Chapter 7

A/N:  I apologize in advance for the fact that I have not responded to a single review on Chapter 6.  I will be honest and tell you two things:  I read every one of your comments with pure pleasure, and last week Real Life kicked me in the teeth so hard that I had neither the time nor the energy to respond.  I hope you can forgive me.

This chapter begins with a flashback, so please be mindful of the date headings!

Chapter 7

Anytime you need someone

Somebody strong to lean on

Well you can count on me

To hold you till the healing is done

Count on Me

2 January, 1998

Many hours later, long after Dumbledore's dramatic exit and the arrival of Dolores Umbridge to take up the post as headmistress, the fire in the staffroom hearth had fallen to embers, and though snow fell upon the ancient castle, neither occupant of the room had stirred to add more logs to the grate. Septima Vector did not move because she was quite comfortable in her squashy armchair, curled up beneath a knitted blanket, her head resting against the chair back. Severus Snape sat across from her, a time-worn book in his hands, his black eyes focussed on the words, though he had failed to turn a page in the last quarter-hour. It was never profitable to prod the panther when he was in a black mood, but at last Septima's curiosity won out over her sense of self-preservation, and she spoke to him.

'Are you going to sit there trying to cow the book into submission by the force of your glare, or are you going to tell me what that cryptic exchange with Dumbledore was all about?' she asked, her tone gently teasing.

The two of them had been at school together, though she had been a year ahead of him, and a Ravenclaw, to boot. They hadn't known one another until they'd met in the NEWT-level Arithmancy practicum, a by-invitation-only class with six invitees that winter term; there were two Gryffindors, three Ravenclaws, and a Slytherin...the universally unpopular Severus Snape. The Gryffindor boys, James Potter and Sirius Black, had commandeered the work table furthest from Professor Euclid's desk; the middle table had been taken by two swotty Ravenclaw boys who had little interest in Septima Vector, so she had found herself, by default, sharing a work space with the ever-glum Snape.

Septima had been quick to pick up on the bullying nature of the Gryffindor boys' interactions with Severus...they called him Snivellus...and her sense of fair play had been roused. Ignoring Black's flirtatious sallies and Potter's insincere condolences that she had to sit beside the greasy Snape (for Potter was enamoured of Lily Evans, who had taken the practicum last term, and everyone knew he never made up to other girls), Septima had set about the difficult task of befriending the stringy Slytherin. It had taken three weeks before he had unbent enough to speak to her, but after that, an easy camaraderie had developed between them. In his way, when roused to friendship, Severus Snape became fiercely loyal, a commodity that Septima had come to cherish in later years.

In the interval after they'd left school, their friendship had been damaged by Severus' association with the Death Eaters, and when he had joined the Hogwarts' teaching staff, Septima had been polite to him...but she had kept her distance. It was not until she had seen how Albus Dumbledore trusted the sour-faced Snape that she had slowly warmed to him again, and their friendship had solidified and grown, through the years. At Hogwarts, they were allies and confidantes, and Septima valued his snide, astringent counterpoint to the sometimes overwhelmingly syrupy nature of their Headmaster. To Severus Snape, she was 'Tima'.

Now he turned his glare upon her, but she, who had known him for twenty years, was unimpressed.

'I know you don't like Harry Potter, Severus, and I've yet to have him in one of my classes, so I can't judge...but Dumbledore mentioned my prize student as well...what's going on with Hermione Granger?'

Severus' head fell back until he was staring at the smoke-blackened ceiling, and he passed a hand over his face. He was looking even paler than usual these days, and Septima thought he was looking older than his years since the return of the Dark Lord. She was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and she knew her friend's role in the enemy's camp. She worried about him constantly.

'The Ministry has gone beyond interfering at Hogwarts,' Severus said heavily, sounding too weary for words. 'They're trying to orchestrate some of the Dark Lord's more obscure schemes, the ones so marginal that even I don't know what they're all about.'

Septima frowned. 'Do you hear what you're saying? That's absurd! The Ministry is terrified of You Know Who...so much so that they've never truly admitted that he's back.'

Severus uttered a strangled laugh. 'Oh, they know he's back, and they're trying to work it to their advantage. That's why the Wizengamot enacted their marvellous scheme.'

He sat forward now, his elbows on his knees, long-fingered hands dangling helplessly. Septima simply waited for him to continue.

In a lower pitched voice, he said, 'Dumbledore believes that Granger is an integral, indispensable member of Potter's coterie. He is insistent that she not be removed from Hogwarts, despite the Ministry's decision not to allow Muggle-born students an education here. So he combed the school charter and found a little-known by-law that states no Muggle-born who is married to a fully qualified wizard can be denied matriculation here.'

