The Blood Knot

Chapter Seventeen – The Blood Knot

Blood Knot – "A blood knot (Barrel knot) is most usefully employed for joining sections of ... line while maintaining a high portion of the line's inherent strength. Other knots used for this purpose can cause a substantial loss of strength. ... The principal drawback to the blood knot is the dexterity required to tie it." from Wikipedia

Hermione fumed, positively fumed, as she strode down the corridor towards her office. Harry was next to her, going on about some inane thing that had happened in Transfiguration that morning, but she barely heard a word of it. Anyone who'd had the guts to remark upon Harry's story and Hermione's obviously unrelated expression of fury would have told her that with her chin lowered under the weight of her anger, the permanently pinched state of her eyebrows, and the sour scowl drawn across her lips, she quite resembled the dour fiancé who had engendered the current rage in her. Thankfully, one glance at her posture and face as she stalked the halls had silenced any comments that passersby may have been tempted to make. A good thing, too, as Hermione would have unleashed a rather scathing invective on anyone foolish enough to trust her normally good will to save them, and poor Harry would have been bewildered at the response, and most likely indignant at her obvious inattention.

"And when Hannah told him off for insulting her, that bloody little ferret actually had the bollocks to..."

"Insufferable!" Hermione mumbled under her breath. The man was insufferable. That's all there was to it. "Arrogant, petty, self-righteous, cruel, misanthropic recluse." A sick smile lit her face as she continued cataloging his faults and mentally abusing him within an inch of his sorry existence.

"And he had the nerve to imply that she...Hermione, are you even listening to me?"

Harry's scowl was apparent and, if she was quite honest, completely justified as he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

"What is your problem?" he asked, studying her with a pinched brow.

Hermione massaged her temples. "I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to ignore you; I've just had a very trying morning."

"Got an E on an assignment instead of an O, did you?" he asked, a small but flippant smile on his lips. It evaporated as he saw her frown deepen. "What happened?"

A growl just barely restrained, Hermione said, "I spent the morning with my fiancé," she spat the word, "learning how to present myself as a proper wife with table manners."

Harry stayed silent for a long moment as he watched her face harden. "Uh oh," he said after a moment.

"Oh, yes," Hermione said, with fake enthusiasm. "This morning was the best study in patience I've ever had as we 'ate breakfast together.' Or so he'd called it. What it actually amounted to was him reserving that chamber off the side of the Great Hall and torturing me for three hours."

Harry winced. As they started walking again, he merely stayed silent and let Hermione have her tirade. He could only pray she wouldn't take it out on him.

"First of all," she said acidly, "he stationed himself at the end the table, scowling at and verbally berating me, while he just sat there and sipped coffee, cool as you please. Except that not one damn thing I did made him happy! 'You hold your fork oddly, Granger; only savages would eat that way. Stop gulping your tea, you're not a sow at a trough'."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione steamrolled over him. The mock-critical voice she used was an uncanny impression of Snape. So much so that it made Harry just a tad nervous. She took a deep breath and continued, arms beginning to flail in angry, impotent gestures.

"'Don't make so much noise.' 'You take bites far too large.' Then, when I tried to appease him, 'Oh, really, Granger, no one would look at you and believe you actually eat that little.'"

The righteous indignation on Harry's face at that remark just spurred her on.

"An absolutely litany of my faults and a barrage of rather stinging remarks about my upbringing, and through all this I had to try to eat! I admit, for the first twenty minutes, I just tried to ignore him and keep eating, but the longer he railed away, the less I could take it. Eventually, after two hours of what should have been a thirty minute breakfast, he insisted...for the fourteenth time...that I was slouching, and he tied my arms to the back of my chair with his House scarf. TIED me, Harry! He tied me to a chair!"

As they approached Hermione's office, he slowed down, hoping she'd match his pace. The ploy worked, but it didn't seem to calm her any. She just stood at the corner of the hall, leaned against the stones and continued to fume.

"Well, of course, by that point I'd become so incensed that I guess I started retaliating without knowing it. From there, the whole meal just went completely to hell. He had to heal his ridiculous bloody nose because I sent out a Stinging Hex inadvertently and..."

"You hexed him?" Harry said, aghast.

