

"Oh, zat ees all right," Fabienne said, moving in front of Hermione to pull the neck a little tighter with a cord at the front. "Maman weel adjust eet for Mademoiselle and use zis as a pattern for your uzzer robes."

Hermione nodded, seeing the sense in it, but still felt very self conscious. The garment rather resembled the sort of chemise that would have been worn under a corset in Renaissance times, except that it was practically translucent, slightly stiff and rather larger than her frame. Fabienne had only taken the neck in far enough with the cord to keep it from falling off her shoulders.

"Please remove your brassiere," Amelie said in matter-of-fact voice.

"What?" Hermione squealed. "No! I mean ... it won't really be in the way, will it?"

The girls responded with a twin expression of furrowed brows.

"Maman must be able to see your body smoothly so zat she knows where to make certain markings and sew in supportive panels. Ze brassiere compromises ze measurements." Amelie stared at her as if this information was common sense; Fabienne nodded beside her and held out her hand for the garment, expecting immediate compliance.

"Well, you can almost see right through this thing," Hermione protested weakly, clutching the gown closer to her skin. "If I take off my bra.... Well, everyone will be able to see everything!"

"Eet eez only Maman and I," Amelie responded, "and Fabienne."

"And Snape!" She tried not to sound too hysterical.

" 'Oo eez your fiancé, yes?" Fabienne asked. " 'e 'as seen you before, surely."

"No!" Hermione said before she could stop herself. Both girls looked decidedly shocked. "I mean, we've decided not to ... not right away," she finished lamely, feeling slightly nauseous again.

They gave each other confused looks before regarding Hermione. Then Amelie's face took on a shy smile. "You are more patient zen I would be." This time, it was Hermione's turn to blush.

"Bécasses!" Etoile's voice shot up from the base of the stairs. "Ne soyez pas si paresseuse! Stop detaining ze Duke and Miss Granger; come down 'ere zis instant!"

Fabienne held her hand out again for Hermione's bra and, seeing nothing for it but to acquiesce, she removed the white cotton structure, crossing her arms protectively in front of her breasts. Shaking her head, Hermione felt as if she were already wearing a wedding gown as she descended the stairs, Amelie and Fabienne holding up either side of the hem so she would not trip.

*****

She was going to die. Hermione was certain of it. If she didn't keel over of sheer embarrassment, the floor would certainly open up and swallow her, just to complete the oddity of the day. For the past forty-five minutes she had been poked and prodded, measured, assessed, turned, bent and, at times, even insulted in the process of fitting her for new robes. Amelie and Fabienne had scurried around the shop at their mother's command, grabbing bolts of fabric to hold against Hermione's skin, bringing down lengths of lace and trim, and holding pieces of the sizing garment closer to and farther from Hermione's skin as Madame Moreaux fit the stiff beige gown to her figure. She would tap places with her wand, cinching things in here and there, sometimes just to let them back out again. Now and then she would step back and regard Hermione from several angles, rapping her on the wrists with the butt of her wand every time Hermione raised her hands to cover her possibly visible breasts. Her cheeks remained rosy in embarrassment throughout the entirety of the fitting, but she thanked God that at least she'd been allowed to remain in her plain white knickers. She also prayed fervently that the gown wasn't as transparent to the four people watching her as it was from her perspective.

She had no means of telling, though, because Severus's expression had not changed the entire time the ladies worked around her. As soon as she had descended the stairs in the translucent sizing gown, struggling to cover herself, she had thrown him a covert glance to gauge his reaction. Thoroughly relieved to see that his expression was blank and polite, Hermione noted that none of the mocking or sadistic enjoyment at her embarrassment that she had expected actually showed on his face. He had merely leaned his shoulder against one of the shelving units full of fabric, watching the process and politely answering questions when Madame Moreaux inquired about time, pricing, and whether he would want more articles for her in the future. He looked as if there was nothing odd at all about watching a semi-undressed student get manhandled by an implacable seamstress.

At last, Madame Moreaux seemed satisfied that the sizing gown would make a suitable pattern for her robes and freed Hermione to go upstairs and change back into her street clothing. Hermione abandoned dignity, hitched the skirt up to her knees and took the stairs at a run. Muffled voices drifted up to her through the open staircase as she carefully removed the sizing gown and folded it neatly over the balcony. She squealed a bit in surprise when she heard a voice behind her as she put her bra back on, but just regarded Amelie confusedly as the girl held out a length of deep burgundy fabric.