Septima straightened in her chair, incipient panic lapping at the edges of her mind. 'A fully qualified wizard! That would be someone who's already left school. Does Hermione even know any such person?'

She stood up abruptly, her abandoned blanket sliding to the floor, and began to pace, thinking out loud. 'Muggle-born students don't generally come to know other wizarding folk outside of school until they've completed their educations...Hermione knows only her classmates and teachers.'

Severus raised his head and watched Septima pace, almost as if he approved of her chosen method for attempting to comprehend the incomprehensible. He sketched an arc in the air, refreshing the Muffliato Spell he'd cast when they'd sat down together in the staffroom, and Septima was glad. With Umbridge back in residence, they would have to be very careful of what they said and to whom they said it.

Septima stopped in her tracks, her disquiet mounting despite her efforts to quell it. 'What's Dumbledore's plan? Surely he realises that Hermione will be in far more danger from You Know Who if she no longer resides at Hogwarts! How can we keep her here?' she cried.

Severus pushed himself to his feet, his pale, narrow face twisted with derision.

'By marrying her off in secret, before Umbridge or the Ministry knows what's happening,' he ground out. 'To someone ... not otherwise attached.'

Septima cast about in her memory. 'She's only friends with Potter and that youngest Weasley boy...of course, Weasley has plenty of brothers.' She stopped and faced her friend. 'Whom is Hermione going to marry?'

Severus gave her a tight, bitter smile. 'Why, the very available, bachelor Potions master, Tima. What Hogwarts student wouldn't jump at the chance?'

5 July, 1998

The first rays of dawn lightened the sky above Forest Haven, but Severus had fallen asleep, despite the misery of his memories...despite the soft pressure of Hermione's body pressed against his, and the aftertaste of her upon his lips. He slept and dreamed, and awoke to find the full morning light flooding the attic bedroom.

He greeted the day with savage relief. Disentangling himself from his sleeping wife, he pushed himself to sit on the edge of the bed, wondering what the fuck he was going to do.

Her eyes fluttered open in the pale, early morning light, to the sight of her husband sitting on the side of the bed, his naked back close enough to touch. Her hand lifted of its own accord, reaching to smooth fingertips over one alluring shoulder blade, when a question occurred to her.

What was Snape doing on her side of the bed?

Her hand fell, and she glanced about her. Actually, she was on his side of the bed...the one nearest the door. Had they swapped places in the night? Or had one of them...me! her spiteful inner voice insisted...migrated across the mattress as they slept? She turned her head, seeing the empty pillow on her unoccupied side of the bed.

Had she slept on his pillow with him? They had to have been touching one another, if that were true...touching, as they had done in her dream. She felt herself flush at the memory of her intemperate dream life...he had held her down and licked her most needful spot until she had come apart beneath him, then knelt over her and spilt his seed upon her belly...it was like something out of one of her mum's bodice-ripper romance novels.

He turned his head, his angular profile in sharp relief, and glared at her from the corner of his eye, almost as if he wanted her to say something...to challenge him, in some way. Well, she was sorry if she had crowded him on the bed, but it was scarcely a fighting matter. And he could have woken her and insisted that she move back to her own pillow, couldn't he? It was nothing to row about.

He stood, his pyjama bottoms hanging precariously from narrow hipbones, his long black hair slick with morning oiliness. He snatched up his toiletry bag and clean clothing, taking the unregistered wand with him, and departed the room, somehow making his silent exit feel like a slammed door.

Hermione pushed herself into a seated position. Why did he have to be so prickly...so unapproachable? Was it any wonder she couldn't wait to put an ocean between them? Maybe when she didn't have to see him...smell him, her unhelpful inner voice supplied...then the dreams about him would cease, and she could return to her normal, undisturbed state of being. How could she hope to accomplish anything in life if she spent all her time unsuccessfully avoiding her spouse and being plagued with disturbing dreams about him?

Then her eye fell upon something near the foot of the bed, nearly obscured by the white sheet Snape had flung off when he awoke. It resembled her underpants...plain white knickers of the sort favoured by grannies everywhere...pants no one could say she was wearing to attract the attention of her husband. And as she stared at what appeared to be the white elastic edging the leg-hole, it dawned upon her that she was naked beneath her nightdress.