"Wandlessly!" Hermione cried, a tad hysterical and nervous. "I didn't do it on purpose! But he made me so absolutely furious! He was completely beastly, and yet he took fifty point off of Gryffindor just because I..."

Sensing that the continued complaining was just making things worse, Harry sighed and tapped Hermione on the shoulder. When she ran out of steam and looked where he was pointing, her knees wobbled and the pit of her stomach to drop into her knees. Down the hall from her and just outside the door to her office sat the little bird of a girl with the close cap of blonde curls that she'd seen at the start-of-term feast. Charlotte Greengrass, Hermione's mind supplied. After her session with Charlotte Greengrass, there would only be lunch separating her from an entire weekend spent not only with Snape but with his father, a man that she gathered was so difficult that Severus Snape found him to be cruel and intolerable, and the best words that the determinedly-sweet Amelie Moreaux could muster to describe him were that he was 'a strict man.' Raising a hand, Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. This weekend would be ghastly, no doubt.

"Your next appointment?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded and sighed. The girl sat on the cold stones of the floor across from her office, staring at the floor, but looking decidedly less lost and uncertain than she had the previous week. She looked ... wary, Hermione decided. Not exactly timid or unsure, but more that she was reining in the instinct to distrust her motives for being there.

"I guess I should go then."

Hermione nodded again. "Thanks for listening to me whinge, Harry," she said, earning her a small smile.

"No problem," said Harry. "She's a Slytherin, eh?" When Hermione nodded, Harry chuckled. "Good luck with that, then."

Hermione pursed her lips, still quite ready to rail on about the last Slytherin she'd had to deal with, but there was no sense in punishing the little girl for that; fixing her most welcoming smile on her face, hoping that it appeared genuine, Hermione strode forward to meet the girl.

"Good afternoon. You must be Charlotte." The girl leapt up from the floor gracefully, even more slim and nimble than she had appeared from a distance, and nodded. She said nothing. Hermione reached out a hand for her to shake.

"I'm Hermione," she said. "It's nice to meet you."

The girl didn't speak, just nodded, but her face seemed to smooth itself a bit. Her hand was slow to rise, but when she pumped Hermione's hand up and down, Charlotte's grip was firm.

"Would you like to come in?" Hermione said, gesturing to the door. Another nod was given in return, and Hermione hoped silently that this session wouldn't be as hard to get going as Neville's had been. Then again, Hermione thought, the girl is a Slytherin. Resolving not to judge the situation until she spoke to the girl (IF the girl ever spoke), Hermione opened the door with a flick of her wand and gestured for Charlotte to enter. The little first-year strode into the room without hesitation, her chin high. Hermione followed, folding herself into the chair opposite Charlotte.

For a minute, there was silence as the two regarded each other, then the girl opened her mouth, and quietly said, "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"Of course!" Hermione responded, perhaps a little too eager. Clearing her throat, she smiled. Charlotte was wary of her, certainly, but seemed to be genuinely interested in her counsel. "I'm glad you came to see me today. I was very intrigued by you at the feast last week."

Charlotte's face tightened as she searched Hermione's face and words for any tone of mocking or sign of an ulterior motive, but soon her expression relaxed. "Intrigued how?"

Hermione sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "You were very strong and confident even though you're very young, and I'm sure the ceremony must have been very hard for you. I envy that; I wasn't so strong myself."

Again Charlotte seemed to search her face for honesty, and then she nodded. "It was hard," Charlotte said, her voice soft but firm, face betraying nothing. "But thank you."

Hermione smiled in response to the thanks, and then let her face drop serious. "I'm sorry to hear about your sister. I didn't know her well, but Professor Snape informed me that you were close."

"I don't want to talk about Daphne," Charlotte said immediately.

Her voice had again been firm, untainted by emotion. The response, though, had been exceedingly quick. Keeping her face as carefully calm as she could, Hermione nodded, and said, "All right. What would you like to talk about today?"

The little girl's composure wavered. "I ... don't know," she admitted. Her face twitched a bit and Hermione could tell that there were things that she wanted to say, things that she needed to be able to confide in someone, but as sure as Hermione knew Harry's eye color, she knew that it was too soon for this cautious little mouse to trust her with any deep revelations.

"Well," Hermione said, offering her a friendly smile. "Perhaps we could just get to know each other then?"