"Your first piece zat Maman 'as created for you," she explained. Hermione took it and stared at it for a moment. "Ze Duke 'as requested zat you put it on right now. A set of walking robes."

"Walking robes, eh?" Hermione asked, torn between grimacing and smiling. "Did he seem amused when he suggested a set of walking robes?"

Amelie's mouth puckered a moment as she thought, then nodded. "Oui. 'e seemed pleased with 'eemself."

"I'll just bet he was," Hermione said, taking the robes and slipping them over her head.

Amelie took the folded sizing gown and started to make her way down the stairs, calling to Hermione that there were canvas bags in the corner for her to take home the clothes she'd worn into the shop. She folded them carefully before removing her cloak from the peg that held it. On impulse, she glanced in the mirror before leaving, but stopped when she caught her reflection. Compelled to look closer, Hermione set down her bag and draped the cloak over the railing to better examine her reflection. However she might rub Hermione the wrong way, Madame Moreaux knew her trade. The port wine shade of the robes warmed Hermione's pale skin and complimented the honey of her hair very flatteringly. The cut of the robes was simple but elegant, a square neckline trimmed in a thick pink ribbon with a faint gold geometric pattern on it, the body of the robes falling smoothly from an empire waist that had been trimmed with just a bit of gold braiding. The elbow-length sleeves fit closely, but not tightly. Hermione reached up and loosened the plait of her hair; since she had put it up while wet, the curls tumbled out soft and tame (well, tamer than usual), as they had not had the chance to frizz about her face. She retied the top half of her hair away from her face but allowed the bottom to tumble over her shoulders.

Strange, Hermione mused, that looking at herself like this made her feel so much more ... grown up. She straightened her spine and adopted the posture that Snape had taught her the previous night, certain that she would not let him down looking like this.

*****

The wind remained as chilly through the late afternoon as it had when they walked over, so Hermione kept her cloak clutched around her shoulders. After another few minutes of lightning-speed language she couldn't follow between Etoile and Snape, they had left the shop with a promise that one of the girls would be sent to Hogwarts by Thursday afternoon with the remainder of their purchases. Severus had kissed Madame Moreaux on the cheeks again before leaving and nodded to each other the girls, who restrained their giggles better than previously. Just as Hermione was about to cross the doorframe, Amelie trotted up to her and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Mademoiselle Granger?" she asked, a little timid.

"Yes?"

"May I," the girl looked at her shoes for a moment, casting Severus a sidewise glance, "write to you at 'Ogwarts? For a friend?"

Hermione couldn't stop herself from looking taken aback. "Of course," she said, pleasantly. "If you just address the letter to 'Hermione Granger' and 'Head Girl', I'm sure it'll get to me. No one has a name quite like that."

Amelie smiled shyly. "Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle..."

"Hermione," she said, patting the younger girl on the hand. "Please call me Hermione."

" 'Ermione," Amelie repeated, smiling. "Merci."

Severus's face bore a thoughtful look as Hermione inclined her head first to Madame Moreaux and Fabienne before smiling at Amelie and exiting. He remained silent as they walked through Hogsmeade.

"Thank you," Hermione said eventually. When she received a glance punctuated with raised eyebrows, she took up a corner of the burgundy fabric. "For the robes. They are lovely and I'm sure that the rest will be just as lovely. So ... erm ... thank you."

He nodded but did not speak, still wearing a thoughtful, but not unpleasant, expression.

"Erm, Prof...Severus?" Hermione ventured after a moment.

The stumbling over his name got his attention, and he cast his dark-eyed gaze at her as they made their way into town. "Yes?"

"Was ... um ... was the gown ...?" Hermione knew she was making no sense, but couldn't stop the embarrassed stammering or flush in her cheeks. "Was the sizing gown I was wearing ... um ... as transparent as it seemed?"

A flash of a smirk crossed his face and then dropped away to the blank canvas of studied politeness. "No," he replied. "Fear not, Miss Granger, your purity, such as it is, remains intact."

She hmmphed a bit at the dig, but nodded. "Good. From my vantage point, everyone in Hogsmeade would be able to see my...," she stopped herself, "...charms."

