The Constrictor Knot

Chapter 19 – The Constrictor Knot

The Constrictor Knot – "The Constrictor Knot is one of the most effective binding knots. Simple and secure, it is a harsh knot which can be difficult or impossible to untie once tightened. ... The Double constrictor knot is an even more robust variation[,] having two riding turns. ... The Constrictor knot is appropriate for situations where secure temporary or semi-permanent binding is needed." from Wikipedia's List of Knots

The determined pacing Severus had been indulging in for nearly an hour halted abruptly with the presence of the timorous knock on the outside of his chamber door. Even as a child, Severus had been possessed of such a wealth of physical restraint that he seldom resorted to such impotent and weak gestures as pacing or fidgeting, but being back in France, near his father, had rattled his composure and the constant motion of pacing helped burn off some of the nervous energy. He glanced at his pocket watch then scowled at the door as the nerves coursing through his system peaked. No one in this household would knock on his door at nearly quarter-past two, so it had to be Granger. What in the hell could she want at this hour? Fully intending to set down the impudent girl for disturbing him at such an ungodly time, Severus wrenched open the door. The sight before him, though, halted the tirade. She stood before his door in nothing but a knee-length lavender nightgown, her hair in a wild tumble around her shoulders and her feet oddly bare. The gown was unbuttoned at the neck, showing a wide yet not indecent span of pale cleavage. Granger glanced down the hallway in either direction, biting her lip as she seemed to search for someone. Severus leaned on the partially open door and watched her, intrigued. Her body language would have suggested that she was nervous – the way her teeth gnawed on her lip, the hurried glances to search for onlookers – but the pinch in her brow wasn't quite complete and her eyes were steady; she was acting a part, and Severus found himself inexplicably interested in why. Suddenly, her eyes lifted to his, her cheeks flushing just a bit as she gave him a small, quick smile.

"I'm sorry to wake you," she whispered.

"You didn't," he said simply.

"Oh," she returned, and this time she looked genuinely discomfited. She looked left and right again, her gaze sticking for just a second at the curtained alcove just down the hall from his suite. "Good. Would you mind if I came in?"

He raised an eyebrow, leaning even more heavily on the door. Unable to tell what she was on about, Severus figured he'd simply wait until she betrayed something.

Granger flushed again, this time much more brilliantly; she took a quick breath before speaking. "I thought we could ...." As her voice trailed off, the girl dropped her eyes and shrugged her shoulder in a strange fashion, causing the loose strap of her gown to fall down her arm. The shifting neckline exposed more skin, this time giving him a view of just the top of a breast; she looked back up at him with a timid smile. Her eyes darted again, lightning quick, to the alcove lying in shadow, and suddenly her plot made itself clear. With a thick smile, Severus stood straight and moved away from the entrance of the door only slightly, causing her to brush her bare shoulder against him as she passed by into the darkness of his sitting room. She gasped just a tiny bit; Severus pushed the door shut quietly.

The instant the latch clicked behind them, Hermione removed her wand from a band she had tied to her thigh and muttered a few charms, the first of which being a Silencing Charm. Struck with that same sense of nerves, Severus averted his eyes as Granger's hands flew to her nightgown, wrenching up the neck and rebuttoning as fast as her fingers could move. When she had replaced the neck, she reached underneath the gown and pulled a small square of cloth from the same band as her wand, restoring it to its normal size and shape. The pink, fluffy robe looked strangely out of place as she threw it around her shoulders. Only when she was fully dressed covered did Granger raise her eyes to his.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," she said, only a tiny hitch in her voice. "But I figured it a safe bet that your father is having me watched, so I thought it might help our case if I came here in the middle of the night and asked to come in. I thought that anyone watching me would think that ... well, you know ... that I'm..."

"So desperate for my company that you'd sneak down here for a quick, late-night shag?"

"Er, something like that, yes," Hermione said in a rush. "So, I guess I'll just ... stay for a few minutes."

Severus strode across the room towards her and, while she didn't back away precisely, Granger studied her toes, wiggling them and gripping the strands of the thick rug beneath her. "A few minutes?" Snape said, a tiny smirk curling his lips. "Is that the extent of my stamina as an 'excellent lover'?"

Granger's face darkened another shade of red and she chewed on the inside of her lip as she glanced between him and the floor. "Well, I didn't think that if it were a ... erm, quick encounter, that we'd be all that eager to linger, you know. I figured ten or fifteen minutes ought to do it."

