The Double Englishman Knot

A/N - Thanks to variantsun for kicking me into gear, and to everyone at TPP who puts up with my sporadic updates. Much love to you all.

Enjoy,

~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~

Chapter Eighteen – The Double Englishman's Knot

The Double Englishman's Knot (also known as the Double Fisherman's Knot) – "The double [Englishman's] fisherman's knot is a bend, or a knot used to join two lengths of rope. This knot and the triple fisherman's knot are the variations used most often in rock climbing, but other applications include search and rescue. The primary use of this knot in rock climbing is to form high strength loops of cord for connecting pieces of the rock climber's protection system." from Wikipedia's List of Knots

Hermione fought not to fidget as she sat at the edge of one of the tall, ladder-back chairs in the study of what was clearly a large, sumptuous mansion. Under other circumstances, her eyes would have been devouring the room, filled as it was with bookshelves. Instead, she was gazing out the picture window behind the large mahogany desk, trying to appear serene as the Marquis looked her over. She still felt as if he were examining an animal he wished to purchase for a farm; perhaps that really was the way he imagined the situation: sizing up the brood mare to extend the bloodline through his son, the stallion. It was a difficult fight to keep her face calm and polite. When the Marquis finally settled in the leather wingback behind the desk, he steepled his hands in front of his face, a smooth yet obviously insincere smile crossed his features.

"So you are the Miss Granger who wants to marry my son," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I am," she said confidently, refraining from scoffing at his choice of words quite easily. It wasn't about 'want,' and he damn well knew it.

"I'm intrigued."

"Really?" she said, tilting her head to one side. She studied him in return. "I can't imagine why."

Snape stood behind her, tall and rigid, his long-fingered hands just touching the back of the leather chair. Keenly aware of his hovering, Hermione got the distinct impression he was trying to tell her something. As she hadn't the foggiest idea what it was he was trying to impart, Hermione decided to brave the waters with his father alone and hope that circumstances would lead her right.

The Marquis smirked, entirely reminiscent of the sneer she'd seen on his son. "Because Severus has never exactly been a ladies' man. In fact, he'd never been any kind of man, in my experience; though, the last time I saw him, he was still battling puberty. So you can imagine my surprise when, after more than two decades of silence, I hear from someone else's lips that he is taking a Mudblood wife. One who is still his student, no less." He smiled slowly as Hermione's face colored at the insults to both her and Severus delivered in a smooth, deep voice that just hinted at a Scottish accent. "Any father would be concerned at what type of man would do such a thing, especially if the man was his son."

Snape's breaths were distinctly louder to Hermione, sitting just under him; she could feel the force of his exhalations ruffle the curls at the top of her head. Clearly he was reining his temper to avoid a confrontation; Hermione had no such compunctions about niceties.

"Well, firstly," she said, letting into her voice a little of the crispness she felt towards the man, "the 'sort of man who would do such a thing' would be a man who had little choice as to getting married. Given the unavoidable nature of the circumstances, he chose to marry someone best suited to him, regardless of age. I'm perfectly confident in saying that your son's proposal was the finest I received. I was quite happy to take it."

Okay, that last bit was stretching the truth like taffy, but the rest was ... close enough to true. It didn't seem to fool the Marquis, though.

"My dear, you can't be more than eighteen, and while you're certainly not a beauty, you aren't so unfortunate looking that you couldn't have caught a respectable husband. Especially being so close to the Potter boy."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. Not only had he called her ugly, he had insinuated that only Harry's influence could "catch" her a husband. Insufferable man! And he didn't stop there.

"I can't imagine that Severus's proposal was the shiniest version of a future that you could have hoped for. If it was, he'd have been married long before now to a woman with far more means and maturity than you could possibly have. So one must wonder why a young witch such as yourself – the 'finest witch of your age' I've heard you called by some sources – would choose to accept the proposal of a man who would stoop to marrying his student."

Hermione bristled. Her spine straightened until it felt like a girder. And then she realized that this question, this moment, was her chance to gain a little footing on the Marquis.

"Severus is a fine man," she said in a prim and lofty voice. "And an incredibly capable wizard. The only I know of that would be a match for the 'finest witch of her age.' I am not the sort of woman," the emphasis on the word was light, but intentional, "to lie down docilely in front of a man at his whim. I wanted a husband who would challenge me. Severus will do so."