After a slight hesitation, Charlotte nodded, looking at Hermione expectantly. She had to fight down a chuckle. This girl was, quite obviously, a Slytherin to the heels of her Mary Janes: she would volunteer no information until Hermione had done so first, letting the older girl set the benchmark of the depth of her confidence so that she could choose to meet or not as she pleased. No, this little Slytherin had learned well the art of not charging heedlessly into battle.

"As I said, my name is Hermione Granger," she started. "I'm a seventh year and Head Girl, but you probably already knew that. My best friends are called Harry and Ron, and my favorite subjects are Transfiguration and Arithmancy."

Charlotte nodded, her face pensive for a moment. "Your best friend is Harry Potter."

Hermione kept her face carefully calm. "Yes, that's right. Harry and I met on the train ride on the first day of our first year. We had a bit of a rough go of it to start, but we became friends quite soon afterwards." Charlotte was keeping her face nearly as smooth as Hermione's and, much to the older girl's chagrin, she couldn't tell if Charlotte's statement about Harry was meant to be argumentative or inquisitive. Perhaps both.

"Harry is supposed to defeat You-Know-Who."

Smooth as silk. "Yes, he is, but we don't really talk about that much," Hermione lied flawlessly, smiling all the while. "To me, he'll always just be Harry. Nearly a brother to me." If one goes around snogging one's brother.

"He's very interesting," Charlotte said, and for a moment, Hermione caught a glimpse of something that flickered in the little girl's face. For barely an instant, a flicker of curiosity and excitement had flashed across Charlotte's gray eyes, the corners of her lips pulling up just a tiny bit before she remembered herself and schooled them straight again. She hadn't come right out and betray herself as a supporter of Harry, but that flash of inquisitiveness and the circumstances surrounding her sister's death gave Hermione hope enough to believe that whenever this little girl's façade cracked enough to admit Hermione into her confidence, she would fall to the right side of the issue. Whatever her feelings about Harry, though, this girl was a Slytherin, no doubt, and for the first time that idea made Hermione smile without hesitation.

"So, tell me about yourself," Hermione said warmly. "How do you like Hogwarts so far?"

Apparently the question had been innocuous enough, Hermione's tone warm enough, that Charlotte relaxed visibly and settled back into the chair; her face broke into a small but easy smile. "I like it quite a lot," she said in her high, quiet voice. "So far, anyhow. I'm quite fond of Transfigurations as well; it's not my favorite, but nearly so." Her face pinched thoughtfully but not unhappily. "Professor McGonagall is very strict."

Chuckling, Hermione nodded. "She is that. But fair, I think. She just expects everyone to do their best, and she won't accept anything beneath that."

Charlotte nodded after a moment. "Yes, I think she's very fair. She hasn't treated the Slytherins any differently than her own House."

"Why should she?" Hermione said. She knew that this statement, coming out of her own mouth, was probably more than a little hypocritical – and she believed that Charlotte had sensed some of that emotion – but the girl just narrowed her eyes a bit before shrugging.

"Not every professor here is unbiased."

Hermione laughed again. "That's certainly true."

As if the thought were completely and rationally connected, Charlotte suddenly said, "You're marrying Professor Snape."

The leg that Hermione had crossed over top of her lap thumped to the floor loudly and gracelessly as her mouth dropped into a surprised 'O.' "How did you know that?" she squeaked. "Did he tell you that?"

Charlotte smiled, and the grin was a cross between something that belonged on the Cheshire cat and a smirk that she seemed to have picked up surprisingly quickly from her Head of House. "No," she said, still smiling. "Professor Snape is a very private man; I don't know him that well."

"How did you know?" she repeated, dumbfounded. A little annoyed at having to wrestle information from an eleven-year-old, Hermione fought to keep the flush from her cheeks.

"He's an interesting man," she said cryptically. "I watch him. He watches you. And the way you've looked at him in the Great Hall a few times, it's obvious that the two of you have quite a lot of tension between you. And you're a Muggle-born. It was a guess, but from the look on your face, it was a good one."

The pit of Hermione's stomach seemed to have sunk through the floor. She tried to collect herself, but didn't manage very well. "I, er..." There seemed to be no sense in lying, especially as the girl had guessed the truth so easily, so Hermione cleared her throat and looked Charlotte dead in the eye. "Yes, I am marrying Professor Snape."