Severus laughed, a clipped bark of noise. "An hour, Miss Granger. At the very least."

She looked up at him, astonished, before paling and clutching her robe tighter about her. "An hour? Don't you think that's a bit excessive for a fast tumble in the middle of the night at your father's house?"

"An hour," he said firmly. "If we're going to make him talk, we may as well give him something to really chew on."

"Right," Hermione said, and a nervous chirp of laughter eked out of her. "Right. So, I'll just ..." She glanced around the sitting room, lit only by a low fire, clearly searching for something to occupy her for the next hour. "Bollocks, I should have brought something to re-re-re..." Her jaw nearly cracked under the force of an enormous yawn.

"Read," she finished.

Snape studied her for a moment, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the riotous bramble of hair and the light crease in her right cheek.

"Had you already been to sleep?"

She nodded, stifling another yawn. "I set the mantle clock in my room for 1:45. I intended to be here at two, but I got lost on the way into the east wing." Suddenly, she scowled and her arms went akimbo, seemingly of their own volition. "I don't know what's below the corridor leading between that pink drawing room and the upper level of the library, but it made the floors bloody freezing."

"And that's your lesson regarding running around unshod like a heathen."

Her scowl started to deepen, but she shuddered with another yawn.

"Rest, Granger," said Snape. With a non-committal wave of his hand, he indicated a tapestry hung on the wall behind her and to the right. "The bedroom is through that passageway. I will wake you at the appropriate time."

Without thinking, Hermione started off in that direction, but halted quickly. Staring at the wall hanging but not really seeing it, Hermione felt a sudden surge of queasiness. Sleep in Snape's bed? Could she even bring herself to? And what if he got tired? Would he wake her and throw her out? Sleep out here on the sofa? Or, worse yet, get in bed with her? Unconsciously, a hand went to her stomach.

"You know, I don't think I'm that tired after all," Hermione said, turning back and walking toward the sofa near the fire. "I think I'll just..."

"Don't be ridiculous," Snape said and placed both of his large hands on her shoulders. Without waiting for a reply, he turned her back towards the tapestry and gave her a shove. "You're nearly dead on your feet. Sleep. Tomorrow will be all the more difficult if you are not well-rested."

"No, I..." She yawned again.

"You're half asleep as it is, Granger."

"But, I..."

"I won't forget to wake you."

"Yes, but you..."

"Nor will I tease, bother or molest you in your sleep." She whirled around to gape at him, but he looked as stony and unmoved as ever. "Go," he said, with an air of finality and, assuming her compliance, turned his back to her and planted himself at a desk near the window.

As if her presence had never been acknowledged at all, Snape withdrew a quill and parchment from an inner drawer in the desk, hunching over so low that the lank strands of his hair brushed the paper, shadowing his quick, spiky script from her view as he wrote. Hermione found herself overcome with curiosity; she took a few tentative steps forward, intrigued by the idea that something could be so terribly pressing at 2:15 am on a Saturday.

"Shoo," Snape said so suddenly that Hermione squeaked in surprise.

This time, she complied with his request immediately and scuttled off behind the tapestry.

*****

Waking in a cold sweat, Hermione nearly screamed, but not from terror. It was the worst nightmare she'd had in a long time (at least, the worst that didn't feature death or Lord Voldemort somehow), but oddly, she didn't feel scared. The details of what she'd seen tried to slip away, but Hermione forced her mind to clutch onto them. True, she'd never been one for Divination or dream interpretation, but this one seemed inexplicably important. She remembered that it had started in Potions class. Fairly innocuous, at least in the beginning.

No sooner had she begun to unpack her bag upon the table than Professor Snape appeared and instructed the class that they would be making an elixir to reveal the perfect lover. It had occurred to her, in the dream, as only mildly strange, but she felt exhilarated by the challenge. The perfect lover and it would be her that created the elixir perfectly, she knew it! She was determined to discover the secret held within the depths of the potion.

Snape's tongue swept into her mouth as she opened it to cry out in repulsion.

*****

"A dream," Hermione whispered to herself, curling into a ball and trying to calm her racing heart. "Just a dream ... just a dream ..."