Had she passed such a restless night that in addition to crowding onto Snape's pillow she had also managed to wriggle out of her underpants? How was that even possible? She had lost her knickers in her dream...ripped from her rather unceremoniously by her dark lover...but she had also been pleasured by him, which Snape would never do. Of course he would, her inconvenient mind reminded her. Have you forgotten him sticking his hand in your pants and making you come?

Besides, in her dream, the lover had rubbed the head of his erection through the slickness of her quim, then grasped himself and finished off with a splash of warm, sticky fluid, just above the triangle of her pubic hair. The dream lover had performed this erotic feat with perfect sangfroid, and Snape would never permit her to see him in such a state. It was preposterous...it was impossible.

Then why don't you stop dithering and prove it...pull up your nightdress and check your tummy.

'Oh, mind your own bloody business!' she snapped, talking out loud to herself, even though she knew it was a sign she was going mental.

She rolled onto her knees, and with her back to the door, knelt in the middle of the bed, lifting the hem of her nightdress to her waist. She was staring down at her winter-white skin, reflecting that she really needed to get some sun, whilst her fingertip glided rather incuriously over the filmy patch of dried ejaculate below her navel. She watched it flake off to fall into the brown curls of her pubic hair.

Somehow they managed her succeeding him in the conjured shower on the landing without the exchange of a single word, and she had the leisure of fifteen uninterrupted minutes beneath the hot, sharp spray.

She spent the time in a merciless examination of her behaviour with Snape. With no provocation from him, she had managed to spend the last few days steadily encroaching on his privacy. It was one thing for her to have dreams about him...she really didn't see how either of them could be held at fault for that!...but it was another matter entirely to thrust herself upon him sexually. Theoretically, men liked it when women showed signs of sexual interest, but Snape had made his position clear before they'd become man and wife.

'Do you think you could ever be ... attracted to me?'

His mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. 'Don't be ridiculous!' he spat. 'Now, get out!'

Even so, she knew him to be a man of honour, who clearly felt some responsibility for her well-being as well as her safety. There even seemed to be some element of masculine pride involved.

'No wife of mine, Hermione Snape, is going to lie in my bed and pleasure herself as if I am not here.'

She had, however unconsciously, deprived him of far too much self-determination in their short stay at Forest Haven. And all he asked...all he had ever asked...was that she maintain the fiction of their marital relationship before the eyes of other people, an agreement she was failing to fulfil with any shred of authenticity.

Well, that was going to change, starting today. Her hope that he would not become cognisant of her raging awareness of him had been squashed by her own actions. It was time to stop trying to protect herself at all costs and to begin keeping her part of their bargain.

She would bloody well appear to be a proper wife for the rest of their sojourn here.

Rain pattered on the roof, and everyone was lounging about the kitchen table. Molly Weasley, a cheerful yellow apron tied about her, was scrambling eggs in a large saucepan, whilst Fleur poured coffee from an old-fashioned percolator into cups half-filled with steaming milk.

'Your coffee is ready, Professor,' Fleur said.

Hermione intercepted the cup her husband had stood to accept. 'Oh, real café-au-lait! May I keep this one, Fleur? The professor prefers his coffee black.'

'But of course,' Fleur agreed, and she pivoted to Summon an additional cup, which she filled with the dark brew. Hermione accepted the black coffee and placed it on the table before her husband's chair.

'Thank you,' he said quietly, directing a questioning glance her way.

'It was nothing,' she replied, and taking up her café-au-lait, she slipped into the empty chair at his side.

She felt a flush of triumph when she saw Parvati and Padma exchange puzzled looks before pretending they hadn't been paying any mind at all to the Snapes' interaction.

The rain kept the lot of them inside all day, and Severus found it to be almost unbearable. The lovers cuddled, the siblings squabbled, and the adults carried on desultory conversations; through it all, Hermione was at his side. The hell of it was, he had no idea what her behaviour meant. Did she remember what had happened in the night? It had seemed to him that she never truly woke, and even though he rationally knew he had been driven to the last ditch of desperation, he still despised his weakness in taking even a scrap of pleasure from the interlude.

An interesting facet of her behaviour...though by no means an explanation, of course...was that she had obviously noticed things about him and his preferences. After six months of sitting beside her every night at the High Table for dinner, he would have sworn that she had never noticed him at those meals, much less what he ate or drank. Yet she had almost fussed over him at lunch today, serving his plate before her own, showing to a nicety that she had indeed been aware of him...well, at least of his eating preferences...during those seemingly interminable High Table meals, when he had been positive all along that she had been counting down the seconds until she could escape him for the company of her friends.