A long time passed where Charlotte just stared into Hermione's eyes; after a moment, she nodded shortly, as if she'd come to a quick but hard decision. "I won't tell anyone," said Charlotte.

Hermione exhaled slowly, but in obvious relief. "Thank you. I appreciate your discretion. It's a tricky situation," she said. When Charlotte nodded again, Hermione gave her an appraising look. "You are ... very sharp for your age, Charlotte."

A smile appeared on her face as suddenly as if the previous pensive determination had never existed. "Daphne always said I was sharper than a scorpion's sting and craftier than a spider. She always called me Spider. Like the character from that American novel: Charlotte, the spider."

"Charlotte's Web," Hermione said, nodding. She hardly dared breathe in the moments after Charlotte had mentioned her sister, so she figured that this would be a perfect opportunity to make their way to the issue without it being jarring or forceful. "I didn't know you knew Muggle novels."

Charlotte's smile faltered just a little bit. "My father's American," she said shortly. Then, "And a Muggle. Mum's the witch."

Masking her surprise, Hermione smiled. "Really? How did he and your mother meet?"

A little of the smile crept back onto her face. "Dad's a witch, too, in a manner of speaking." When Hermione looked puzzled, Charlotte grinned again and continued. "He's a wicce, you see. A male follower of Wicca, the Muggle form of witchcraft. He came to Stonehenge one year to celebrate Beltane...during the first war with You-Know-Who...and there was some trouble. Death Eaters trying to hurt the Muggles that were celebrating. Mum's an Obliviator for the Ministry, and she met Dad when she was called in to contain the situation. Said he was so charming she didn't have the heart to knock the wits out of him." Hermione laughed at the mental image, and Charlotte giggled with her. "I dunno about that, really, but they've been batty about each other ever since. Dad says he couldn't believe his luck, meeting a real live witch that can do all the tricks kids read about in books."

Hermione nodded, smiled. "That's how I felt when I first got accepted to Hogwarts. It was Professor McGonagall who came to my parents' house, actually, to give me my letter. Just a coincidence, I suppose, but it felt like destiny once I got sorted. When she explained everything – and proved it wasn't a trick by turning our coffee table into a pony and back – I felt like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole."

Charlotte smiled and opened her mouth, clearly intending to say more, but then, without warning, she started and looked at her watch. "Time's almost up," she said.

Hermione looked at the mantle clock. They still had seventeen minutes left, but a quick glance at Charlotte's face told Hermione that the girl had suddenly become slightly panicked and uncomfortable. Clearly, something had hit too close to home. Not wanting to scare her but also not wanting to lead her to a place where she didn't want to go, Hermione answered with a calm, non-committal, "So it is."

Charlotte stood and slowly began to gather her things. Quietly, Hermione rose, and when the girl made to move that direction, she followed Charlotte to the door. The little girl paused at the frame, knob in her hand as she swung her rucksack over her shoulder. Chewing one corner of her lip, just as Hermione did when she was thinking, Charlotte said, "Next Friday at eleven? Is that time still all right for you?"

Hermione realized she'd been waiting to see if the first-year would want to come back. She smiled; Charlotte Greengrass had a long way to go before she trusted Hermione, but she seemed to want to try. "Perfect," said Hermione. "The time is all yours."

Charlotte nodded, and then her face became serious. "I won't tell anyone," she said again before slipping out the door.

Hermione stared at the wood as the door closed behind the girl, chewing her lip in thought.

*****

"Oh, God. Oh, God; oh, God; oh God."

Hermione was only whispering, mumbling really, as she pushed her food around her plate, but she didn't seem to have the strength to hold back the words.

"Oh, God," she mumbled. "Oh, God. Oh, God ... I don't think I can do this."

Ginny Weasley turned to look at her babbling friend. Hermione was pale, almost sickly-looking with worry, and her eyes kept darting to the Head table where her fiancé seemed to be glaring holes either in his plate or the pork chops that he sawed at with unnecessary force. When Ginny reached out and laid a cool hand on Hermione's wrist, the older girl jumped half a foot, spilling her pumpkin juice, before resting an elbow on the table and letting her head drop into her hand.