Her face flushed, trying desperately to stop sweating, Hermione whimpered as she tried to slow her breathing. So strange, the dream had been so strange. And what in the world could it mean? The prompting of it was obvious: her subconscious seemed to still be mulling over the conversation that she and Sn-Severus had carried on in the gardens, and clearly their actions before she retired to bed had aggravated those thoughts. With a violent startle, she realized the fact that she was also actually in his bed probably didn't help. Hermione jumped out of the bed with a squeak and couldn't quite help her hands brushing at her clothes as she she'd been dirtied somehow. The minute her mind caught up with her hands, though, she felt thoroughly ashamed; she'd meant what she'd said to Snape: she refused to hold things against people that they couldn't help. Snape certainly couldn't help his appearance; to be fair, though, it was his personality that was the more repugnant of his qualities.

Hermione sat down on the bed gingerly. He'd changed, though. These last few hours in France seemed to have rendered him a wildly different person. All right, he was still curt and surly, imperious, and endlessly pleased with himself and disdainful of others, but something had ... softened strangely. If Hermione hadn't known it was largely, if not completely, for show, she would have even ventured to say that he was being nice to her. That he actually enjoyed her company. It was all an act, but it would be nice while it lasted. For however short a time it would be, Hermione would feel as if she had a fiancé that cared for her. A surprising novelty, given her situation.

Even more surprising was that the favorable change in his disposition suited him. Before this afternoon, a 'nice' Snape would have ranked near a relaxed Filch or a benevolent Umbridge on the list of Things Going against the Very Fabric of the Universe. But no, she thought as she lay back down on the soft cotton sheets, this change seemed to have settled into his skin effortlessly. Was it the change of scene? It couldn't be the presence of his father. The man was cantankerous enough to force the Dalai Lama to act as if he had a cavity and a hernia at the same time. Maybe Snape really was warming to her ... or, she thought, with a sickening plunge of her stomach, it really is all just a very convincing performance from a very skilled actor. For some reason, that thought upset her more than she cared to admit, which confused her more than she could explain.

Hermione inhaled tentatively as she lay her head back down on the pillow. She'd been afraid that it would smell like that familiar mix of herbs, old books, and the sick-sweet smell of dungeon dampness that always lingered around his teaching robes, but the crisp smell of laundry soap made her smile. And then frown. He'd said that she hadn't woken him, but she'd assumed that he'd been lying; the only smell lingering on his pillow, however, was the aroma of the laundry soap and a tiny fragrance of her own shampoo. Four hours had gone by between when she went to bed and when she showed up at his door, and yet he hadn't even lain down? She glanced at the mantle clock. Nearly four a.m. and he hadn't slept at all? True, she'd been in here for the last hour and a half, but...

"Hour and a half?" Hermione squeaked and leapt from the bed. "Four o'clock!" Throwing her dressing gown back over her shoulders, she strode across the room and pushed through the tapestry into the sitting room. For a moment, she circled the small room frantically before realizing that Snape was not there. Odd, certainly, but the fact that he wasn't actually calmed her nerves. A hand to her chest, as if it could slow her thumping heart, Hermione walked over to his desk, intent on writing a short note to him before ducking out and back towards her room. The parchment on the surface of his desk, the scrap he'd begun writing on when she entered, caught her eye and nearly made her gasp aloud.

The picture didn't move, but she had a feeling that was only because it wasn't finished. Scrawled across the page was a half-completed sketch of her face, with such a striking likeness that only the obvious pen strokes convinced her that it wasn't a photograph. The black and white likeness of her stared up from the page, the inside corner of the drawn Hermione's bottom lip drawn between her teeth. The right side of her visage was fully formed, shaded in such a manner that suggested a dim light source spilling onto her from directly ahead. The left side receded into a simplistic line drawing; clearly this was the portion that the artist, whomever he or she was, hadn't finished yet. Despite the fact that the drawing was incomplete, the expression on the portrait Hermione's face was clear: she looked uncertain, wary and, somehow, anxious to please. The artist had certainly glorified her eyes, as she was certain that they were neither that clear nor that expressive, but the finished right eye practically leapt from the page. Her hair was the only aspect of the drawing that was complete in its entirety, the wild spirals escaping in all directions, as if it threatened to take over the whole page.

Hermione couldn't help staring at the drawing in complete surprise and bizarre entrancement. Who in the world would have taken the time to draw such an intense and realistic portrait of her? Certainly no one in this house. And why would Snape, of all people, have it on his...With the force of a stampeding herd of hippogriffs, the memory of Snape bent over his desk, scribbling away on a piece of parchment assaulted her. She had assumed he had been writing some form of correspondence. Never in her most feverish assumptions would she have presumed to think that Snape would do anything at all connected with creativity, especially not something so very personal as a drawing of her face, of all things. The longer she stared at it, the more it dawned on her that this was a rendering of her appearance as it had been when she came to his door that very night. His pen had not marked anything below her chin, yet she felt certain that if it had, she would have seen a single bare shoulder, the other supporting a loose, falling nightgown.