The Marquis smirked, started to open his mouth to rebut, but closed it again. Hermione wondered at this for only a moment before she found out the reason: Severus's hand left the back of her chair and snaked around behind her to clasp at her shoulder. Gazing up into his face, she found the hawk-like face of her fiancé looking down at her with an expression of faint pleasure and steely pride. Whether or not it was an act, it helped the self-satisfied smirk settle more firmly onto her face. Then she felt his long fingers pushing gently on her shoulders, and she caught what he'd been trying to silently impart to her before. Following Snape's lead, she sat back in her chair and crossed one leg over her knee, lounging and regarding the Marquis as if he were the one on trial. They were equals now.

"And in answer to your question regarding what sort of woman would marry Severus," she said, letting her smirk change to something sweeter. Something that seemed more like regard. "I'll tell you that it is a woman who accepts nothing less than the very best that can be offered to her. Whatever your thoughts regarding your son – and I'm not so much a fool that I can't gain some idea – I have no qualms about telling you exactly why I accepted his proposal, and why I feel we can be quite comfortably and contently married." She took a breath, trying not to make it obvious to be a steadying one, and smiled up at Severus as she talked. No lies, she told herself, no half-truths. The Marquis will know in an instant if you exaggerate. "He is a good man with strong morals, and an intelligent and capable wizard with very exacting standards. Much like myself. Severus may not be the kindest of men, I grant you, but he is strong and honest; I respect him, and I believe that our life together will be quite mutually satisfactory."

There, Hermione thought. That was close enough to being true that it won't scream a lie. She looked back at the Marquis, slightly unsettled to see the expression on his face to be that of a hungry cat regarding a broken-winged bird.

"No platitudes of gratuitous affection, then?" he said, and chuckled. "No heart-felt declarations of regard or pleas not to stand in the way of true love? Not that I expected any. One could hardly count on that with Severus. Not particularly loveable, though he never has been."

She couldn't stop herself from whipping her head around to regard her fiancé. His fingers had tightened on her shoulder so much that his grip was painful, and his face had hardened into the stony lines she usually saw in school, but he said nothing. How could he sit there as his father abused him so dreadfully and still say nothing?

"Come now, girl," the Marquis said before she could speak, with the tone of someone redressing a six-year-old for fibbing. "You can't actually expect me to believe you think so highly of him. I've heard reports of his behavior at that school; I know what the students think of him. There must be some other reason for your betrothal; what is it? Money? Surely, you can't imagine he's inheriting all this. Is that your reason? You fancy yourself a wealthy, powerful Duchesse?"

A loud screech of wood against stone rent the air as Hermione flew up from her chair, nearly knocking it over in her haste to be up and away from the Marquis. Hermione's temper flashed so quickly her whole face reddened with it.

"You are quite mistaken, my Lord," she said, her voice knife-blade sharp. "I imagine myself no Duchesse; I make no attempt to play at putting on airs. I'm marrying your son because I choose to and..." She stopped abruptly as she saw the Marquis's expression move from disbelieving to amused at her anger. Hermione squared her shoulders.

"And, if you must know," her voice quavered just a bit as the enormous lie coated her tongue, but she seemed powerless to stop it. "I'm also marrying him because ... not that it's any of your bloody business, but ... Severus is an excellent lover!"

She nearly stomped her foot in anger towards the end of the speech. Feeling her cheeks redden even further, Hermione snuck a peek at the tall, dark Professor standing next to her. His gaze, quite surprisingly, was not on her but on his father, a steady, self-satisfied smirk just tipping his thin lips. The Marquis returned the gaze to Severus with a touch of surprise, and then slid his attention over to Hermione, where it changed back to amusement.

"Is that so?" was all he said before Hermione could stand the anger no longer, made a quick excuse, and walked out of the room with as much haste as she could muster while still retaining her dignity. After a long moment of watching her leave, Tobias Snape turned his attention to his son.

"Well, Severus," was all he said for a minute or two, and then, "You certainly have gained yourself a wild hippogriff in that girl."

One corner of Severus's mouth quirked up at the corner. "So I have," he said.

"I suppose you enjoy that about her," Tobias responded. His voice abandoned all of the previous attempts at civility and dripped with disdain.

"It just so happens that I do," Severus returned. Now it was he who smirked. "It seems to be a family trait to attach ourselves to women with ... spirit. Surely you remember Mother's."

