Wishful Thinking

Hermione stood with hands clasped before her, eyes trained on the brown and gold rug under her feet. They had traveled by Floo directly into a parlor that was spacious, but unassuming by Death Eater standards. She had been told nothing about the man who was to become her new master, except that he was one of the Faithful, the elite group of Death Eaters who had fought alongside Voldemort in the first war, and had rejoined him after his return. The so called Faithful now controlled most of the Wizarding World – they were the voice and ears of the Dark Lord, not to be trifled with or crossed by anyone who wished to remain alive, or at least with all limbs attached.

Wishington stood next to her, nervously rifling through the stack of parchments he held. The man reminded Hermoine of a house-elf, without any of the nobility that had endeared them to her. It took a monumental effort on her part not to raise her eyes when she heard footsteps approach, in order to catch a glimpse of the face of the man who would hold her fate in his hands for the duration of her placement. The names of a few of the Faithful pure-bloods she had met or heard about drifted through her mind – Nott and Dolohov, Carrow and McNair, Lucius Malfoy, Rodolfus Lestrange. She fervently prayed that it wasn't the last – Hermoine didn't think she could survive long, sharing a household with Bellatrix.

"Miss Granger, dare I ask what you're doing here?"

The softly spoken inquiry stunned her like a slap on the face, and all the blood seemed to drain from her body, leaving her cold and faint. She was abruptly tossed back into a dungeon classroom; she was all of sixteen and carefully reciting the long list of ingredients in a Blood Replenishing Potion – both their Latin and common names – only to be called an insufferable know it all and be asked to, in the future, refrain from disrupting the class. Her throat constricted, and she fought the inexplicable urge to cry.

"Well?" Snape pressed on.

A seldom helpful Wishington came to her rescue. "Mr. Snape, sir. This is hand-witch number 2 – 8 – 3, who shall be referred to as 'Hand-Witch of Snape,' OfSnape for short, during the duration of her service."

"Like hell she is!" Snape's bellow reverberated in the room, and Hermione cringed a little in spite of herself.

Wishington suddenly seemed unsure, and she felt a twinge of empathy for the man. "I'm fairly certain that no mistake has been made. All the papers appear to be in order." He leaned closer to whisper in Hermione's ear. "You are 2 – 8 – 3, aren't you?"

Still not recovered from her shock, Hermione managed a weak nod.

"See, sir? Everything is in order," Wishington declared.

Everything except Hermione's world, which had exploded and was now raining down on her in a torrent of memories and conflicting emotions. On the one hand, Snape was someone she knew, had even reluctantly trusted on occasion, and she found a strange sort of comfort in that. The man could be a lout and a prick, but she could not remember him ever actually harming one of his students. On the other hand, Snape was a traitor of the worst kind -- someone who might very well have cost them the war, and her friends their lives. She wasn't sure if she could stand being in the same room with him for any extended period of time, let alone be intimate with him, which he would surely expect of her. Hermione was vaguely aware that Snape and Wishington were still arguing.

"If this is Lucius' idea of a joke..."

"I beg your pardon, sir," Wishington interjected.

"It has to be a mistake, then."

Hermione thought Snape's voice sounded increasingly desperate.

"I don't think so, sir. You specifically requested a hand-witch, and the Minister has graciously complied."

"I did not specifically request this one!" Snape pointed an accusatory finger at Hermione.

"Sir, if the arrangement is unacceptable to you, it can be dissolved – it's simply a matter of reinstating 2 – 8 – 3's order of banishment. But I believe it is my duty to warn you that no replacement might be forthcoming; the Minister has already gone through a great deal of trouble to accommodate your request."

Something in Wishington's words gave Hermione pause. He had mentioned an order of banishment, one that could be easily reinstated. Ever since the Dark Lord had instituted the mandate that all 'undesirable elements' -- those guilty of recurring but minor crimes -- should be exiled from his territory, Hermione had hoped for such a fate. She wasn't certain what banishment entailed, no one was, except that she would be sent away -- away from the Ministry, away from Death Eaters, away from her confining existence. While in a particularly optimistic mood, she had even conceived the notion that in exile, she might find other likeminded souls who were willing to rebel against the tyranny of the Dark Lord, perhaps even some of her old acquaintances from school. They could band together and fight, like they had done in the old days. It was only a fantasy, but it had been enough to sustain her, and now it was slipping away.

She impulsively raised her eyes and turned to Wishington. "Mr. Wishington, this arrangement is unacceptable -- to me," she said.

The silence in the room was more than deafening, it was suffocating. Wishington was staring at her, head tilted, mouth agape, as if she had unexpectedly transfigured into a creature so appallingly peculiar that no words would suffice to describe it. She did not have the nerve to glance in Snape's direction, too scared of what she would see there. A piece of parchment slipped from Wishington's fingers and landed on the floor, but no one moved to retrieve it.

"Wha-, wha-, what?" Wishington finally managed.

Wishington's nervous glances in Snape's direction made her think that maybe she was going about-things the wrong way, but it was too late; she had acted rashly and now had no choice but to see her plan through. "I said, this placement is unacceptable to me. You can't possibly expect me to carry through with the arrangement. Even banishment would be a preferable fate to that of having to... suffer this man's attentions." Hermione hoped that she had infused enough haughtiness into her tone to earn her a one way ticket into exile, but not so much that Snape would decide to see her off with a round of Cruciatus.

"Miss Granger."

When Snape did not continue, Hermione sent a tentative glance in his direction, and what she saw on his face frightened her – his eyes were pure venom.

"Miss Granger," he repeated, "you appear to be labouring under the misapprehension that you have a say in this matter."

Snape's voice was calm, steady, soft -- deadly. There was anger there, and something else, perhaps a warning, because she felt Wishington move slightly away from her, but she refused to be dissuaded from her goal.

"I'm no longer a child, Professor; you can't intimidate me."

"We shall see about that."

Snape reached for his wand, and Hermione squared her shoulders and braced herself for what would happen next. She was surprised when Snape turned his attention toward Wishington.

"I believe you said all the paper work is in order?"

Wishington nodded. He was still clutching the stack of parchments to his chest, as if to protect them from an imminent onslaught of hexes.

"Very well. Let us dispense with the formalities then, so that you may be on your way, and Mis -- OfSnape and I can become better acquainted." The smile that twisted Snape's thin mouth didn't quite reach his eyes, which were still two smoldering coals.

Wishington didn't hesitate. "Yes, of course. I'm sure that's best. There are only a couple of documents that require your signature. The rest I will leave with you, for your reference."

Hermione watched with a sinking heart as the clerk held out the first piece of parchment and Snape pointed his wand at it. With a wave of the wand, Snape's name appeared at the bottom of the document in glowing blue letters that sank into the parchment, leaving behind an indelible and magically binding signature. Every nerve ending in her body was protesting the injustice of the act. Snape deeply disliked her, had made it obvious that he was displeased with her presence in his house. Under those circumstances, she had been certain that he would seize the opportunity to be rid of her. Instead, he was signing a document that would bind her to him for the duration of the contract, barring an amendment from the Minister himself. Did his hatred of her run so deeply that he was willing to endure her presence just to punish her? But perhaps that's not what he was doing at all – maybe, in his mind, he was merely signing her death sentence.