Quid Pro Quo?

If there is to be a bargain, the terms of the exchange must be set forth. This was certainly something Snape had not done.

A week had gone by since Hermione's arrival in Snape's home, and it was the first day of her fertile period. By now, Snape would have received a missive from the Ministry informing him of this fact and reminding him of his obligation to the future of Wizardkind. Yet, he still had not made his expectations clear to her.

She wasn't sure what to expect this first night, alone with him behind closed doors – on the floor on all fours, up against the wall, whips and chains, wand-play, a little taste of Cruciatus to liven things up, perhaps? Or would it be something more prosaic but no less debasing, like a blowjob on her knees?

In her other placements, the wives had always been there – ever present sentinels guarding the interests of the Ministry and the integrity of their homes. No illusions of romance or eroticism, only a perfunctory act to be performed quickly and efficiently, under harsh lights and resentful eyes. It had been embarrassing, humiliating even, and relatively safe.

But she had left all that behind when she had struck a different bargain with Snape, one in which terms were undefined and where previous conventions did not apply.

The knock on the door startled her.

"Come in," she called out.

Snape stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him. He lingered there by the doorway, his expression unfathomable, his gleaming, dark eyes studying her. She felt naked, exposed. She still wore her threadbare, white shift, having earlier discarded her knickers and her robes. Maybe it had been the wrong thing to do – she wasn't sure. She was floundering in the sea of unknowns.

"How do you want me?" she asked.

Snape's gaze did not waver. "On the bed. On your side, facing away from me."

Hermione did as instructed and fixed her eyes on the armoire in the corner. The lights dimmed – a charm perhaps, or maybe he had manually turned down the flame on the oil-lamp that sat by her bed. After a moment and a rustle of fabric, the mattress dipped behind her.

His touch was gentle but persistent – no groping or obscene panting – but a thorough exploration of her flesh that left her breathless, and frightened.

She was self-conscious of her unshaved legs, armpits and other parts – not much she could do about it with no wand and no razors – of her still dry skin despite the ointment that he had given her. None of these things seemed to discourage him.

Dexterous fingers skimmed over every ridge and delved into every hollow of her body, until she moaned, and whimpered, and almost cried, and not once did she see his face, nor would he allow her to touch him, or turn toward him.

Her hands felt idle, her tongue thick in her dry mouth, the place between her thighs damp, sticky – and empty.

His hand was firm on her thigh as he guided her leg back to wrap around his. He nestled his cock against the juncture of her thighs, and its head nudged her entrance.

Hermione tensed.

"Relax. I don't want to hurt you," he whispered into her ear.

The words were meant to sooth and reassure, but his voice, so deep and ragged, his tone, so devoid of its usual bitterness and sarcasm, only served to fan the desire already flaming in her belly.

His hand once again sought her breasts, kneading them through the flimsy barrier of her shift. She pulled and pushed at the offending garment until it was no more than a scrap of fabric tied around her waist.

"You like that?" There was no gloating in his tone, only interest, and maybe – amazement?

"Ye- yes," she stammered and could not suppress a sharp hiss when his fingers squeezed her pebbled nipple.

"Yes!" she repeated, more sure this time.

She found herself on her back then, her legs splayed in invitation, and for the first time she felt no shame.

She dug her blunt nails into his shoulders and allowed him to take her mouth with his as he entered her slowly. And when he started to move inside her, she moved with him. It wasn't long then until he tensed, and his fingers dug painfully into her thigh as he emptied his seed inside her with a low groan.

He remained still for a moment, his arms supporting his weight above her, his sweat-damp cheek pressed against her face. Then he donned his robes and left her room without a word.

Hermione felt relieved. This she could do for him.

The following evening, when Hermione felt the mattress dip behind her, she reached back and wrapped her hand around Snape's flaccid cock.

"Miss Granger, I don't think you want..." The rest of his protest was swallowed by a moan as Hermione began to caress him.

His needs had yet to take the form of words, but much later, when Hermione rolled onto her back and spread her legs to receive him, he entered her swiftly, taking her mouth in a desperate kiss.

