Re Vera, Cara Mea, Mea Nil Refert

"Oh, dear God!" Hermione mumbled, clamping her hand over her eyes to shut out the fricking light that spilled through the high window and right into her face. "Please, just kill me now."

Ugh, she'd had mornings after being hexed that were better than this.

"Later," a deep voice responded. "Sleep for now."

That sounded like dandy advice. Rather than dwell on it, Hermione rolled on her side into a warm masculine chest and wriggled herself into his shoulder. Charlie? No, Charlie was a blanket-hog who whistled as he snored. Whoever he was, he was a bit buff and held her nicely. Briefly, she skimmed her fingers across his pale, naked chest before he covered them with his own hand, and her eyes closed.

*****

Hermione tried to fight consciousness. She knew once she fully woke the enormity of her stupid, idiotic foolishness would catch up with her. Severus would have her head on a pike. They'd probably mount it over the prison entryway, like in medieval times.

Every time her bladder or stomach threatened to wake her up, Hermione insistently told her body to shut it. She didn't want to hear it.

Severus lifted a veil of matted curls from her cheek. "Stop pretending, Vixen, and get up," he growled.

She was still nuzzled into his arm, which was the only part of his body that was asleep, but if she didn't get her ass up and soon, he was going to dump her from the bed, then use the loo right in front of her. Speaking for himself, he had no problem with nudity or taking a much needed piss in front of her, but he rather suspected she'd have objections.

Groggily, Hermione mumbled something that suspiciously sounded like, "Make me."

Even without being able to use his dead arm as leverage, Severus easily grabbed her waist, swiftly rolled her over his body, and softly tumbled her body to the floor.

"Right." He stood towering over her blanket-wrapped form. "Have it your way." Momentarily unconcerned for her welfare, given her prognosis that she'd live at least another day, Severus strode to the loo and began his morning ritual.

Hours earlier, he'd been ready to force her head in the loo until her poisonous stomach contents presented themselves, but the potion was already in her bloodstream, and she needed whatever paltry nutrients she'd ingested. At the time, it seemed the sanest of his thoughts. Murdering his wife was also seriously contemplated. This morning, however, was a new day. The impudent chit had managed to survive the night with only a hangover to show for it, and he was composed enough not to lose his temper with the witch. That didn't mean she was in any way off the hook.

He would never begrudge her medication. If she needed a mood stabilizer to stay sane, or even, or whatever she was looking for, that was fine. The wizarding world was full of witches and wizards in need of potions to keep them from tipping over into madness. Severus often theorized that heavy inbreeding had caused manic depression, among other disorders, to become a dominant gene within the wizarding population. It was a theory that went a long way to explaining the eccentricities for which his House was notorious.

No, he'd not begrudge anyone the help they required, and he'd support Hermione in whatever way she needed. But this wasn't about medication. Her concentrated form of Non Solum Noctus was dangerous. It wasn't the standard issue Apothecary dosage.

On the cold stone floor, even cocooned in blankets, Hermione wanted to sink like a ghost through the ground. If she died right then and there, it might have only marginally eased her humiliation.

He watched her through the mirror as he shaved and was temporarily disturbed as she lay completely motionless, but figured the girl was still mortified by her monumental display of boil-brained stupidity. Which she should have been. 'Brightest witch of her age,' he huffed. It was probably true, which was a poor commentary on the intellectual acuity of her contemporaries.

Still dressed in dark blue pajama bottoms, Hermione clad only in his top, he poked her through the pile of sheets with his toe as if she were some stunned animal.

"Oh, get up!" he demanded. "Honestly, witch, the longer you put off the inevitable, the worse you'll make it for yourself. Now, move!"

Hermione raised a bedraggled head, her curls so impossibly tangled into an ugly mess of pins, she wondered if she fell asleep with bubblegum in her mouth as well. Her face burned in shame as she got to her feet, only then becoming aware that she was not wearing what she thought she went to sleep in, not that she remembered being put to bed, but she refused to be cowed. Hermione steadily met his gaze.

He threw her a pair of his slippers. "Get cleaned up and come back," he ordered. To punctuate his command, Severus held up her wand.

The cell door creaked open with a flick of his wrist.