Tobias's face hardened, just as Severus had intended it to do. The Marquis's gaze was hard and cold now, his face smooth again under the mask of polite disdain. "Only too well. But really, Severus, 'spirit' isn't exactly how I would put it." The Marquis rose from his desk and strode around it, standing face to face with his son. "She's an appalling liar. If the girl was any more virginal, we'd be announcing the next immaculate conception. So perhaps you should ask yourself why a..." he sniffed condescendingly, "pretty young thing such as Miss Granger, who is so clearly appalled by the idea of marrying you, would be willing to lie herself crimson about your – entirely invented, I'm sure – sexual prowess?"

Without waiting for a response, the Marquis turned and strode from the room. Severus watched him go, scowling, before walking from the room himself, pondering that same question.

*****

It only took Severus a few minutes to discover the location of his fuming future bride. After Hermione had stomped from the room, she had asked a house elf to take her bag to her chambers – a sure sign of her distress, given her opinions about the servitude of elves – and had marched straight out onto the grounds, most likely hoping to clear her head. He had observed her for a few minutes from a drawing room, watching her storm around one of the nearer gardens, pacing in a huff as she worked off her frustration. When her circling began to slow, Severus knew he could delay no longer, especially as he knew his father to be watching from some other window, and walked out to meet Hermione as she began to actually take in the sights around her.

He came upon her near one of the hedgerows bordering the manor, kneeling down to look at a particularly lovely specimen of Roaring Tigerlily, which turned its orange-tipped head up to growl at him as he approached. Lifting a hand to shield her eyes against the sun setting behind him, she gazed up into his face, clearly trying to gauge his mood. Knowing that the position of the light gave her only a silhouette, Severus waited a moment before he offered a hand to help her up from the ground. Wordlessly, she took it, letting him lead her out through a space in the hedge, heading out and over the hill rolling away from the house. They walked in silence for a moment before she turned to him.

"How can you let him speak to you like that?" she spat suddenly, as if they had been in the middle of a heated argument.

"My father despises me, and I him." His voice was calm.

"Exactly!" she said, passionately. "How can you just sit there, hating him, and not say anything? I could never let someone talk to me the way he talked to you, and you didn't say a single bloody word!"

A raised eyebrow in response to her swearing quashed her rage, and then she let out a sigh. "Honestly, I don't understand how you can do it."

"Would arguing with him do any good to either of us?"

"No, I suppose not," she responded petulantly. She took his arm as he offered it, sulking all the while.

"Then why fight with him? It's what he wants." Severus waited a moment before smirking just a bit. "You certainly gave him more than enough of your mind; had I given him a piece of mine, he'd have choked on it."

"Good," she said harshly.

To her surprise, Severus chuckled. "Such venom, Miss Granger. It's not at all fitting in such courteous society."

She scoffed loudly, but allowed her temper to ebb away. After another long pause, she said, "It's beautiful here." He nodded. As she looked out again, she started to laugh to herself. "You know, it's just like the first day I got my letter for Hogwarts."

The comment had been more thinking aloud than an intentional conversation topic, but when he looked down at her with an eyebrow lifted, she smiled and gestured out towards the sprawling estate ahead of them. "This. All this." He still looked confused, so she continued. "When I first got my Hogwarts letter from Professor McGonagall, I felt as if someone had lifted me out of my normal life and dropped me into a fairy tale, only now that life has become normal and this is what feels surreal. Walking over the green lawn of some fabulous estate, in these very Regency robes, on the arm of a tall, dark, brooding man ... I've been plunked down in the middle of Pride and Prejudice."

Hermione started a bit when he started to nod, a wry smile on his face; she'd been just about to explain about Jane Austen and her writing.

"You are a Lizzie to the core," he said.

A bemused smile on her face, Hermione nodded. "I suppose I am, really; I even have a much prettier, much sweeter sister, though she's called Gen, not Jane."

"A Jennifer?" Snape asked. "With a first daughter called Hermione, I would have expected something more ... intellectual."

At this, Hermione laughed heartily. "Gen with a 'G'; her name is Imogen, but she insists that everyone call her Gen. She can't stand the snooty Shakespeare references – her words, not mine," Hermione said, holding up her hands, "so she insisted on nicknames for both of us."

Snape nodded. "Ah, I see. Well, if she's nicknamed herself Gen, what, dare I ask, is short for 'Hermione'?"

With a distinctly artless clearing of her throat, Hermione remarked on the beauty of the sunset. Snape smirked down at her for a moment, but seemed content to let go the fact that she'd not answered him. Her cheeks reddened under his raised eyebrow and steady gaze, but he didn't ask and she didn't volunteer. She felt the embarrassment flow away as they walked, and Hermione took in the breathtaking surroundings. Just as they had rounded the last of the hedgerows and headed out of the gardens, a loud crack alerted her to the presence of a small house elf, her arms full of a sleek bundle the color of rich cream. Fringe dangled over the long, spidery fingers.