Her hand trembling, Hermione extended her fingers toward the drawing before suddenly pulling them back as if she'd been stung by her own representation there on Snape's desk. Something in Hermione felt almost as if she'd been violated. This picture seemed too familiar, too personal almost. A horrible creature living in her imagination clouded Hermione's vision with pictures of Snape beckoning her into his bedroom, of those horrible, scratchy teaching robes brushing against her as his long-fingered hands pushed away her nightgown. A powerful wave of some sensation that felt a cross between anxiety and nausea swept over her. One hand clutching her dressing gown closed at her throat and the other clamping tightly over her lips, Hermione turned as quickly as she could and bolted from the room. Her bare feet didn't stop slapping the cold wooden floors until she was safely ensconced in the guest room in the west wing of the house, far away from that drawing, her fiancé, and his dark, piercing eyes that saw far, far too much.

*****

That damn girl was bloody-well driving him crazy. If he'd thought that his nerves were peaked last night, he'd cursed himself by speaking too soon. From the instant he'd knocked her up that morning for breakfast, she'd acted as if she were just a few very small steps short of screaming in horror and running from him like a scared doe. True, their dealings last night had been somewhat strained and more than a tad awkward, but it didn't explain the way she was currently sitting across from him at the small table, picking at her salade niçoise as if afraid that its very presence might make her vomit. Severus laid his fork on his plate – which caused her to flinch, making him grimace – and kneaded the bridge of his nose with his fingers. At least his father had left them to eat in private, temporarily devoid of his usual antics. Merlin, he was certain that this interminable weekend couldn't possibly get worse. A loud, boisterous voice sounded from somewhere a few rooms away, and Severus forced himself to restrain a groan. Yet again, he'd spoken too soon; by now, he should simply kick himself for making assumptions at all, as fate would be less tempted to prove him wrong.

"Well then, well then," said the full, distinctly feminine voice in the adjoining parlor. "What's so important that I just simply had to Apparate here all the way from Galway? It is busy in Ireland you know, despite your lofty opinions of such, Uncle."

Severus kneaded harder. He had known the voice instantly, of course, and exactly why his father picked this particular person as someone that 'simply had to be here.' A sigh escaped him and he drew his napkin from his lap, pushing away his chair and rising to greet the guest obviously making her way towards the library they currently occupied. Granger still sat at the table, her fork hovering in mid-air with a piece of tuna dangling precariously from the tines. When he looked directly at her, she paled but set down her fork and gazed up at him for direction. Before he could open his mouth to give instructions, their impromptu company had crossed the threshold and was making her way towards the pair, depositing her dove-colored wool traveling cape and leather gloves with a waiting house elf as she went. With a surreptitious glance at his father, Severus turned to Granger – who sat practically frozen at the table, her eyes gazing up at him in restrained panic – and gave a quick two-fingered gesture to indicate that she should rise from the table. Wordlessly, she followed his directive, calming her face and running her hands over the moss-green gown to smooth wrinkles that she only imagined were there.

A tall, reedy woman with auburn hair liberally shot through with gray, the guest surprised Hermione with her full voice and quirked smile. "I must say, Severus, you do look the most frightful shit after twenty years."

Hermione snorted loudly as she tried to restrain a gale of laughter. The tall woman favored Hermione with a lopsided smirk. The wide set of her square shoulders and the single raised eyebrow immediately marked her as a member of the Marquis's family.

"High praise, as usual," Severus said dryly.

His words carried his usual biting tone, but, much to Hermione's surprise, the tiny quirk of his lips seemed entirely genuine. He actually liked this woman. Snape didn't like anyone, especially not those who belittled him, and yet, he seemed to actually like this woman who'd insulted him with her first breath in the room. When near enough, the woman put out her hand, which Severus clasped lightly in his larger one as he leaned forward and lightly bussed her cheek. Her slim auburn eyebrow rose again as she directed her gaze to Hermione, who was still stifling a smile.

Snape's face hardened somewhat, Hermione noticed, as he moved to stand next to the statuesque redhead. "Lady Martine Iona Stanhope Snape," Snape said in a calm, clear voice. "Youngest daughter of William Stanhope, 11th Earl of Harrington. Through a series of extremely unfortunate events for her, such as birth and marriage to a complete prat, she also happens to be my cousin."