He couldn't help but notice that the elder Weasleys...Molly, in particular...were watching Hermione with extreme approval. Perhaps they believed that the Snapes had been in the midst of a row for the first three days of their incarceration here, and that they had finally made up and resumed the 'normal' state of their relationship.

There was also a niggling worry, deep in his mind, that perhaps they or others of the house's inhabitants had heard Hermione's rather intemperate response to his tongue in her nether regions the night before. A man who wished to pleasure her regularly would have to teach her to be quieter...or gag her. To his horror, he realised his cock was stirring to life at this line of thought, and he quickly glanced about the sitting room, seeing the many people occupying it, letting the sight of Potter and his friends have its usual effect upon his libido.

Rain streaked the windowpanes before which the Patil twins sat playing a noisy game with the Weasley twins, and at Severus' side, Hermione read a book as if she would be perfectly content to spend all of her days in exactly this pursuit.

Why didn't he feel happier about it?

Hermione stood in the kitchen as the grey day faded to dark, obediently chopping the veg for their dinner. As she worked, she reflected on how much more restful it was, this new tactic for getting through the days. When she no longer had to protect every minute against exposing herself to him, she found a definite comfort in the solid presence of her husband. If she did not regard him as the enemy, he became an ally of immense usefulness. He took his job as her protector in dead earnest...he had proven it in battle and blood, after all...and he allowed her to use him as a human shield against the other Order members, almost as a matter of course. Why had she fought so hard against accepting this service from him? It was almost like being swaddled in a blanket and insulated from her surroundings.

Of course, there were drawbacks. At one point in the afternoon, after a trip to the loo, she had reached across him to retrieve her book, and he had picked it up to hand it to her, their hands colliding. She had glanced curiously into his face and found him watching her with speculative, calculating eyes. Their collision had caused her to bump his upper body with her own, and after a moment, the ubiquitous sandalwood of his shaving lotion had wafted over her like a hallucinogenic inhalant. Dizzying dream images had swirled through her mind, leaving her dazed and unsteady.

'Hermione?' he had said quietly, and the sound of her name on his lips had rippled through her, leaving her fingers tingling and her nipples inexplicably hard.

'I'm fine,' she'd muttered, hunching her shoulders to obscure her body's outline in her tee-shirt and hoodie, staring at her book until his attention had been claimed by Arthur.

She completed the chopping of the onions and poured them in with the potatoes before passing the bowl to Molly. Washing her hands at the tap, she stared sightlessly through the window, her thoughts full of her husband. Next would be dinner, and after dinner would be still more sitting around doing nothing, and then...then, it would be bedtime, and she would surprise him...she would surprise them all.

The washing up completed, Hermione stood in the doorway to the sitting room, folding a dishtowel. Ginny bounced up from her place at the games table to press her face to the window.

'It's stopped raining!' she said excitedly.

Harry popped up too. 'Are you sure?'

Molly gave an exasperated snort. 'And what do you think you'll do outside, pray tell? If you step off the stoop you'll be all over mud!'

George threw the door open, and it was apparent that the rain had stopped, for the moon peeked from the diminishing cloud cover.

'Close ze door!' Fleur exclaimed, her French accent becoming more pronounced in her annoyance. 'It is freezing!'

'Let them go, love,' Arthur said soothingly to his wife. 'If this lot don't know Cleansing Charms by now, I reckon they deserve to get muddy.'

Molly threw up her hands. 'Go on, then! But I had better not find one speck of mud in this house tomorrow!'

The mass exodus...joined even by Lupin and Tonks, who were the last ones out the door, their fingers entwined...left only the married couples in the sitting room. When the door had been pulled shut behind them, halting the ingress of the cool, rain-washed air, Bill bent his head over Fleur, exchanging murmured conversation. Then he stood and pulled her to her feet.

'Fleur's sleepy,' he said to his parents. 'I'm going to take her up to bed.'

Molly nodded fondly. 'She'll need plenty of sleep in her condition,' she agreed.

Hermione placed the towel by the basin but remained in the kitchen doorway, wondering if she could actually do what she had planned. The conversation seemed to be at a perfect place for it, but she couldn't force herself to speak.

Bill and Fleur went upstairs, and the professor quirked an inquisitive brow at Arthur. 'Are you going to be a grandparent?' he asked.

Arthur grinned broadly. 'Yes! We couldn't be more pleased.'

Molly sat forward a bit and spoke in an encouraging tone. 'But you mustn't worry, Severus...remember that Bill and Fleur have been married for a full year now! Why, you and Hermione have hardly had a chance to get started!'