This time, Snape did smirk. "Yes, rather an uncomfortable predicament, isn't it? Once you've tried Etoile's work, the debasement becomes worth it, but it is humbling at first. Consider yourself lucky, however, that you were as clothed as you were allowed to be."

Hermione scoffed. "How's that, then?"

"Imagine, Miss Granger," he said, steering them towards The Three Broomsticks, "having a two foot square of that material, from waist to knees, being the only thing covering your body and you will understand what it is like for a wizard to be fitted by a true French seamstress. Who has a house full of young ladies, I might add."

Laughter bubbled out of Hermione's throat. "Oh, dear. Speaking of the house full of ladies, I find it bizarre to even think as much let alone say so, but I believe Amelie as a crush on you." She wanted to laugh even harder as Severus looked distinctly uncomfortable for a moment or two before waving his hand dismissively.

After scowling heavily at Hermione, Snape responded, "It is natural. She was only nine when she began helping her mother with her duties. For the last four years, she's grown up seeing me in various states of undress, and I'd be willing to wager I'm most likely either the first or the only man she has seen in such. Perhaps both."

"Well, that would do something to you during the ravages of puberty, I'd say," Hermione finished, laughing nervously. Snape raised an eyebrow and she stopped laughing.

Without speaking to each other again, they moved into The Three Broomsticks, where Severus maneuvered her to a table in the corner, next to a window looking out over Hogsmeade. He stared out the window, not paying her the slightest mind as they sat waiting for Madam Rosmerta to come and attend them. When the clack of heels crossed to their table and the curvy proprietor appeared, a pad of parchment in hand, Hermione fought not to fidget. She could feel the woman's gaze moving over her curiously, taking in the picture of the Head Girl out of both school and school robes on what was obviously a school day, sequestered in a corner booth with the moody and generally disliked Potions professor. Hermione flushed under the scrutiny and only barely managed to order lunch without her voice breaking. Severus muttered something to Madam Rosmerta without even looking at her, causing the woman to scowl at him and walk away in a huff. He continued to stare out the window.

"Must you be so rude to people all the time?" she asked eventually.

"Yes," he replied shortly, earning him a scoff from Hermione.

"Aren't you concerned about being here?"

Finally, Snape turned his attention from the window and looked at her. His dark glare was not an improvement on the situation. "How do you mean?"

"Well," Hermione said, damning herself for faltering whenever he looked at her with that glare. "Well, people know me here."

"And?"

"They know you here."

"And?"

"Obviously we both should be at Hogwarts."

"I believe I've told you before, Miss Granger, that I dislike repeating myself," Snape said sleekly. "If you have a point, you'd best make it immediately."

"Well, you aren't concerned about being seen with me? I mean, you don't care what people will think?"

He sighed heavily and gave her a deadpan stare. "I think my reputation can survive being seen publicly with you."

She scoffed loudly. "That's not exactly what I meant. Aren't you concerned at all that people will be suspicious that you and I are together? I mean, it's pretty well known that we're not exactly best mates. Don't you care if people talk?"

"Talk?" Snape said incredulously. "I can deal with a great amount more onerous things that idle gossip. Besides, do you really think that people will not talk once we're married? You can hardly expect that the news of Potter's closest stooge," she scowled at him, "and Hogwarts's resident villain marrying will escape notice by the greater public. I wouldn't be surprised if there's an article in the Prophet theorizing all sorts of lovely reasons behind the union. As such, I'm hardly concerned about people 'talking.'"

Her brows furrowed as she digested this, and then her stomach swooped dizzily at the idea of the wizarding world-at-large knowing that she'd married Snape. She didn't even want to tell her Housemates, let alone everyone in Britain. She cleared her throat. "You don't think I should keep it quiet then?"

At that comment, Snape actually seemed to consider his response genuinely, without disregard. "It would be prudent, I believe," he said slowly, "to keep the issue quiet within Hogwarts for the time being. A student marrying a teacher – especially this student marrying this teacher – will be highly frowned upon and will open us both up to some very unfavorable talk and possibly violent consequences. As a result," Snape said, seemingly just thinking of the fact, "you may want to be prepared for the possibility of unfavorable retribution from your fellow students."

Hermione scoffed again. "Are you serious? Do you honestly think that I hadn't considered that already?"