Unsure of how to take this last pronouncement, Hermione's eyes darted nervously between Snape – who smirked just a tad – and Martine – who swatted him across the chest with the back of a heavily-bejeweled hand. Lady Snape extended that same hand to Hermione, palm down, who darted a quick glance to Snape for guidance. He simply looked at Lady Snape's hand, back at her, then at the floor and up again. For a moment, Hermione was at a total loss, before a flash of their first walking lesson came back to her. She picked up Lady Snape's hand and bent over it as she curtsied.

"An honor to meet you, milady," Hermione said dutifully.

Only when Martine chuckled and threw a glance at the Marquis did Hermione chance to look at Severus, whose face was impassive. She could only guess that if she'd done something wrong, he'd look angry. Aside from that, she'd have to go on instinct.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Lady Snape said in response, but she looked far more amused than Hermione thought was 'proper manners.' "I'm sure it was Tobias who fed you that load of bollocks, my dear, as I know how very much Severus despises it all. But you performed admirably at least." Martine chuckled again and turned to Severus. "That doesn't explain what the lovely and unfortunate young creature is doing trapped in this house with you two louts, though."

Again, Hermione fought to keep her face straight, as did Severus, but for obviously opposite reasons. "I, er," Hermione started, but the Marquis took this opportunity to rise from the chair he had silently occupied upon entering, as if he were party to a marvelous circus of some kind.

"But surely you've heard of the new law enacted by the British Ministry, Martine," he said sleekly. "Being so close up in Ireland, I've thought it would be all the talk among your tenant farmers."

"My tenants have better things to do than gossip idly about another country's misfortune," Martine answered, her voice suddenly (and effectively) frosty as she spoke to the Marquis. It thawed quickly when she turned back to Severus. "You don't mean to say that you..."

The muscles along Severus's jaw worked heavily, but he unlocked them to speak. "Martine, this is Miss Hermione Granger, of Bedfordshire," he said. Then, dryly, "We are to be married."

The Lady Snape's face opened up into one of pure astonishment for a moment or two. Then for just a moment, it pinched into thoughtful concern. "You poor thing," she said, and reached out to pat Hermione's hand. "I don't envy you a jaunt, trying to live with Severus ad infinitum. All available sympathy to you."

Inexplicably, Hermione burst into full throated laughter. Martine smiled back at her, restraining from commenting any further as the Snape men donned identical scowls.

*****

In the back of her head, Hermione offered at least a hundred prayers of thanks to her deceased maternal grandmother, who'd insisted on instructing Hermione in the staunch etiquette of a formal afternoon tea. Despite the extended "lessons" with her sullen fiancé, they hadn't gotten around to covering a tea service. Hermione fancied herself quite a smart young lady, but had she not known them already, the 'rules' of tea service would have been mind boggling. One was not to stir one's tea in circular motions; instead, one should make gentle folding motions from the six o'clock of one's cup to the twelve o'clock position and back. One should never loop one's fingers through the handle of the cup; one should rest one's thumb behind the handle, one's index and middle finger in front of the handle, and gently lift the pinkie for balance to avoid spills. The saucer was to be held in the left hand and was never to be lifted with the cup unless the tea took place in a standing room. A napkin could only ever be placed on the left side of the place setting, with the folded edge to the left and the open edge facing into the place setting. Somehow, facing the other direction was considered common. As was slicing a scone completely through; a scone could only be delicately broken into bite-sized chunks before applying jam or cream. The knowledge had been pounded into her years ago, back when it had seemed a refined, grown up treat to play at a dignified formal tea service. Now, the gentle movements were effortless, and Hermione could not have been gladder about it.

Delicately using a lemon fork to add a slice to her tea, gently inhaling the fragrant aroma of the clove wedged in the center of the round, Hermione smiled at Severus, whom she knew was watching her from behind the ebony curtain of his hair. He had somehow managed to get away with asking Lalu and her companion for coffee, so he filled his cup from the French press that Mitsi had left on the small table at his left elbow. Hermione had to stifle a giggle as she watched him lift his serving of coffee; the bowl of the cup, delicately scrolled in gold filigree and moss green swirls, seemed tiny in his big hands, and she couldn't put out of her head the image of the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk sitting down to tea.