~*~

Hermione was just sitting down for breakfast when Snape entered the kitchen.

"Master Snape be wanting his breakfast now!" Fritzlee chirped.

"Yes, I do," Snape answered matter-of-factly as he took the seat across from Hermione.

"Good morning, Miss Granger." he said, carefully arranging a cloth napkin over his lap.

"Good morning, sir."

Fritzlee was practically dancing around the kitchen as she juggled an impressive assortment of ingredients in the air while tending three separate pans that sizzled and bubbled on the stove. Apparently, serving breakfast to Snape was as rare a treat for the elf as it was for Hermione to have him join her for a meal.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Hermione commented, not sure what to say to a man who obviously didn't indulge in small talk or casual conversation.

Snape's eyebrow shot up. "You are surprised to see me in my own kitchen?" he asked dryly.

Their nocturnal encounters had done little to improve the wizard's disposition.

"Well, no. It's just that you don't usually join me for meals."

"I'm hungry," he explained.

Snape's declaration must have sounded like a rally-to-arms to Fritzlee, who immediately sent plate after plate laden with food zooming to the table.

They ate in silence. Having finished her breakfast, Hermione was about to excuse herself from the table when Snape's voice stopped her.

"I have something for you, something I think you might enjoy."

Hermione was flabbergasted. Hand-witches were not allowed any personal possessions other than the few indispensables provided by the Ministry – she wondered if Snape knew that.

"What is it?" she asked. She tried not to sound greedy, or too hopeful, but her interest was stirred.

"If you will permit me to accompany you, it's on the way to your room."

Snape stopped just before they reached her bedroom, in the reading-room she had seen her first day at the house.

Hermione tried not to get her hopes up. "What is it?"

"I thought you might enjoy having access to this room. I have temporarily anchored it to this location; feel free to read any book in here that appeals to you."

Hermione was speechless for a moment. Her eyes traveled over the many shelves crammed with books.

"Is this your personal library?" she finally asked.

Snape snorted. "Hardly, Miss Granger. Some of the books in here date back to my schooldays, but most belonged to my mother. They are old, but the information they contain is sound. I'm sure you'll find a few of them quite interesting."

Hermione could not pry her eyes away from the shelves, already planning a strategy to tackle the large amount of reading material – she could categorize them by topic and start with her favorite subjects, History and Arithmacy, or she could start at the upper left hand corner and work her way down each row, which would undoubtedly give her greater variety and a broader base of information, or there was always the random approach, grab the first book she saw and start reading it... She had almost forgotten that Snape was still in the room.

"This is wonderful, sir! Really, I don't know how to thank you," she said.

"No need, Miss Granger."

Snape turned on his heel and disappeared through the wall that led back to the main hallway, leaving Hermione both ecstatic and dumbfounded.

But once alone in the room, Hermione's elation soon gave way to misgivings. It wasn't unheard of for wizards occasionally to present a hand-witch with a bauble – it was an age-old form of allurement to which Hermione had never succumbed. But books? A cursory inspection of the shelves' contents exacerbated her apprehension – even if Snape wasn't well versed in all the regulations concerning hand-witches, it was common knowledge that access to some of the titles on the shelves was forbidden to Muggleborns – for Snape to provide someone in her position access to these books could be construed by the Ministry as treason!

Suspicious of Snape's motives, Hermione carefully studied her options. Her hand trembled as she reached for a tattered copy of Advanced Numerology and Gramatica – it was one of the titles she had purchased for her Seventh Year at Hogwarts, the ones she never got to read. Despite the advanced nature of the book, she deemed the topic safe enough. The Ministry was more concerned with Muggleborns' access to practical magical knowledge, rather than the more theoretical subjects, which she preferred anyway.

Hermione spent most of the day sitting in an old Windsor chair, reading straight through lunch. Fritzlee popped in a couple of times to offer her food and tea, but Hermione just shook her head each time, unwilling to tear her gaze from the page.

The day had dawned gray and cold, and by mid-afternoon a light drizzle softly pelted the glass panes of the windows in the sitting room. Hermione closed the book and gazed through the drizzle at the distant mountains. Despite her best efforts, she'd had trouble concentrating, her thoughts persistently straying to Snape and their peculiar situation.