The tiny elf dropped a curtsy first to Severus – a muttered "Young Master" on her lips – and then to Hermione, before offering the material out to both of them.

"The Master, he says that the new Miss is being cold, so I is to bring her the old Mistress's shawl," said the little elf in a high, girlish voice.

Hermione looked to Severus a moment, perplexed, before saying, "That's kind of him, but I'm not..."

Before she could finish her polite refusal, Severus bent down to the little elf and took the shawl from her fingers. "Thank you, Lalu," he said and straightened, the garment clutched in one hand. "That will be all."

"Yess'r, Your Grace," she said, and vanished with a whip-crack of noise.

When she was certain the elf was gone, Hermione turned a questioning face to her fiancé, who had already taken the wrap in both hands and shaken it out to its full length.

"What was that all about?" said Hermione. "I really don't need anything. It's not even cool, let alone chilly enough for a shawl."

Severus sighed and his face took out that pinched, hard quality that it had gained when in his father's presence. "More games," he said gruffly.

"Games?"

"My father's, of course," said Severus. He lifted the shawl and gestured towards her with it. "This was not a statement of concern for your comfort, Miss Granger. It was a test."

Hermione looked from the shawl to her fiancé and back. "How is a shawl a test?"

He sighed and stared down at the shawl. "It was a treasured possession of my mother's. That he offered it to you without provocation is undoubtedly a test of emotions."

"How could he possibly test me on that? I'd have no idea of its history," Hermione asked.

"It was not a test for you." Severus's thumbs ran over the silky material as he held it in both hands; he stared down at the garment as if he could see his mother wrapped in it. "Given my partiality for my mother and hers for me, coupled with his hatred for both of us, he cleared wished to observe my reaction upon receiving the shawl, and as such, would expect me to relate the significance to you. I'm certain that he expects you to reject it on principle."

Hermione watched the tall, proud, sullen man gaze down at the filmy creation in his fingers as if touching it could strike his father down simply for arrogant presumption. With a sharp nod, Hermione stood in front of him and turned her back, offering her arms and shoulders to him. She heard a soft exhalation of air that sounded half-sigh and half-chuckle before she felt him lay the material across her outstretched arms. Slowly, she spun to him and looked up into his face for his feelings. They were inscrutable as ever, under the smooth mask of emotionless human marble. Trying not to fidget with the shawl now that it was on her – clearly, this token of the dead mother hurt and unsettled her unpredictable fiancé – Hermione took up his arm again and pulled him into continuing their walk towards the lake. Throughout their walk away from the manor, they settled into a relatively easy silence. They skirted along the edge of the water, Hermione bending down to touch her fingers to the warm surface momentarily before straightening and strolling on. Now that Jane Austen had rolled around in her mind, Severus's behavior made her think of the snappish and proud male 'hero' of her favorite novel, who, now at his family home, seemed to have changed completely and become well-mannered and affable. This brought her thoughts back around to something that had gnawed at her earlier in the week. She chewed on the inside of her lip as she watched him out of the corner of her eye, tall and straight and silent as they walked.

"What now?" Snape asked, his lips curling into a little half-sneer. When Hermione turned a questioning face to him, he shook his head. "After six and a half years of having you under my eye, I can tell when you are pondering something you don't particularly want to share. Out with it, Granger; what has caught your mind?"

Hermione scowled a bit – annoyed that he could read her so effortlessly yet again – and chewed a corner of her lip before answering. "I was just wondering how many different faces you have." When he quirked an eyebrow at her from his height, she sighed. "That first night you taught me to walk, you quoted Oscar Wilde, and then on our way to Hogsmeade, it was Shakespeare. Earlier, you were discussing Jane Austen as if it's the most natural thing you've ever done. And yet, you let Madame Moreaux call me a disaster and a whore, you're never nice to me unless you feel you have to be or you're putting on a show, and you can't give a compliment without couching it in terms so obtuse that it sounds like an insult. How many faces do you have? I'm still not sure whether I like this cultured, genteel Snape any better than the real one who gives me detention for breathing too loudly."