She hadn't made a 'walk of shame' in years, but as Hermione trudged down the hallway towards the guests' and guards' loo, she shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

When she reemerged, Severus was dressed and standing implacably in the center of the cell, looking every bit like the Potions master of her youth, as she remembered. Hermione still looked like some tossed-out one-night stand.

"Sit," he ordered and was not mollified in the least when she complied, smoothing out a place for herself on the bed sheets.

He handed her back her clothing. Her charmed-clean dress folded neatly atop her pea coat, her stockings and heels tucked into an oversized pocket. Hermione searched her memory for anything that would explain exactly how she got out of them and into his nightshirt, but could think of nothing. Somehow, she didn't think they had fooled around together. He probably would have been in better spirits if they had.

"Now," he began his lecture formally, as if addressing recalcitrant students, "you'll notice shortly that I've returned your physician's case to you. Before you bother, your anti-depressants are gone." He gestured languidly towards the sink.

"What. The. Fuck?" Hermione fumed, standing immediately.

"What the fuck indeed, Hermione," Snape replied evenly. "I'd ask what you were thinking, but it's obvious you weren't."

"Do you have any idea how expensive the ingredients alone are? How much time it takes to brew?"

"I'm well aware of the properties of Non Solum Noctus. Any N.E.W.T.-level student is. Spare me the histrionics."

"But I bet you didn't know that the price of Horntail liver has gone up tenfold in the past year?"

"You have the money to afford it."

"That doesn't mean I waste it by pouring out good potions!" she railed, flinging her arms high above her head. "Nothing gave you the right to touch what's mine. I don't know why we keep having this conversation, Snape. First it was my business, and now it's my personal life. I don't know how you were raised to believe that this is acceptable behavior, but it's not. Keep out, Snape!"

"I have every right, wife. What's yours is mine; that is generally how marriages work, or are you unable to comprehend the Ministry's edicts? I assumed you did have at least a moderate level of reading comprehension to understand it. Obviously, my conclusions have been ill-founded. Thank you for disabusing me of that notion; I will endeavor to use smaller words from now on."

"Fuck you, Snape. You know damn well I can run circles around your intellect. Furthermore, I don't give a damn about Ministry edicts, and I'm not going to listen to a lecture on the law from a convict. Now, if you don't mind, I'm leaving. It looks like I've got a potion to start, no small thanks to you."

He halted her with a strong grip on her forearm. "You cannot brew that toxic concoction; I forbid it!"

"I don't see how you can; I've got a legitimate prescription and a manufacturing license. Now, let go of me."

"Hermione, don't make me repeat myself. You will not take that potion again. This is not up for discussion."

"You can't just demand such things from me. Once I leave this prison, I can do whatever the hell I want, Snape, and you're just going to have to get used to that. I don't see why you care. One would think you'd be happy that I was treating myself for depression instead of wallowing in it."

"Of course I care!" he raged. "You'll put yourself into an early grave with that stuff. I expect you'll have full renal failure before you hit a hundred."

"Ah, now I understand. Where would that put you, with nobody to bring you books and dinner?"

"If you choose to view it that way, then yes. I do have a personal stake in your continued well being."

Her eyes flashed violently. He may have had her wand, but that couldn't last long, she could send him flying on his ass wandlessly if need be, but something in his dark, unfathomable gaze held her back from doing anything dramatic. Snape was unpredictable at best, and the look of warning he'd given her a moment before was enough to proceed cautiously.

His eyes narrowed in silent contemplation before pivoting her body around and pushing her back down on the bed. He stood, taking pleasure in towering over the goat-stubborn girl with his most intimidating stare.

"Evidently, I need to express myself more clearly, because you plainly don't understand the position you are in, Madam. I do not care what prescription you have. You took an anti-depressant for an anxiety attack. I do not care for whatever excuses you come up with to rationalize your lapse in judgment. I do not care to hear any justifications for your unacceptable behavior, nor do I need any reason why you take that addictive potion in the first place. You will cease immediately."

Hermione shook her head violently. She was willing to compromise on many things for the sake of the peace of her marriage, but she would not stand for her so-called husband to dictate her life and welfare to her.