During her Sixth Year at Hogwarts, she had developed a grudging admiration for the Prince's ingenuity and keen intellect, despite what she had viewed at the time as a nasty sense of humor – all that had been shattered in one chaotic night late in June of that same year. Any lingering doubts about Snape's true nature and alliance should have been dispelled by their current circumstance. Yet, so much of his behavior seemed incongruous with what she knew of the man: she could not help but wonder if she knew him at all. That he was determined to have a child, and had decided that she would be the mother of that child, was clear; the rest of her future was still an open question.

She slowly reached into the pocket of her robe and withdrew the folded bit of parchment she always carried there and had gone to great lengths to preserve. After so many years, she could now admit to herself that she had been disappointed when she had received the small package the summer after Dumbledore's death. Her expectations had been high then – something left by Dumbledore in his will for her, and her eyes alone, surely would have been something wondrous. She unfolded the piece of parchment now, its surface cracked with the passage of time, the letters faded from the countless times she had run her fingers over the one word written there in Dumbledore's familiarly distinct hand-writing, trying to decipher its mystery. Hope.

She looked at her surroundings, the large room with the aged furniture and musty books – Snape's home; she thought of the tormented souls trapped in the Valley.

"Hope for what?" she muttered to herself.

A soft crack announced Fritzlee's appearance, and Hermione quickly returned the parchment to her pocket.

"Fritzlee wonder if Miss be hungry. Miss not come to lunch," the house-elf said, her wide eyes drooping with concern.

Hermione gave the elf a gentle smile. "I think I am a bit peckish; perhaps some tea and sandwiches? I don't want to impose, but would you mind bringing them here?"

Fritzlee's expression brightened. "Fritzlee don't mind; Fritzlee like to serve!"

She disappeared, only to return a minute later balancing a large tray that she deposited on a round table next to Hermione's chair. As the tea poured itself, Hermione reached for a sandwich and turned to look at the elf.

"Fritzlee, do you ever see Snape during the day?" Hermione asked between bites.

Fritzlee shook her head. "Master Snape always go in the laboratory; Fritzlee not be allowed there. Master Snape say Fritzlee cut out her tongue and dig out her eyes before she go in Master Snape's laboratory, and if not, Master Snape do it for her."

Hermione winced, a vivid image of Snape mutilating the house-elf flashing in her head.

"What do you suppose he does in there all day?" she pressed on.

"Fritzlee not know."

Hermione stared at the cover of the book on her lap, her brow furrowed in concentration. "It must be lonely; the only person I've seen come to this house is Malfoy, and that was only once," she muttered.

"Master Snape not be lonely!" the elf chimed in. "Fritzlee hear Master Snape talk to someone in Master Snape's laboratory..." Fritzlee paused, and Hermione turned to look at her.

The elf looked horrified by her own revelation.

"Who does he talk to in the laboratory?"

"Fritzlee not know, Miss. Fritzlee not be allowed in the laboratory, Master Snape say..."

"I know, cut out your tongue and dig out your eyes," Hermione said with a sigh.

The wall on the far side of the room shimmered as Snape entered.

Fritzlee's eyes widened for an instant before she disappeared with a deep bow, but Hermione was too concerned about the wizard's dark expression to take much notice of the elf's hasty departure. For a moment, she thought that Snape had overheard their conversation. She felt like a fool for not considering that the mistrustful wizard might have devised a way to monitor her interactions with the elf.

"What's wrong?" she asked, trying to conceal the quiver in her voice.

"It appears, Miss Granger, that someone at the Ministry has taken a personal interest in your wellbeing," Snape said softly.

Hermione frowned; she couldn't think of anyone at the Ministry who would be concerned about her welfare, considering they had been ready to banish her to the Valley of Lost Souls.

"Who?" she asked.

Snape's eyes narrowed, but he didn't answer her question. "Come with me," he said.

Hermione followed Snape out of the room, an uneasy feeling settling in her gut.