"How am I going to do this, Gin?" Hermione whimpered, her words muffled by her hair and fingers. "I don't think I can do this. If I can't even deal with Sn..." she caught herself before saying his name, looked around, then corrected, "my fiancé these days, how am I going to deal with his father, too?"

Harry looked up from the sandwich he was in the process of devouring. For a brief moment, Harry looked up at the scowling professor and favored him with a scathing glare, but, much to Hermione's surprise, when the green-eyed gaze refocused on her it was gentle but determined.

"Hermione," he said bracingly, "you've dealt with his riddles when the Stone was at stake, you stole from his personal cupboards right under his nose. As a second-year. You survived a Basilisk, a werewolf, about a hundred Dementors, a battle in the Ministry... and what happened to Ron. You're one of the strongest people I know." He trailed off when he realized that both Hermione and Ginny were staring at him with a mixture of surprise and fondness. His voice turned gruff when he said, "You're a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake! I think you can handle a weekend of sarcasm and predictable pureblood bias. You've handled worse."

One short bark of laughter escaped her before she looped an arm around Harry's shoulder in a bracing hug. "I think you're right, Harry. That was just what I needed to hear. Thanks."

Just then, Hermione looked up to the Head table and caught the eye of her surly fiancé. Scowling deeper when Hermione flashed him an overly smug smile, Snape flicked his chin almost imperceptibly toward the door heading out into the entrance way. Her stomach swooped a bit, her smile faltered, but she gave him back a small nod before turning back to the table. Whether or not they had witnessed the exchange, Ginny and Harry seemed to understand: Ginny gave her a reassuring smile and a squeeze of her hand; Harry leaned over and rested his chin on her shoulder as he returned her one-armed hug.

He caught her wrist as she rose and made to leave for Gryffindor Tower to retrieve her overnight bag. "Don't forget who you are," he said, his voice strong and his eyes intense. "Be proud of it."

*****

When Hermione reached the bottom of the wide marble staircase, Professor Snape already stalked the entrance way, pacing back and forth in front of the House points glasses. Out of nervousness, she hitched her leather satchel higher up on her shoulder before moving down to where he stood. As she moved closer, his eyes raked over her, and he sneered.

"Wasting all my money, are you?" he asked. When her brow furrowed in confusion, he sighed heavily. "Where are the robes I bought you, and why are you still in your school robes?"

Hermione looked down at herself for a moment, as if she'd forgotten that she'd been wearing school robes, and then managed to quiet her shaking hands as she said, "I didn't want to raise the attention of anyone still in Gryffindor Tower. Plus, I couldn't decide which ones to wear, so I thought that I'd ask your opinion and then change in the girls' bathroom down the hall from here before we left."

He had an eyebrow raised as she spoke, but seemed to approve of asking his opinion. "What are the colors of the day robes?"

Wordlessly, she opened her satchel to show him the soft yellow, dusty pink, and moss green of the robes at the top of the bag.

"The pink," he said decisively.

Expecting some sort of explanation as to his choice, Hermione stared at him blankly, waiting for Snape to break the silence. He sighed heavily again and pulled the set of pink robes from her bag. His index finger and thumb caressed the material, as if checking its sturdiness and suitability.

"The color will play your hair and skin to the best advantage without having the obvious kiss-arse quality of dressing you in Slytherin green for your first meeting. That would appear far too sycophantic. He must not get the impression that we are attempting to win his favor, simply that we are placating his childlike temper."

"Ah," Hermione said. She was tempted to point out that he had almost given her a compliment – almost – but figured that doing so would result in a doubly scathing insult. She was also tempted to snort loudly at Snape's mention of his father being in possession of a 'childlike temper'; apparently, personal appearance wasn't the only trait that could be passed genetically. Resisting the urge to make either of these comments, Hermione simply took the robes from him, and said, "I'll just dash off to change then, shall I?"

"Please do," said Snape, looking pointedly at a pocket watch that she'd never seen before, but which now dangled from the front pocket of a frock coat he wore underneath his robes.

Rather than stopping to consider Snape's new fashion choices, Hermione dashed away to slip into the pink dress robes. It took longer than she would have liked to wrestle her hair into a somewhat messy but generally tasteful chignon at the back of her head, and she debated for a moment or two about whether to put on any makeup, but at the last decided that Snape's father would just have to take her as she was. Like Snape. Glancing at her watch once more, Hermione gathered up her leather satchel and hurried back down to the entrance hall, swinging her travelling cloak over her shoulders as she went.