"I mean," he said, a sharp look on his face, "that you might not want to assume your personal safety is entirely secure. I'm sure you can glean that you may be in danger, given the residence of a certain population within the school that you inquired after the other evening."

A moment passed before Hermione realized that he was speaking of the newly initiated Death Eaters in Slytherin House. Her eyes went wide with fright; she'd certainly considered that she was not safe in the outside world – hence the entire reason she was marrying Snape – but she had always unconsciously considered Hogwarts a neutral and safe territory. How sick, to know that Hogwarts was no longer the bastion of shelter she had always believed it to be. She shook her head and sighed.

"I suppose given the state of things, I should be most careful in how I," she chewed her lip a moment, trying to think of the best way to word it, "handle the albino ferret?"

Something like a smile tugged at the corners of Snape's mouth for a moment before his heavy brow furrowed. "Yes, I'd say so. Especially as the sire's bite draws blood."

Hermione nodded and as soon as Madam Rosmerta delivered their lunches, the pair fell into silence. Picking at her food and her thoughts from the day's travels, Hermione found herself both amused and more uneasy with all of this new information about Snape. She was thoroughly bewildered to find that not only were there people in the world that found him anything other than completely unpleasant and offensive, there were young girls that found him charming and attractive. Even a sex object, if she was interpreting Amelie's blushes and stares correctly. Stomach roiling, she pushed away her half-finished chicken salad sandwich. She didn't think she could stomach food and an idea of Snape having sex in the same thought. But she clearly didn't know very much about the man sitting across from her who had resumed his stare out the window as he finished his beef stew, so she ventured an effort at ridding her mind of the thought of him in flagrante delicto through harmless conversation.

"So," she said a little louder than necessary before tempering her voice to a more appropriate level. Snape raised an eyebrow at her and, with a blank stare, kept eating. "So if I'm going to be meeting your father this weekend, I should probably know at least a little something about you."

"I have already told you all the details you need know, outside your experience with me at school," he said blandly.

"All you told me was bare facts about when your family was born and died."

"Yes," he said, "that's all you need know."

Hermione raised an eyebrow in return. "You don't think that if we're going to convince your father that I should be marrying you shouldn't give me something a tad more detailed? Something more personal?"

"Such as?"

"Well ... erm ... tell me something about you as a person," she said. Then she thought of the completely out-of-character behavior in The Needle Fairy and added, "Something true."

"Something true," he said, a sneer growing on his face. "Very well, I'll tell you something true." He paused for a moment, apparently in thought. "I hate tea."

"You ... hate ... tea?" she asked, nonplussed. "That's a personal truth? That you hate tea?"

His face was completely serious now. "Absolutely. I loathe it. Never touch the stuff. Tastes like dirty rain water. Always drink coffee instead."

"Hmmm," Hermione said, mulling this over, unaware she was speaking aloud. "Well, I expect that explains the teeth..."

"I beg your pardon?" Snape said, his voice dangerously low. "My teeth?"

"Well, I ..." she stammered, quailing a bit. "Well, between constant coffee and knowing you smoke, I suppose that explains the state of your teeth."

Snape's eyes narrowed to near slits as he glared at her. She wished she could say that the effect was useless on her. It wasn't.

"I can't help it, you know," she said quickly. "Raised by dentists. I notice people's teeth. Especially because of the former state of my own. There, I said it before you could," she added sulkily when he looked ready to respond. Instead, he just gave her a knowing sneer. "So, you hate tea."

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I suppose that's a start. So we're leaving for your father's estate ...?"

"Friday afternoon," he said, resuming his lunch. "Just after classes end. And I still have a few more lessons for you, so you should carve out some time from your bustling schedule," he said this with a sneer, knowing full well how empty it was, "to devote a bit more application to some extra curricular studies in the form of table manners."

Hermione scowled. Being taught manners by Professor Snape occurred to her as being about as reasonable as being taught humility by Gilderoy Lockhart. She was still grimacing when Madam Rosmerta walked over and dropped the check on their table, not even waiting to see if they were ready to pay. The two stared at each other across the table before Hermione dropped her gaze and fished in her pockets for the small bag of coins she had brought. When she laid it on the table and began counting out Sickles for the check, Snape cleared his throat.

"What are you doing?"

"Paying for lunch," Hermione responded, trying not to blush under the steady, piercing gaze. "You paid a lot of money for those robes, I'm sure. The least I can do is buy your lunch."