Lady Snape watched her for much of the beginning of Low Tea, regarding Hermione with an assessing yet not unfriendly eye as Martine acted as hostess and poured the tea. Hermione simply smiled and offered another round of silent thanks that she had not been asked to be hostess. Grammie Mona had passed away when she was nine, and as such, had never passed on the many points of etiquette tied to the role of the hostess.

"So, Miss Granger," Martine said with a quirked grin as she passed Hermione a porcelain cup, "you must tell me more about yourself. I'm dying to know what sort of woman," the Marquis's snort of disdain was immediately ignored, "Severus has deemed good enough for him."

Hermione blinked a few times. "Well," she started slowly, "I'm not so sure it's a matter of no one else being good enough..."

"You are too polite, I'm sure, Miss Granger," Lady Snape replied.

"Far too polite," Tobias said, his voice poison smooth. "Severus's standards, as we know, are legendary."

Hermione cleared her throat gently, casting her eyes to Severus momentarily. He just stared back. Obviously he was going to make no move to defend either her or himself.

"Indeed, they are," she finished strongly. "He accepts nothing less than the very best." Her spine straightened as she turned her gaze back to Martine. "I can only hope that I live up to the standard."

Martine gently waved away the comment. "Of course you will, darling; I'm sure you already have. Now, tell me more about yourself. I'm not normally so very gauche as to ask, but I'm curious, and as Severus will tell you, my curiosity is my undoing. How old are you, Miss Granger?"

"Martine," Severus said quickly, his voice a low warning. "Apart from the impoliteness, I think you can most likely glean that fact without having to ask."

Martine opened her mouth to return Severus's banter, but Hermione answered before she could speak.

"I don't mind owning it," she said, slewing a glare to the Marquis, who'd sat up all the straighter and watched her like a hungry tiger. "I am very nearly eighteen. My birthday is next Sunday."

"Whatever happened to 'a lady never reveals her age'?" Severus asked. The smile on his lips was teasing enough that any outsider would have thought him to be sharing a joke, but his eyes were cold and his glare sharp. Hermione swallowed heavily.

"A lady never does," Tobias returned, letting the unspoken insult hang in the air.

It only remained unaddressed for barely a second.

"That is thoroughly uncharitable, Uncle," Martine said to Tobias.

Hermione couldn't help tilting her head and regarding Lady Snape with a curious expression: her tone was unmistakably prickly and censuring.

"Not to mention untrue," Martine continued. "These days, I find that the issue of revealing one's age is decidedly less frowned upon that it used to be. I have little reason to conceal my own, come to that." She leaned over to Hermione and, in a loud stage whisper, said, "I'm fifty-two, but don't you dare tell anyone."

When Hermione let a flurry of giggles leave her after a sip of tea, Martine smiled and sat up again. "Well then, a birthday next week. Many happy returns, Miss Granger!" Martine said, nodding to her and smiling over her tea cup. "Severus, perhaps you'll want to write down the date, so you don't forget?"

"I think I'll be able to manage, Martine," Severus said dryly. "Six days before the wedding is not likely to go out of my head."

"So soon?" Lady Snape asked, and her astonishment was clear for the first time. "You're getting married so soon?"

Not waiting for a response from Hermione, Severus answered. "A necessity, really," he said. "The ceremony must be preformed within six months of the proposal, and this seemed like the most convenient time for the both of us."

Hermione barely refrained from huffing aloud. Convenient. Bah! Not a damn bit of this marriage was convenient, least of all this nonsense!

Something of her annoyance must have showed in her face because the Marquis immediately clucked his tongue. "Oh dear, I have a feeling Miss Granger disagrees," he said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. "Not bullying her about already, are you, Severus?"

Severus flashed his father an annoyed scowl. "Hardly," he snapped, "as she was the one who set the date."

"Perhaps she just wanted it over with?" Tobias offered in a polite voice.

"Perhaps she's just keen to marry dear Severus," Martine offered hopefully.

Hermione's teeth ground so heavily she was surprised they didn't crack. "Perhaps she dislikes being talked about as if she's not here."

The entire rest of the party regarded her with varying shades of disbelief: Martine's eyes held surprise at her sharp tone, but pride as well; Severus's had narrowed in assessment and warning; Tobias allowed his mahogany eyes to transmit an apology that clearly went no deeper than the surface.

"Forgive me, Miss Granger," Tobias answered, dropping a tiny half-bow. "I was merely offering that you were eager to be through with the formality of a wedding and head straight to the more interesting parts of connubial bliss." Tobias turned to his niece with an air of polite interest. "Apparently, he's quite an excellent lover."