Snape stood almost exactly where he'd been before, still scowling; he seemed to have given up on his pacing. When Hermione reemerged into his presence, his eyes swept over her swiftly, but, much like the first night of term when they walked together to the Headmaster's office, she got the impression that the bottomless black eyes missed barely a thread of her dress or a kinky lock of hair. Saying nothing, he swept past her and out the large doors into the mid-day sunshine. Hermione hurried after him enough so that she would not fall too far behind, but didn't trouble herself to jog to keep his pace. In fact, she hung back deliberately, watching his strangely stark figure moving swiftly along the long green lawn that led down to the gates. Eventually, Snape seemed to have realized that he had left his fiancée behind and slowed his pace, throwing her a sharp look over his broad shoulder. Raising his wand as they neared the stone boars standing as sentinels at Hogwarts' gates, Snape waited as Hermione caught him up, and then gestured for her to precede him off the school's property.

"I take it we're Apparating?" Hermione began to ask, but she had barely gotten out the first two words before a long arm reached out and swept her into his wool-clad body in a swift and iron grip. She let out one short squeal of surprise before he turned on the spot, and the crushing sensation of magical travel squeezed her against the long, broad chest of the professor she could no longer see through the ebony void of Apparition.

*****

Severus Snape let go the hold on his fiancée with such perfect disdain that he could have been dropping a sack of rotten apples into a rubbish bin. Hermione stumbled more than a little before gaining her balance. Once she had, she favored her scowling betrothed with a glare that should have scorched his wool robes to cinders.

"Must you always insist on ambushing me with Apparition?" she spat irritably. She took a moment to close her eyes and let her inner ears regulate her balance once more. When she felt right again, she looked up into his hawk-like face to find his lips curled in an amused smirk.

"Why, Miss Granger," Snape replied in a silky voice, thick with mock-astonishment. "One would think that the 'brightest witch of the age' would be able to handle the pithy discomfort of magical travel."

She scowled at him, brushed off her robes, and adjusted her traveling cloak to sit straight on her shoulders. "I didn't give myself that particular appellation, you know," she said sulkily. "And I completely resent the number of times it's bitten me in the arse."

Snape chuckled – honestly chuckled – and Hermione found herself staring at him in surprise. She was quite certain she'd never seen him look ... happy. Or, at the very least, devoid of his usual disdain and sullen anger. This new twist to his features was surprising and unsettling to say the least.

"Oh, do stop gaping, Granger," he said as he bent to retrieve her discarded satchel. "It's most unbecoming. I can't imagine why people are so surprised that I'm capable of laughing; I do have all the requisite muscles, you know."

"It's probably because no one's ever seen you use them," Hermione replied before she thought better of it. Wincing in anticipation of the biting reply she was sure to receive, Hermione gaped even further when he simply chuckled a little more and nodded.

"You are most likely correct," he said, then offered his arm.

Hermione stared at it as if it were a hissing viper. "What's the matter with you? What are you doing?"

Snape rolled his eyes and she noticed his posture stiffen as he grumbled. "How soon you forget the proprieties." When she narrowed her eyes at him, he sighed and said, "I'm offering you my arm, Miss Granger." She glared. "Because we should walk to the house together."

With that reminder, Hermione took in her surroundings for the first time. And her jaw dropped nearly to her knees. The two of them stood in the center of a long gravel path that split a lush green lawn; to her right, the fragrant grass chased away towards a verdant forest of what appeared to be beech trees at the edges, thickening into a walnut grove. To her left, the lawn rolled gently down to the bank of a large pond that she supposed could be called a lake. Ahead of her, just sitting on the top of a hill in the distance, was a long, sprawling manor that could only just be qualified as a "house." Suddenly, nervousness jumped back into her body, so much so that she nearly shook.

"Can't we just act normally for a little while longer? The house is still so far away."

Snape huffed out a breath beside her. "So much for Gryffindor bravery," he said, which made Hermione's spine straighten instantly. "Besides, I can guarantee you that however far away the house is, we are being watched."

"Watched?" Hermione said, turning to look around her, as if the very trees had eyes.