Snape shook his head and turned his attention forward to the long expanse of lawn they traveled, heaving a sigh. "You Gryffindors are all alike. You can glare at me all you like, Miss Granger," he said, a dry expression on his sharp features, "but it's true. You Gryffindors only ever see things in black or white. People are good or evil, nice or nasty, the pedestal of Heaven or the pits of Hell. Everyone is either a noble hero or a degenerate liar. Never anything between. You all lack any ability to differentiate further than the extremes. Who is to say that what you've seen here is any less 'real' than the glowering, relentless task master you've met at Hogwarts? I assure you that they are one and the same man."

"But the nicer things you've said all seem like lies when you go back to being nasty."

"Such an overly simplistic view of things," he said, and the long neck crooked his hawk-like face over to regard her as they walked. "Being a Slytherin and a spy – two things that apply to the 'real' Snape, as you call him – are quite similar. Being a spy does not necessitate the ability to lie heedlessly and make it seem like the truth. In fact, being a good spy means being able to speak the absolute truth, crafting it in such a way that you do not need to lie." When she gazed up at him with a dubious expression, Severus's voice became the assured, confident tone of the teacher. "To be a truly successful double-agent, one must learn to smith words and actions carefully, not to mention innately. It is not about bending the truth to fit the situation and creating duplicity. It is about bending the situation to fit the truth and creating reality. Sculpting the world to fit your truth is an art form only a true adept can master."

Hermione sighed. "It all sounds so Machiavellian. Don't you find it deceitful to lead people by the nose to a certain conclusion, even if what you're saying is mostly true?"

"Says the cauldron to the kettle," Snape said, a thick smirk melting across his face.

Hermione blushed. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You sculpted the truth yourself rather obviously not a half hour ago," he said. When she blushed further and cleared her throat, Snape sneered. "Did you feel deceitful?"

"I assume you're referring to my statement to your father regarding you being," she gulped, "an excellent lover?"

"How astute of you to catch on so quickly," Snape responded.

Hermione bristled at his smugness and straightened her back. "I didn't lie, you know."

"Is that so?"

"I didn't!" she cried. "I didn't say that we were intimate, just that you were an excellent lover. He came to whatever conclusions he came to on his own."

"Mmmm," Snape said, a smirk still on his face as they walked.

Following a pregnant silence, Hermione quietly asked, "Did I lie?"

"About us being sexually involved?" Snape said. "That much should be perfectly obvious. If it is not, we have larger concerns to deal with than lying. Your being delusional would certainly be an issue that we'd need to resolve before marrying."

"I meant," she started but had to stop. Hermione found that a deep breath was necessary – made more so by the potent stare she felt from Snape – before she could continue. "I meant did I lie when I said you're an excellent lover?" Hermione felt her face heat considerably as he chuckled low in his chest and walked on for a moment.

"Honestly, Granger," Snape said, disdain heavy on his tongue, "that is the worst kind of leading question. How could I possibly answer it correctly? If I say 'no,' you assume either that I am lying to inflate my own ego or that I'm telling the truth and am a egotistical, pompous arse. If I say 'yes,' I'm either lying to make you nervous or telling the truth and priming you for sure disappointment. Beside that, I'm not entirely sure you want to know the answer. I think you just can't help but question everything."

Unsure of how to respond, Hermione settled for twining the fingers of her right hand in the folds of the shawl at her shoulders and trying not to change her grip on his arm with her left.

"Instead of providing you with the answer," Snape said, his voice cool, "I shall allow you to make your own conclusion through a series of logical deductions."

"All right," Hermione said warily. She had a feeling that this would be ghastly.

"Very well." His tone suddenly became clipped and oddly business-like. "Firstly, being an excellent lover is largely similar – at least in fundamental personality traits – to being a powerful wizard or a competent Potions master. List for me the qualities you feel are necessary to be a powerful wizard."

Hermione looked up at him for a moment, a bit dizzied at being so strangely side-tracked, but grateful for the distraction. "Innate talent, I suppose," she started, then gained strength as her mind snapped into student mode. "Strength, compassion, integrity, observance, judgment, prudence, instinct..."

"That will do," he said. "And a competent Potions Master?"

"Many of the same," she said, chewing her lip in thought. "But I'd add a few to the list: Diligence, concentration. Precision, certainly..."

"Patience?" he prompted.

"Absolutely!" Hermione responded enthusiastically, her mind whizzing through all the qualities she'd read about famous Potioneers. "Patience is essential in nearly every potion. I suppose those would be the foremost I'd think of, mostly."