Snape stared at her for another moment before picking up the Sickles she had dropped on top of the hand-written bill. "That is kind of you," he said, holding the money out towards her, "but unnecessary. Your funds are much more limited than mine." Without a word, he deposited them back in her open money pouch.

For a moment, she had been about to simply nod and take the silver coins back, but then she took a breath and shook her head. "Please," she said, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked. "Please, I would like to pay for lunch. To thank you."

His sharp, angular face faltered for a moment before he smoothed it again. Snape nodded shortly and remained silent as she counted out the coins a second time. Portioning out a few extra Sickles as a tip for Rosmerta – Hermione felt it necessary, to apologize for Snape's rude behavior – she left the money stacked neatly on top of the bill at the corner of the table. She stood and brushed off her robes before looking to Snape, who had already risen from the booth and begun to head out of The Three Broomsticks. Sighing, she picked up her bag and hurried after him.

*****

The walk back to Hogwarts proved to be just as silent as the walk away from it had been. Only this time, Hermione felt a tad bewildered rather than nervous. But she noticed, with a strange start, that she did not need to ask him to slow down. He walked just at her side, his long strides more abbreviated than they had been earlier that morning. With her stomach twitching, she decided to try her Gryffindor courage. Hermione couldn't decide whether she wanted to laugh in amusement or cry out in fear when Snape started violently as she threaded her left arm through his right. She'd rarely, if ever, seen the man startled.

"What are you doing?" he said loudly.

He hadn't bothered to cover the reaction in his face, and Hermione nearly trembled at the mix of surprise and anger in the sharp features. To prove herself worthy of Ginny's insistence that she could match the man toe-to-toe, Hermione stifled her nervousness and drew herself up, tall and rigid.

"Practicing," she said confidently, and closed her grip around his upper arm. "If you want me to get used to this whole walking nonsense you were insisting on, I think we should practice. Besides, you're obviously not used to having a woman on your arm; you could most likely use the practice yourself."

He glowered down at her, but eventually raised his forearm so that her hand fell in the crook of his elbow. "Woman," he scoffed under his breath, blowing a derisive snort through his long nostrils.

Hermione clenched her grip on his robes and bit her lip to keep from spitting a retort at him. They walked in relative silence for much of the remainder of the path back to Hogwarts. Every now and then, Hermione stumbled over little divots in the ground, but Snape just tensed his arm beneath her hand and kept walking. She nearly laughed a few times as she felt the hem of his billowing robes snap against the back of her cloak. She must look like a robin on the wing of a vulture. A giggle or two slipped out of her. This time, Snape didn't even favor her with a scowl. Instead, she noticed, his gaze was focused ahead, on the large, shaggy figure tromping out of the Forbidden Forest a few yards ahead of them. Snape grumbled in the back of his throat.

"G'morning, Professor Snape," Hagrid said, a friendly smile on his face. "Bit chilly today, eh? Not the best for a stroll." The warm, dark-eyed gaze passed to Hermione and Hagrid smiled a little wider, inclining his head to her. "Ma'am."

Hermione's smile faltered a moment before she realized that Hagrid didn't recognize her. Did she really look that different? "Hi, Hagrid," she said, forcing cheeriness into her voice and using her free hand to wave to him. "I'll stop down a little later to visit and talk about my early N.E.W.T. exam."

Hagrid started quite violently and dropped the sack of lumpy objects that he'd had thrown over his shoulder. Snape grumbled louder as Hagrid bounded over and Hermione stopped walking but didn't remove her arm from Snape's. In fact, when Snape made to pull away, Hermione clutched his arm harder. You're not getting away that easily, Hermione tried to make her body language say to him. You'll get used to this and you'll like it! She smiled in triumph when the muscles in Snape's forearm tightened rigidly, and she saw his jaw muscle clench.

"Hermione!" Hagrid exclaimed and clapped a hand to her shoulder. "Didn't recognize yeh, did I? Look at yeh, all kitted out and lookin' like a handsome lady! Why, yeh look fine enough ter be a queen, yeh do!"

Tears pricked Hermione's eyes and she blushed as the large, thick fingers patted gently at the curls tumbling over her shoulder. The smile on her face was genuine now. "Thank you," she said.

"Wouldn'a known yeh," he said, grinning. "But glad I do. I'll see yeh fer tea, eh? Ask Harry to come round with yeh."