Hermione's cup rattled so loudly in the saucer that even she was astonished that it hadn't broken. Cinnamon brown eyes shot a look of utter contempt at the Marquis that she was unable to mask.

Without a pause for a second breath, Martine raised her tea cup to her lips and sipped delicately, but not before saying, "I've no doubt of it. It's all in the hands, my dear. You can always tell a good lover by his hands."

Hermione dropped her eyes back to her tea, certain that if she stared hard enough at the floating lemon slice, she could entirely block out both her embarrassment and Snape's smirk of triumph.

*****

For the first few minutes of the leisurely walk around the gardens, Hermione was completely silent. She listened to Martine's lively voice chatter about the goings-on in Galway while the tall woman smiled into the Marquis's condescending and thoroughly disinterested face as he escorted her down the gravel path circumnavigating the gardens. Once or twice, Lady Snape's face would turn just far enough that Hermione could see her profile, and when she did, Hermione caught a mischievous, merry glint in her eye, which gave Hermione the impression that she was purposely digging up the most mundane, uninteresting nuggets of news with the express purpose of boring Severus's father to the point of madness. Hermione snickered, and when Severus stared down at her with a raised eyebrow and blank face, she grinned up at him winningly, quickening her pace to catch up with the pair ahead of them. Severus cleared his throat pointedly and glared at her, but allowed himself to be chivvied along.

"...think it's my favorite time of year in Galway, with the air being so crisp and the last harvest coming in. Lovely time of year to be outdoors. And it's absolutely abominable that not a one of you notified me that Severus was getting married." The abrupt topic change had disoriented nearly all of the party, Hermione included. She quickly gathered that this had been Lady Snape's intention, however, as neither Severus nor the Marquis had recovered quickly enough to comment. "I do hope the wedding will be outside."

Martine turned more gracefully than Hermione would have imagined someone of her height could and settled herself on a stone bench at the edge of a lily pond. "So if Severus is marrying you, then you must be a Mudblood, eh, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, I..." Hermione began, before Lady Snape's word choice sank in and she abruptly dissolved into silence. All Hermione could seem to do was gape at her, her mouth open, cheeks flushing in quick surprise and indignance.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, dear," Martine answered. Her cheery smile seemed so out of place with the crude insult she'd delivered just seconds ago. "We all have our shortcomings. You seem an intelligent girl and you're a pretty young lady; I'm sure Severus won't hold your blood status against you."

From Lady Snape's facial expression – one of kind concern and reassurance – Hermione gathered that she meant this comment to be some sort of comforting balm to Hermione's potential anxiety. Her mouth still hanging open a bit, Hermione tried to recover but it was the Marquis who spoke first.

"Yes, of course," he said silkily. His face had lit in what Hermione considered to be a grotesque show of giddy excitement. Clearly, this benevolent discrimination was the exact reason for his entreaty to Martine for a visit. "Severus is well known for being endlessly magnanimous." By now, Hermione had nearly recovered the powers of speech, but the Marquis continued. "But perhaps it is simply his taste for Mudbloods that drives his choice."

Martine nodded and gave a graceful shrug. "No harm in it, I suppose," she said thoughtfully. "We all have our strange penchants, eh, Severus?"

Unable to control her burgeoning temper but unwilling to stoop to snapping at the Marquis's obvious bait, Hermione simply muttered, "Excuse me," and took off down the gravel path ahead of her as quickly as she could without actually running.

Stones crunched beneath her feet and she fought a growl that tried valiantly to release itself from her throat as she put all possible distance between herself and the confusing, infuriating scene behind her. After a few moments, Hermione slowed to an insistent walk, trying to keep her hands from balling up and ruining the soft fabric of her green robes. After a moment, Hermione felt a strange heat upon the back of her neck.

"How could she?" she nearly shouted. "How could she! She seemed so nice. I actually liked her!"

"You have no reason not to," came the quiet, smooth response from behind her.

Unsure of how exactly she knew that Severus had followed her – somehow he'd managed it, though she'd heard neither footfall nor Apparition – Hermione whirled to face her fiancé. He leaned unceremoniously against the trunk of a tulip tree just bordering the path she stood on, as if he'd been lounging there for hours, waiting for her to show up.

"No reason not to?" Hermione cried indignantly. "Did you even hear what she called me? I thought she liked me!"

"She does," said Severus.