"You forgot one quality that is utterly essential, Miss Granger." His voice was firm and commanding, though not displeased. He raised his arms and spread his long, pale fingers out in front of her. "A Potions Master's hands are his greatest tool, Miss Granger. There are no silly incantations, no foolish wand-waving in Potions," he didn't even notice Hermione's covert smile at the resurgence of the speech he gave to first years, "only the master's mind and his hands. A Potions Master's hands must be swift, precise, strong, and unforgiving. They must be able to coax magic – literally and figuratively – out of the most mundane of ingredients. Every move must be intentional; every reaction must be pure and perfect. His hands, Miss Granger, are his most potent weapon."

Something in the quality of his voice made her want to shiver. She restrained it as best she could as he flexed and extended each of the slender digits in turn before replacing them in the folds of his robes.

"Now," he said, "would you say that I am a powerful wizard, Miss Granger?"

"Of course," she said quietly, a little disoriented at another sudden turn.

"And a competent Potions Master; what of that?"

"One of the best," she answered dutifully, though no more loudly. Hermione quickly averted her face from his dark-eyed stare when he directed it at her. "Sir," she added, in wont of something else to say.

"Then it stands to reason that I am in possession of these traits that you just listed?" he asked, an eyebrow lifted.

"Naturally," Hermione responded, trying not to clear her throat.

Snape nodded brusquely, as if he had expected no other reply. "Then apply, if you will, those traits that you listed as being essential for both a powerful wizard and a competent Potions Master – traits that you agreed that I possessed – to being a lover." He smirked as she flushed about the cheeks, but he could almost see her mind working as she chewed her lip when he spoke.

"Innate talent," his voice was so smooth, "strength, compassion, integrity, observance, judgment, prudence, instinct..." Hermione squeaked just a tiny bit; Snape sneered. "...diligence, concentration. Precision. Patience," his tongue caressed that last word strangely, making her breath speed up. She felt as if she were gulping air as he raised his arms again. "And my hands, Miss Granger. Observe my hands."

Though she knew it was exactly what he wanted, she glanced at them and then had to look away from the long, slim and elegantly-boned hands that rose into her line of vision again.

"The greatest tool," he said, flexing the fingers again, seemingly for his own amusement.

The glossy liquid that was his voice flowed like dark molasses, gelling the joints in her knees and elbows. Hermione felt shaky and weak, as if she had instantly come down sick and might at any moment break into a fitful sweat. Her stomach heaved queerly, perplexed and off-kilter, and her lungs pawed at the air before she could get a handle on whatever had just happened. Clearing her throat uncomfortably loudly, Hermione wrenched her spine straighter and couldn't help but stiffen her grip on the pool of black wool at his elbow.

"I do not believe I need to answer your query, Miss Granger," Snape said, his voice still strange and silky. "The conclusion should be rather obvious. So tell me: did you lie?"

Something in the remark compelled her. She turned her head to meet the penetrating stare from above and she nearly felt the dark eyes bore into her mind. Her mouth opened – dry as a desert with no warning – but only a peep left her lips. She snapped them shut. Turning his face back towards the trees ahead, Snape chuckled. They finished the rest of the walk in a strangely charged silence.

*****

Severus couldn't help but be impressed by his Gryffindor fiancée, whatever her short comings. Miss Granger had taken his father's smooth insults with more grace than he would have expected and she had risen to the challenge that he had offered without so much as turning a hair at the fact that the shawl belonged to his long-dead mother. He had no doubt that they were still in line for a fair amount of grief before the next two days were over, but, surprising even himself, Severus had confidence that Granger would ride it out well enough. Well enough for a head-strong, emotional Gryffindor, at least. Shifting on the chaise he had claimed near the hearth, Severus raised the Potions periodical in his hands, gazing at his fiancé with his eye-line still appearing to be on the text.

If she had the intent of maintaining the dignified front of adulthood, she was failing parlously. It had taken him the course of nearly an hour to extract her from the family's library (that his father had decided to give her a tour of; why, he still couldn't be certain), but when he had finally managed it, she had nearly skipped down the corridor, clutching a first-edition copy of a tome that apparently contained her favorite stories as a child. Only his sternest glare and the bell for dinner had convinced her to abandon it here in the sitting room, and the instant the meal had been over she had dashed back to the room and picked it up immediately, seizing the chaise near the window that she now occupied. Her legs were tucked up under her, lost within the folds of her robes, and her eyes darted across the pages with dizzying speed. The caress of her fingers on the cover was nearly childlike in its reverence. The fact that his father engaged himself in returning business correspondences didn't fool Severus; if Tobias was missing anything of Hermione's posture or occupation, Severus would skip through the courtyard naked, painted Gryffindor red. No, he was certain that the Marquis was well-aware of her reversion to adolescence.