Hermione nodded and began to stride off towards the castle, pulling on Snape's arm to follow her. She chuckled but said nothing and refused to look at him, even though she could feel that glare heat her as she walked. Hermione's smile grew as he dropped her arm the instant they hit the castle steps, and she glanced after him with a laugh as he stalked away down into the dungeons without a backward look. Many people stared at her as she strode through the foyer of the castle and up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower, but she didn't let it faze her. He would make her pay for that, she supposed, but she certainly felt as if the day had been a success now, on however small a level.

---

End chapter A/N – First and foremost, the big details: Okay, most of you probably don't speak French (much like me *hangs head in shame*), so you most likely want to kill me for that gigantic passage in French that has no translation. There was a point to that, believe it or not. Hermione's family has gone to France, so she speaks a little French, but she does not speak enough to keep up with the conversation of two native speakers like Etoile and Severus. Further than that, they purposely spoke at a speed and in a manner that would not allow Hermione to know what they were saying (*Ppphhhht* Jerks. ^_^ ). I actually wanted you, the reader, to feel Hermione's confusion and annoyance at being deliberately excluded. However, as there were several nice little zingers and a few jokes in that French interplay between Severus and Etoile (so wonderfully translated by my darling friend Maggie), I will not be so mean or secretive to keep it from you. So here it is... the passage in French, translated so you can get in on the jokes. The statements in bold are those that were in French and have been translated for you. (BTW, I have cut out a few of the paragraphs of exposition so you can speed right to the dialogue). Enjoy :

---

"Do not touch those!" a haughty looking black-haired woman said, appearing at Hermione's side as if out of thin air. "Zey are antiques and could be damaged by the rough fingers!"

Hermione retracted her hand, coloring in embarrassment. "Excusez-moi," she said, "I meant no harm. They're lovely."

...

"Etoile," Severus said, his voice now languid and deep. "I am always happy to be in your company. A pleasure to see you and your fine work again."

"Thank you," the woman responded, touching a hand to his cheek and smiling thinly. "And you, as always. What brings you 'ere today?"

...

"A bit of a project, Etoile," he said. "You've heard of this Marriage Law?"

She made a disapproving noise at the back of her throat. "An insult, it is, to purebloods everywhere. Especially someone with such noble lineage as you, Your Grace." She made a small curtsy. "What does the law have to do with the girl?"

Severus's face dropped into a heavily put-upon scowl. "She is my fiancée."

"God help you. She is a mess."

"That's what I'm here to correct, Etoile," he said, turning back to Hermione. "Her clothing is limited to school robes and Muggle nonsense. We're meeting my father this weekend and she needs to be outfitted properly. I put all my faith in no one but you. I'm sure you understand the importance of her appearance and the style I am looking for. I understand that you are an artist and I will compensate you in a befitting manner."

...

"A Mudblood?" Etoile asked Snape without taking her eyes from Hermione. The seamstress crossed the distance between them and made a slow circle around her, running an appraising glance over her whole body. Hermione cleared her throat.

"Of course," Snape answered. Hermione didn't like the tone in his voice; it was nearly a laugh, but just far enough away from one to be suspicious.

Etoile glanced back at Snape over Hermione's shoulders. "Then would you like to dress her as a virgin or a whore?"

This time when the woman spoke, Severus did laugh. "As my wife," he said, surprising Hermione by reverting to speaking English. "For now. But I may take you up on the latter offer at a later date."

---

Hope you liked it. Oh, btw, later in that sequence, when Etoile called up to her daughters, she called them silly geese and told them to stop being so lazy. And before I end this gargantuan A/N, some fun minutia: the references to Roman names refers to Lucius Septimius Severus, an emperor in the Roman Empire who died in AD 211. As with the de Guise stuff, it's not crucial to the story line, just fun. Text from Severus's quote is from Shakespeare's A Winter's Tale , where the name Hermione comes from. Also, though I find it highly unlikely that anyone will protest (or even know the difference), I find it necessary to state that sadly I did not make up the name "The Needle Fairy." I pirated it from a clothier that makes Renaissance garb that I drool over every year at the Sterling Festival. They also have a website (www.needlefairy.com) if you happen to be a Ren Faire nut like me. Lastly, expect the next several chapters (if not all of the rest) to be much longer.