"Yes, watched. My father, being both very careful and extremely paranoid, has some very strong, very particular wards will are currently monitoring everything we do."

"So," she started, uncertainly, "he can see us right now? As if we're on a surveillance camera?"

"More like as if he's wearing binoculars," Snape said, and his voice was starting to show his impatience. "Once the signal on the perimeter wards go off, he casts the charm on himself, not on us. Now, I highly suggest you start playing the part if we're to get this done properly."

Snape extended his elbow to her again, but this time, Hermione took it without question. They walked up the long gravel drive for quiet some time without speaking.

"What do I call you?" Hermione said suddenly.

Without indicating any surprise at the odd question, Snape asked, "Aside from 'greasy git,' you mean?"

"I have never called you that!" Hermione said. "Nor would I ever. Unlike some people I could name, I do not judge or belittle people for things that they can't help, like intelligence or blood status or personal appearance."

Severus cast his eyes over his fiancée, whose grip had tightened on his arm. Her eyes blazed with intensity and conviction and, strangely, he believed her. He grunted, not willing to admit the fact.

"So, erm, what do I call you?" When he raised an eyebrow at her, she cleared her throat and continued. "Well, I can't very well call you 'Professor' if we're trying to convince him of the legitimacy of our engagement. Also, people here must know you're a duke; Madame Moreaux did, and I gathered you knew her from...where are we, by the way?"

Severus blinked for a moment at the decidedly abrupt topic change. "We are at an estate that once belonged to the Lorraine family, just outside of Metz, France. It has been protected from being visible to Muggles. And yes, I've known Etoile since I was a youth, living here in France. Would you please finish one thought before proceeding to a second?"

Hermione huffed out a breath and scowled at him, but resumed her former topic. "So do I call you 'Duke'? 'Your Grace?'"

His lips pinched into such a thin line, Hermione thought they might vanish. "There is some debate as to whether I'm actually the Duke of Guise." Hermione's raised eyebrow was a startling good likeness of his own favored expression. "My father disowned me when I was seventeen, but as the peerage line is matrilineal, he couldn't formally remove the title. However, I never formally renounced it."

"Why not?"

He scowled at her. "Because one cannot simply say, 'I don't want to be duke!' It's more complicated than that, and by that time – and since – any contact with my father, for whatever justification, was far too much."

"That's just silly," said Hermione, earning her another scowl. "Well, it is! If you didn't want the title and you'd just taken the time to do it then, we wouldn't have..."

"The reasons behind my actions are irrelevant and none of your business," Snape said loftily. "The pertinent matter is that there are two distinct sides of the issue. My father believes that I'm not the duke and will treat me as such. However, as you noticed in The Needle Fairy, there are people who believe that I am. As such, when in front of anyone who is not my father – such as house elves – you will refer to me with the honorific 'Master.'"

Hermione narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to retort, but Severus cut her off. "It acknowledges that you know of the controversy but choose not to take sides, simply giving me the respect due to someone of a family in the peerage. In front of my father," he started, then cleared his throat uncomfortably and glared at her, "you may call me Severus."

Thoroughly amused that Snape was so obviously disapproving of her using his given name, Hermione flashed him her most winning smile. "Excellent. You may call me Hermione."

If possible, his glare intensified. They finished the rest of the long walk in silence, Severus fuming, and Hermione trying not to smile and incur more of his wrath.

*****

As they stood on the doorstep waiting for someone to answer the long, deep chime of the doorbell, Hermione fidgeted with her robes, casting around for something to think of that would distract her from her nerves. "So what do I call him?" she asked. "Your father; what do I call him?"

"Unless he invites you to do otherwise," Snape said, with an expression that quite clearly stated he knew that no such thing would happen, "you should refer to him as Marquis. It is the next step down in the line of nobility, and is an honorary title given to him when my mother passed away. As he wasn't a direct part of the line, he wasn't given the dukedom, but still acknowledged as a member of the nobility by marriage."

Hermione's head spun at all the information she'd been forced to digest in the past week. "He's going to hate me, isn't he?" she said, her heart in her throat.

As the locks and wards on the door began to whoosh away in front of them, Severus said, "Most definitely."