"Liquid Sunshine is non-addictive, and you know it, Snape. When I leave here, I'm going to brew my potion, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me, so just get over that."

Severus sighed deeply; he knew fighting with the pigheaded witch was like chasing a Snitch in a rainstorm. Just when you think you have accomplished your objective, she slips out of your fingers, bound and determined to do as she pleased. He dropped ungracefully into his armchair, bone-weary and nearly exhausted from the night's ordeal. Keeping a constant vigil had taken its toll; after all, it had been years since he last involved himself in such nonsense.

Couldn't she see that he was trying to be rational, as evidenced by the fact that he hadn't actually killed her yet? Hermione was supposed to be a logical girl. Arguments with her were supposed to be won with sound reason; she wasn't foolish. Impertinent, yes; foolish, no. He simply needed to state his case reasonably. 'I'm angry. This is why. This is what you've done. This is what you should have done. This is what my expectations are from now on. These are the consequences.' So why was she being so damned obstinate?

"Your Liquid Sunshine is habit-forming. Dependency is the same as addiction, my dear, and the strength of your brew is reason enough for me to suspect you're a long-time user."

"I am not an addict!" she indignantly screeched, reaching for her clothing.

"Fine," he conceded half-heartedly. "But you're abusing it just the same. Last night, you had a panic attack, not a depressive episode. Can you honestly justify this? Your mistake could have been lethal."

"I was angry, and I was drunk!" Hermione announced. "I made a bad decision. I won't do it again. End of story."

"Exactly! You were drunk. What happens the next time you get drunk? Or angry? Or panicky? Or don't get your way? That potion is meant for someone suffering from such debilitating depression that they can't function." He peered at her, thoughtfully, and under other circumstances, Hermione thought he might actually care about her.

"Are you really that depressed?" he asked softly.

"I..." she sputtered. Nobody knew about the Liquid Sunshine, and she certainly wasn't prepared to answer for it. She sighed loudly. She'd been that depressed, had days where she was at the end of her rope, and hanging from it had seemed like a good option.

Her assistant, Jake Edwards, had found her a Muggle psychologist, but who had the time for such things? Besides, even without mentioning magic, she couldn't talk to him about her problems. He snooped too much into her personal life, which was probably what he was paid to do, but it rankled just the same.

"I..." she tried again before giving up.

Severus watched her shoulders slump with genuine concern.

"Do you still feel that way?" he prodded gently.

Hermione's head shot up, and she glared at him. Severus Snape had no right to pry. He would never be her confessor. If they started playing this game, he'd expect her to answer to him. And then she might as well have found herself a 'real' husband.

"Do you?" he demanded, sensing her changing emotion. "Because I'd like fair warning if my wife is a miserable head case."

Damn, she swore to herself. There was no way to answer that safely. If she said she was still depressed, she was admitting to being a 'miserable head case,' if she said no, he was perfectly justified in insisting that she give up her potion.

Hermione gave herself a moment to clear her head and breathe. Was she still severely depressed? When was the last time she felt like sticking her head in the oven? Or having a potions accident? When was the last time she woke up at the sparrow's ass crack of dawn, but didn't want to leave the bed... ever?

She swallowed thickly. It was before Severus; before his help with the business. Back when she had to sit miserably alone in restaurants or eat dinner in front of the telly or not at all. Back when she was so alone that she irrationally wanted to curse Crooks for being a companion, but one who was unable to hold a decent conversation.

Reminders of the near constant despair she felt came rushing back. It wasn't a dark period of her life; it was the simple reality of being her and feeling so fucking inadequate, the abject loneliness of being so miserably alone when surrounded by people, by friends who couldn't warm the cool, dead place beneath her breastbone. The time she stupidly hacked and chopped her horrid hair into a pixie cut just because she had to change, hoping that with a new look, something about her would be better, improved, and different; that a stupid fucking haircut could somehow make everything better. Back when she needed the happy little bottle to make the world feel a worthwhile place to inhabit.

Measurable success had gone a long way to beat back the demons whispering that she was somehow lacking, that everyone knew she was a failure but hadn't the heart to tell her because they pitied her. Having time to catch her breath and eat sensibly helped, too. But most of all, not being so fucking alone all the time made the demons stop taunting her in a remarkably Molly Weasleyesque voice that she'd always be alone and unloved. They still whispered to her, but not like before.