Severus sighed heavily, eyeing the porcelain pot on the table next to him. With a quick tap of his wand to the pot's rounded belly, Severus refilled his cup with steaming, dark liquid. The first tang of the achingly strong and sweet coffee had him not quite suppressing a grin. Her behavior before dinner had been quite satisfactory indeed. Just after Severus and Hermione had come in from their constitutional, the Marquis had been making his way through the eastern wing of the house and suggested a tour of the family library. Shortly after Hermione had disappeared within the rows of shelving, a whip-crack of noise heralded the arrival of one of the house elves. Spreading the doily at her waist as she curtsied to both Severus and his father, the little elf squeaked out, "Is you be wanting tea now, Master?"

Hermione walked to the end of the aisle she had been perusing, seemingly absorbed with the book in her hands. Severus could tell she was practically burning a hole in the page with her effort not to show interest.

"Yes, we shall take it here," the Marquis said smoothly. Then, before anyone had a chance to reply, he added, "The White Darjeeling. We'll all take it light, with milk and no sugar."

Nearby, Severus heard the muffled thump of a book snapping shut. "Severus hates tea," Hermione said abruptly, her voice cold and calm as she strode past the Marquis to bend down to the elf who had turned to go.

"What is your name?" she asked the tiny creature that had started to crumple her doily apron beneath her long fingers in nervousness.

The elf had looked to the Marquis, who only looked back her with a blankly inquiring face, before answering. "Shula, Young Miss."

Hermione forced a smile. "Well you see, Shula, Master Severus hates tea and I prefer something with a bit more punch than your Master's tastes. Could you please bring Master Severus a coffee? Black, as strong as you can make it and with three lumps of sugar. I'll take whatever black tea you have on hand, prepared the same way as Master Severus's coffee, but with a slice of lemon."

The elf looked to the Marquis again, this time receiving a raised eyebrow and minute nod. "Yes, Young Miss. Of course," Shula answered. She Disapparated so quickly – most likely to escape any possible retribution for contradicting the Master – that the noise made Hermione flinch. Her face was calm again, though, when she had straightened. Eyes raised to the Marquis, she nodded to him with a tiny, absent smile and returned to the books. Tobias had watched in silence as Severus had stationed himself in the alcove near the door to wait for Shula to return. When the tray had appeared on the small breakfast table in the middle of the room, Hermione wandered back long enough to pick up a steaming cup of Oolong in a small silver filigreed pot.

Hermione settled herself at the table, a large tome on the origins of the French magical community open in front of her, and sipped at her cup with an appreciative if vacant smile.

"Well, Severus," the Marquis said in what should have seemed an approving tone, "you've certainly caught yourself a fiancée who isn't afraid to take charge of a situation. And she seems to know your preferences quite well."

Hermione glanced up from her book and smirked. Harry was right; if she could handle the Malfoys, a Basilisk, and Lord Voldemort, she could certainly handle Marquis Tobias Snape, Lord Bossy Bottom Snarky Pants. "It's true, Marquis; I've never had trouble commanding a situation. In my experiences with Ron and Harry, if you leave the running of a situation to the men, nothing productive ever gets done." She laughed gaily at her own joke, sickened at the fact that her voice barely sounded like herself any more.

"That is certainly an apt statement," Severus replied slickly. "Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley wouldn't have made it out of first year Potions without your omnipresent guidance."

A quick, hard glance was directed at Snape before she turned back to the Marquis. "And anyone who knows Severus would know he positively loathes tea. Simple really. And," Hermione turned a doting smile on Severus, "any fiancée would pay attention to her betrothed's likes and dislikes. So how could I not know that Severus likes his coffee strong and sweet? Just how I like my tea. It's the little things that make a gesture romantic, don't you think?"

"I've never really seen benefit of romantic gestures," the Marquis said. "I've always felt it much more useful to be practical."

"Now that, I believe," Hermione answered. "And so does your son, it seems."

Not able to stomach any more of the ruthless politeness and constant stage-acting, Hermione rose from the table and wandered away with her tea. When she knew that she was far away enough that no one would hear the incantation, Hermione muttered a quick silencing charm before screaming her frustration and hurling her teacup at the wall.