By all rights, that should have made her nervous, but the tone in his voice had been amused and almost ... pleased. As if he wanted his father to hate her. Given the descriptions she'd heard of him, and her fiancé's past, this was most likely the case. Hermione drew a deep breath as the wide oak door swung back in front of them. Then she tried not to gape in surprise. The door had not been opened by a house elf, as they had both suspected would be the case. Instead, the man who gripped the doorknob could have been a painting of a twenty-five-years-older Severus, done by an artist who had not paid attention to all the details. Looking at the Marquis Snape reminded Hermione of what Harry had said after viewing his fifteen-year-old father in the Pensieve: it was as if someone had copied Severus but made a few distinct, purposeful changes to tell them apart.

Tobias Snape stood nearly as tall as his son, and nearly as broad about the shoulders, but his frame was fuller; he didn't have the same look of the haunting thinness of a stray dog that Severus had to him. On the contrary, Tobias was a broad and powerfully built man who obviously enjoyed the comforts of good food and leisure time for healthy exercise. He had the same slender hands and long fingers as his son, and the same wide, square shoulders. The strangest thing, she realized, was that they had the same face, but for the one unmistakable characteristic that defined Severus Snape; the hawk-like face that Severus had clearly inherited from his father seemed so odd, incorrect even, without the protruding aquiline nose. His features were softer, Hermione decided, with the thin, straight nose, and made even more so by the warm mahogany shade of his eyes, and the mahogany hair shot through with nearly as much iron grey as color. Yes, the Marquis Snape appeared to be a much less severe man than his son, but the steely glint to his eyes spoke of the temperament of which she'd heard.

"Severus, what a surprise." He sounded completely unsurprised, as if he'd planned the whole event himself. "If I hadn't recognized your magical signature on my wards, I'd have never believed it. I see twenty years haven't improved you much."

Hermione nearly hissed at the immediate insult, spoken in that voice so much like that of the man on whose arm she currently hung. She gritted her teeth to keep from snapping back, held in check by the look of complete indifference on her fiancé's face.

"Likewise," Severus replied easily. "I see twenty years haven't given you any more breeding than you had previously. You've started answering the door for yourself; planning on supporting yourself in old age with a career as a house elf?"

The Marquis pointedly ignored his son's last comment in favor of turning his gaze to Hermione. The assessing stare that he raked over her body made her feel as if he was either sizing up a brood mare or appraising the quality of a Knockturn Alley whore. She had the sudden mad urge to take a bath, and it was all she could do not to glower at him.

"Ah," the Marquis said in a smooth, deep voice. "So this must be the blushing bride. So to speak." With a smirk, he turned back to his son. "Really, Severus, I've never understood your taste. Another Mudblood?"

This time, Hermione couldn't resist the urge to clench her teeth, setting her jaw into a hard, square line of tension. Through a tight smile that made her seem more like she was bearing her teeth at her future father-in-law, Hermione said, "Muggle-born."

"Oh, and one with opinions." Tobias smirked. Far too much like his son for her taste.

"Many," Severus said. The comment itself seemed harsh, but both the expression that he directed towards her and the tone in his voice were fond. Severus Snape was a good actor, it would seem.

"Well done, Severus," said Tobias. "As always."

Having had quite enough of being talked about not only as if she were not there, but as if she were a child who could not understand the obvious digs being thrown her way, Hermione plastered her face in the best smile she could manage and spoke clearly and confidently. "Marquis Snape, it's an..." Hermione stopped with a short but obvious pause as she conspicuously searched for an appropriate word. "...honor to meet you. I've heard so much about you."

"Is that so?" he asked, an appearance of polite surprise on his face. "I'm surprised Severus could manage to work up any polite or positive words to say about anyone, especially me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Marquis, I think you must have misunderstood me. I heard about you from many sources, not just Severus. And I said that I was told all about you, not that anyone had anything positive to say."

Suddenly, Hermione realized that Snape's father had left them purposely standing on the doorstep, a subtle but powerful move signifying the Marquis's control of the situation and the need for his approval. Amidst the raised eyebrows of both of the Snape men, Hermione pushed past their host regally and took off her cloak, handing it to a quaking house elf standing behind the door.

"Thank you for inviting us so warmly into your home. This weekend will be an adventure for Severus and me, I'm sure," Hermione said in a tone of complete sincerity.

With a chuckle, Severus followed her into the foyer without a backward glance at his father. An adventure, to be sure.