Not that she wasn't still alone in her own way. Or that Severus loved her.

But she wasn't as dependent on the drugs to keep her from being a complete wretch anymore.

"I may not need the potion as much as I once did, but I refuse to give up a perfectly legitimate prescription just because you have the audacity to demand it. And I resent the implication that I'm some potion popper."

Severus was quiet for quite a while as he studied her face. She didn't like the way his fingers were pursed together or the dangerous sickle glint in his eyes. It made her rather feel like prey.

"If you refuse to see reason, then I believe we have come to an impasse. I'm afraid I can't abide by a wife who rejects the will of her husband, considering I only have your best interests at heart. I shall be owling the Ministry forthwith and have our marriage annulled."

"Our marriage can't be annulled, Severus. I'm sorry to break it to you, but you're stuck with me," Hermione said blandly.

"Oh," he asked with an arched eyebrow. "So you'd like to consummate the marriage now?"

He left that statement dangling in the air and showed no trace of emotion as her eyes widened.

He wasn't goading her into taking a roll in his bed; they both knew without a doubt that he would be unable to consummate the marriage. The same prison regulations that prohibited him from physically penetrating her could be used against her if he lodged a complaint with the Ministry.

Their wedding ceremony kiss was symbolic and enough to satisfy the contract. There was no requirement to hoist bloody sheets out windows or prove that consummation had even taken place. They were English, for God's sake!

Aside from which, the Ministry wasn't exactly following up on each and every marriage, not when hundreds of new couples were running to the altar. The Ministry didn't have the resources to provide national owl service or regulate Portkeys, much less offer child care for the hordes of rug-rats produced from the law. The very idea that the sub-department on Magical Marital Relations had the capability to sit around watching and tabulating every time a wizard chose to allow his witch to warm his bed was both perverted and ludicrous. If the Ministry started keeping a record of every time a wizard touched a witch, there wouldn't be any parchment left in all of Great Britain.

Most Ministry officials would be dumbfounded to realize that inmates were not allowed the 'privilege' of conjugal relations; not even the Ministry stooge sent to witness their joining had any idea, and he was from that department. Then again, the laws, by-laws, and blue-laws constituting both wizarding marriages and incarceration were numerous enough to give anyone fits. Positively, no one was anal-retentive enough to familiarize themselves with such things. Well, excluding present company, of course.

Hermione was safe. Who was she? One witch in a sea of witches. No one would ever suspect her coup or know she had beaten them at their own game.

Unless Severus Snape opened his damn mouth.

"Sweet Nimue, Hermione, if you have to think on it, we'll be here all day!" Severus scowled. "It will only take one word from my lips, and this joke you've constructed at the Ministry's expense will be over. I doubt very much they'll take kindly to you making a mockery of their new law. They seem to be very proud of it."

"Smugly so," she whispered absently. Her mind seemed to have relocated thousands of miles away from her body. As the present returned to her, she wondered if that was the sensation she'd feel when the Dementors came to kiss her.

She wanted to ask him what he wanted. His bribe. His blackmail. But she already knew. The Non Solum Noctus, Liquid Sunshine. Once upon a time, it had seemed like her life line. She'd been brewing it herself since fifth year to keep up with the boys. To keep from feeling inadequate while surrounded by Lavender and Parvati. To feel like half-trained children actually had a chance to beat the most powerful and magically gifted Dark wizard in a century. To keep from crying at night in Charlie's bed. To keep from feeling like a useless Mudblood.

Each year seemed to require a stronger brew. Bigger doses. More Horntail liver. And yet, she hadn't taken a single dose in the past six weeks.

"I'll try," Hermione enunciated clearly. "But this is it. You don't get to hang this over my head every time we disagree about something. If you threaten to go to the Ministry again, we'll go back to the strict interpretation of the marriage contract. I'll come by your cell twice a week for an hour. No more, no less. No extras. No perks."

Severus quietly agreed.

A/N:

Chapter title: Re Vera, Cara Mea, Mea Nil Refert - Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

The lovely and gifted Christev20 poured her formidable talent into making this and every chapter legible. Thank you.