Hermione burst from the kitchen, suddenly incapable of standing silently in the shadows. 'Well, that's organised!' she said brightly, as if she had no idea what conversational topic she'd interrupted. She marched boldly up to her husband, looking down at him with a wide, bright, utterly artificial smile. 'I'm shattered. I think I'll go up to bed.'

His answering expression was the closest she had ever come to seeing him startled. Arthur and Molly were watching them avidly, and Hermione felt as if a glaring spotlight were shining on her and the wary-eyed man before her.

'I'll be up later,' the professor replied coolly, indicating the thick, glossy journal in his lap. 'I wish to finish reading this article.'

Determined not to notice the humiliation of his public denial, Hermione nodded enthusiastically, continuing to project her inane grin. 'Great! I'll see you later, then.'

Hermione undressed in the middle of the attic room, letting her clothes fall where she stood. She frowned as she stared at the double bed, the object she had feared and dreaded the most upon her arrival at this place. Despite her ostensible concerns, she had brought Snape's attentions upon herself and enjoyed it. Sex with another person...even him...was qualitatively better than sex alone. And the fact that she had experienced so many sexual dreams...which parlayed themselves into waking sexual fantasies...specifically about him made the act that much more exciting.

They had consummated their marriage...it had been absolutely necessary to do so, to make it legal...so they had had full intercourse together before tonight. By agreement, they had resumed their independent lives after their wedding night, living much as they had done before pledging themselves to one another. But in the last two nights, Hermione had received pleasure from him, raw and exquisite, and she wanted it again. But the only way it would be fair is if they both got something from it. Merlin knew she was not particularly skilled in the art of lovemaking, but surely her body itself was a ... useful tool for his pleasure. She had all the requisite girl parts and she was completely willing to make them available for his use, in exchange for his hands...lips...upon her.

She swallowed and kicked at her piled clothing, angry with her train of thought. Was this what her entire day had been for? A cheat to get him naked and into bed with her? Rather than wanting to fulfil her part of their bargain by appearing to be a normal wife before their audience, had her motivation been a selfish desire to receive his lovemaking?

How low was that?

It's a fair trade her inner harlot insisted. Everyone wants sex.

She looked down her body, wishing she were as tall as Fleur or as slender as Cho or as buxom as Ginny. She knew it was unfair to thrust her nudity upon him all unexpected...uninvited!...but she didn't have the patience or the courage to ask for what she wanted and endure the conversation that would ensue. If she just grabbed the metaphorical bull by the horns, she wouldn't have to wait.

Bull? Horns? She sniggered in spite of herself. Ah, there was nothing like self-justification to bring a cheery note to a rainy day.

She gave her head a shake, dragging her unruly mind back on topic. Her rambling thoughts had a bit of a wild quality about them, and if she didn't rein herself in, she would never pull off her plan for the night.

She took a deep, steadying breath. She wasn't the wife he would have chosen, but she was undeniably the wife he had, and perhaps this night could be the one that would permit them a fresh start on their marriage.

At least until I leave for uni, she amended, and immediately suppressed that line of thought. She still hadn't told him of her plans to go away in the autumn, and now was not the time to initiate that conversation, either.

She was so deep in thought that she failed to hear him on the stairs, and when he opened the bedroom door, she was unprepared. She squeaked and instinctively covered herself with her arms, and he reacted as any decent man would.

'I beg your pardon!' he exclaimed, averting his eyes. 'I'll come back later.'

Cursing her hopeless clumsiness at seduction, Hermione dropped her arms and took a step forward, pleading. 'Please don't go! I know you don't want me but ...'

The door snapped closed with dull finality.

A/N:  I include the song lyrics at the beginning of each chapter because the songs have been an integral part of my writing process, and the importance of my writing playlist, which is different for every story, has only grown through the years I have been writing.  The lyrics don't matter to anyone but me, I'm sure, but I include them because it makes me happy.

A treasured reader on one of the archives pointed out to me that it was improper form to post my beginning-of-the-chapter song lyrics and accredit them to the artist who performed the song, because I was denying the composer due credit.  As a writer of stories (if not songs), I shudder at the notion of a writer not receiving proper credit for their work.

When you hear a song on the radio, you're told who the performer of the song was, not who composed it.  My decision in this matter has been to leave the song name but remove the artist name from the chapter beginning.  I will instead include a link to the video for the version of the song I used, which you may follow or not, as it pleases you.  If you're curious about the composers, as you might be whether you hear a song on the radio or on YouTube, the information is available to you on the boundless Internet!

Without further ado, I give you Count on Me by Default.

http://youtu.be/g1FQac3CqdQ