"Then how could she...?"

Snape sighed heavily and crossed his arms over his chest; the familiar sneer that had been noticeably absent the last twenty-four hours reappeared quickly and settled into the usual lines in his face. "Always the Gryffindor."

"Oh, for God's sake," said Hermione in a huff. "Don't start that nonsense again about House differences. She insulted me; plain and simple."

"You really can't see the difference, can you? You can think of no way that Martine could be friendly and still use that word. You really can't, can you?"

To Hermione's surprise, Snape's expression was genuinely inquisitive and perplexed; no hint of sarcasm lingered there. Speechless, Hermione shook her head. Severus sighed heavily again and sat on a wrought iron bench that had been riveted into the broad trunk. He gestured lightly for Hermione to join him. Still flushed with anger, she took a few steps towards him but did not sit. He shrugged before stretching his long legs ahead of him, reclining against the tree.

"Something that has always amazed me about Gryffindors – this is not a House prejudice, Miss Granger, simply an observation of a common trait among your housemates," he responded to her scowl, "is that it seems to be completely against your natures to see people with any shades of grey. As I said before, people are either evil or good, innocent or guilty, angels or demons. Nothing in between."

"That neither explains nor excuses what she said to me," Hermione said in a frosty voice.

Here, Snape sat up and regarded her thoughtfully. "Perhaps not. But did it not occur to you that she clearly had no idea that she was insulting you?"

For a moment, Hermione faltered. It had seemed as if Lady Snape had not realized her egregious faux pas. "How could anyone not recognize that as an insult? Anyone who wasn't a Death Eat..."

Hermione bit her cheek in an effort to stem the deluge of words that had nearly rained from her mouth. Snape's face pinched in anger at her last statement, unsurprisingly. When he spoke again, his voice was even harder.

"Ah, the House cliché finally rears its ugly head," he spat. "Despite what your capers with Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and the ever-so-sagely Mr. Longbottom have taught you, the world is not split up into two even groups: nice people and Death Eaters. There are more nuances than your pithy wits can comprehend."

"I..." Hermione started, but she knew that there was no way she could rescue herself from that particular line of discussion. Not without thoroughly insulting the man in front of her, and she wished to do that as little as possible just at present. Instead, she yanked the topic back to their previous discourse. "Yes, but with the term she used, it's awfully hard to mistake that for anything other than an insult. Even the word itself suggests an inferiority of the person to whom you're directing your statement."

"Now there, you happen to be correct. On the inferiority charge, at least," Snape said. "You see, Martine was raised by parents who came from a long line of purebloods. She also married into the Snape family. The difference between her family and mine, however, is their outlook on Muggle-borns. Unlike my father, my uncle instructed his children as he had been instructed: that while Muggle-borns were not the vermin that some witches and wizards purport them to be, they are simply a lower, more unfortunate class of people among the magical community. She has been taught to view your status in the magical world rather like the way you've been taught to view Squibs like Arabella Figg and Argus Filch: not exactly unworthy of your time or regard, but in a distinctly different class level."

Hermione was silent for a long moment, her mind churning over what she'd just heard. Although she longed to rage against the unfairness of it, the effrontery inherent in what Lady Snape had said to her, she had to admit that Professor Snape definitely had a point. Unknowingly, she had been taught to view people like Filch and Mrs. Figg as lower on the magical evolutionary ladder, simply because they couldn't do magic like she could. Sick to her stomach with shame, Hermione felt her cheeks redden as she picked at the lap of her robes. Quietly, Snape rose from the bench he'd settled himself on and extend his arm to her.

"Now," he said brusquely, "I suggest we go back there with all haste and you make an apology to Martine."

"Apologize?" Hermione asked, as if she didn't understand the word. "You want me to apologize for being insulted at that horrible word?"

"No. I want you to apologize for dashing off so quickly. Despite your perceived insult and your wounded ego, I know Martine and I can tell that she does like you. As such, she will be confused and hurt as to why you ran away during what she considered a perfectly congenial conversation, without a visible reason to your actions. I am not asking you not to be insulted," he said, his voice suddenly soft, "I am asking that you swallow your pride, try to understand her position, and act in a mature and diplomatic fashion to ensure that this weekend proceeds smoothly. Are you able to do that?"

With a deep breath, Hermione reached out and took his proffered arm. After a moment, she nodded. With a brief nod of acknowledgement, Severus turned and escorted her back to where they could hear Martine laughing and chattering to the Marquis.