*****

Dinner had passed fairly uneventfully, only disrupted by the occasional expected digs; Severus merely had to wait out the Marquis until he turned in for the evening, which wouldn't be long. His father had always been the 'early to bed, early to rise' sort, yet another showing that despite their mirrored faces they were as opposed in nature as it was possible to be. Hermione continued her tireless reading despite the waning light. When her eyes started to feel the strain, she had merely pulled her wand from a place up her sleeve and lit it, using her left hand to hold it against the outer spine of the book, throwing light down upon the pages. He smirked just a tiny bit at what was obviously an age-old gesture for her.

"My, my," Tobias said suddenly, pulling Severus from his reverie. "Your affianced certainly does have a thirst for the written word, doesn't she? She's hardly torn her eyes from those nursery rhymes since she finished eating."

Her head snapped up and the cinnamon eyes threw daggers at the Marquis. "Alice in Wonderland is a brilliant work of fiction, not a collection of nursery rhymes. And yes, I do have quite a healthy appreciation for literature." Her tone was so prim and lofty that Severus nearly laughed.

"Yes, you've studied that work quite closely," Tobias said with a slick smile. "Nearly as closely as Severus has studied you. I must admit, he seems quite smitten."

Hermione stiffened and darted a surprised glance at her professor. Had he really been watching her? Or was it another of the Marquis's attempts to goad them into admitting something? A shaky smile appeared on her lips. "He is an attentive fiancé," she said. Her voice hadn't quite cracked, but it wasn't as strong as she clearly would have liked.

Severus's jaw clenched before he purposely released it and spoke. "A much more fitting description than 'smitten,' certainly. 'Smitten' is for teenagers and simpering idiots. However, only a fool would ignore a woman gracious enough to accept his hand. I am no fool."

"Hmmm," the Marquis responded non-committally. "Well, however you describe it, Severus, I'm quite amazed to discover that you have such a romantic side. As Miss Granger so aptly pointed out earlier, you seem to have followed my example on that score. What with the close regard you've been giving her all evening, one would expect flowers, candy and a seranade next."

Hermione flushed red and opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't manage anything. Dropping her eyes to her lap momentarily, she waited for a snide remark from Snape and was surprised when none came. Eventually, to break the silence and the tension, she forced herself to her feet and affected a dainty yawn. Glancing at her watch, Hermione feigned surprise at the hour.

"Goodness! I've had ever such a long day; no wonder I'm tired!" She wasn't, but ten o'clock today seemed to have taken ages to get there. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," she nodded to the Marquis, then to Snape, "I believe I'll retire for the evening." Hermione tucked Alice under her arm and crossed the room.

"I'll accompany you to your suite," Snape said, making to stand, but as she moved past him, Hermione laid a hand on his arm and gently pushed him back down.

She knew he was probably desperate to leave, but Hermione had suffered under quite enough emotional strain for the day; she just wanted to retreat to peace and quiet. "No need," she said and smiled gently.

Perhaps it was something about being around such formal manners. Perhaps it was that the play-acting she'd been doing all afternoon had finally settled into a place where she no longer had to think about it. But for whatever the reason, Hermione's actions came without any forethought or contrivance: in a purely instinctual gesture that rose from God only knew not where, Hermione leaned down and placed her lips against Severus's cheek in a gentle kiss goodnight. For a moment, she seemed frozen there, realizing what she'd just done, but her mind screamed at her not to clam up, so she pulled away and tried to smile. In a startling moment of brilliance, Snape drew up the hand she had placed on his arm and laid his lips on the back of her knuckles.

Sometimes, Hermione forgot that he was a spy. It was easy to forget, seeing him stalk the halls every day like a sepulchral, vitriolic human bat, that Severus Snape was a man whose livelihood and the continuation of his life functions hinged on his ability to put forth whatever front was needed. She supposed that this was why she could still be surprised when he acted out of character so smoothly. If she hadn't known better, Hermione might almost have believed the soft, warm expression on his face, the way that his long, slender fingers caressed hers and he touched the back of her hand to his cheek before letting it slide from his grasp. Hermione felt a sudden heave of her stomach that was more flutter and less nausea than she'd expected; he was a far better actor than she had given him credit for. The only thing that allowed her stunned equilibrium to right itself was the fact that even within that soft, so very un-Snape-like face, his dark eyes were no less cold and inscrutable than ever. At least that had not changed. But she needed to leave.

Right now.

"Goodnight, Miss Granger," Severus said, his voice quiet.

She scurried to the door.

"Sleep well," the Marquis called after her with a chuckle as the heavy door clicked shut.

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