Chapter 8

A/N: Once again, my friends, I offer you my apologies for not responding to reviews. My daughter's wedding is less than a month away, I am in the middle of the most stressful part of the year at my work, and I don't have a moment to myself. Please be assured that I read your comments with the greatest of enjoyment. I hope those of you who celebrate will have a lovely Easter. And with no further ado, I give you Snape's POV, the wedding, and the honeymoon. And as always, mind the date headings!

Chapter 8

I know your profile, and I know the way you kiss

Just the thing I miss on a night like this

Isn't It Romantic?

5 July, 1998

Severus started down the steps, his brain scrambling for a notion of where he could go since the attic bedroom wasn't ... safe. On the second floor landing, the open doors indicated that none of the young people had yet sought their beds; that meant they dappled the surrounding landscape like locusts in a wheat field. On the first floor landing, he noted that all of the adults' doors were closed, including the one to Lupin's room. There had been no free bedroom available for Tonks, so she had been given a place in the young witches' room...but there was no doubt in Severus' mind that the clumsy Nymphadora was, at this moment, in Lupin's bed.

He moved silently down the staircase, unsurprised to find the sitting room in near-darkness, with one couple at each end of the long sofa, wrapped in heated embraces. If he was not mistaken, one Weasley twin and one Patil twin comprised each tangle of limbs. He eyed the door to the outside, but reasoned that at least three more sets of lovers were at large beneath the clearing night sky. There would be no place to seek refuge without the risk of encountering further former students in situations he did not care to witness.

That left the kitchen.

He lit one candle, and by its insubstantial glow he managed to assemble an excuse for being there rather than in bed with his wife: a mug of steaming water, a paltry teabag, and two homemade biscuits on a small plate.

He sat at the end of the long table furthest from the doorway and stared into the teacup, as if doing so would induce the tea to brew more quickly. The night was quiet, save for the occasional indistinct murmur from the sitting room, and the thoughts he preferred not to think welled up in his mind like leaking water from a poorly mended tap. The resulting Chinese water...thought!...torture sent him, as always, back to his wedding night.

9 January, 1998

The negotiations around their decision to marry had been conducted tensely. The girl brought a leather folder thick with parchment, her list of demands detailed and extensive. Severus had made it through the meeting on sheer nerve, his iron emotional control preventing him from reacting too violently to what could only be understood as her extreme repugnance at the notion of becoming his wife. Her words at the end of the meeting, however, took him completely off guard, and seared themselves forevermore in his memory.

'The only thing I dread,' she had said, her tone confiding, 'is how awkward it will be between us to carry on with business as usual after ... the consummation.'

Now Severus paced edgily before the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, his irritation with the fatuous subject matter suspended for once, his attention centred upon what was about to happen. Mr Jones, the wizarding village chaplain...a frowsy bloke who spent most of his time dozing in his office, but who was a drinking crony of Dumbledore's, and fiercely loyal to the headmaster...stood patiently against the wall, awaiting the other participants. Severus glared at his pocket watch, noting that McGonagall and Granger were late...but his other hand remained in the pocket of his robes, long fingers caressing the stoppered phial stashed there. The concoction within boasted an opalescent sheen, and the black sealing wax securing the stopper indicated to the knowledgeable to what drug class the potion belonged.

It was madness to have brewed it...lunacy to risk being caught with it in his possession...but her distress clawed at him, and his powerlessness to provide a different solution to the problem drove him like a scourge.

Footsteps could be heard scurrying along the seventh floor corridor, and the two witches appeared, McGonagall looking grim and Granger's face as white as the simple wedding robes she wore, the festive bridal wreath in her hair belied by the fear in her eyes.

'What kept you?' Severus demanded of his colleague, his words clipped and urgent.

'She is not at dinner, but lying in wait at the foot of the headmaster's staircase,' McGonagall explained breathlessly.

Not for the first time in his tenure at Hogwarts, Severus cursed the unhappy placement of the Room of Requirement and the entrance to the headmaster's office on the same bloody floor.

'What the hell for?' he snapped. 'It's not as if she can actually gain entrance.' As during her first sojourn at Hogwarts, Umbridge found the headmaster's office remained sealed to her, the school itself refusing to recognise her so-called authority. 'Were you seen?'

McGonagall replied with a terse shake of her head. 'No, we were heavily Disillusioned and praying no one would see us in the window embrasure. Professor Vector hurried ahead and was keeping her busy with conversation so we could escape, but before we could step into the corridor, Cornelius Fudge appeared.'

Severus swore and began herding them forward, where the chaplain stolidly paced before the tapestry, in the requisite manner, to open the Room of Requirement. 'What did you hear?' he asked.

'F-Fudge spoke with her,' Granger managed between lips that seemed to tremble. 'They were ... talking about me.'

Septima Vector dashed into view, her long skirts held up almost to her knees to permit her to run.

'They're in the infirmary with Pomfrey!' she gasped. 'Fudge and the headmistress. We've told them Miss Granger is quarantined with dragon pox, but she was demanding to see her when I came away.'

Granger gasped, her pallor assuming a greyish tinge. McGonagall put a protective arm about her prize Gryffindor and turned on Severus, her beady eyes snapping. 'Professor! We must hurry!'

In the wall before them a highly polished door appeared, and the chaplain pulled it open and held it for them.

'Come in, friends,' he said, smiling benignly as if he had no idea of the drama unfolding in the castle. 'We have a wedding to celebrate!'

Afterwards, a house-elf thrust the modest wedding supper into a covered basket, whilst Professor Vector bundled Hermione up into a warm, hooded cloak and Snape conferred with McGonagall.

'Are you warm enough, Miss Granger?' Professor Vector inquired kindly, pulling the hood forward to hide the bridal wreath from curious eyes.

'I ... I'll do,' Hermione replied, struggling against the complete unreality of it all. Was this really happening? The Minister for Magic was in the school, looking for her, wanting to put her out of Hogwarts for good...simply because she was Muggle-born. And she was married to Snape...that sad little charade in the Room of Requirement had been her wedding, with no bridesmaids, no music, no parents...only the undignified Mr Jones to officiate and two professors to bear witness.

Snape strode up to her and glared into her face. 'We'll go out through the kitchen garden, past the utility gate, to the village. Come!'

He set off, his long legs drawing him swiftly away from her, and Hermione hurried to keep up, McGonagall and Vector at her back like a rear-guard.

'But why are we leaving?' she gasped. 'I thought we were going to stay here?'

Snape ignored her, his head constantly swivelling from side to side, watching for trouble, she supposed. But McGonagall took pity on her.

'The marriage pact must be ... completed before you'll be safe from the Wizengamot's new rule,' she explained in an undertone. 'It will be best if we can smuggle you out of the castle, where the headmistress can do less to ... hinder you. You'll Floo from my quarters to the kitchen and slip into the gardens from there.'

Hermione shut her mind to the idea of sex with Snape and concentrated instead on the urgency of escaping the castle.

'But where will we go?' she asked plaintively, even as McGonagall threw open the door to her rooms, and Snape barred the way in, casting Hominum Revelio before allowing them to enter. He marched across the room and took up a glittering handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantel.

'The school owns a cottage in Hogsmeade...it's Secret Kept. I've sent a house-elf ahead with your and Professor Snape's things. You'll be safe and comfortable there,' McGonagall assured her.

Hermione felt a ray of hope. 'Is ... is Dumbledore there?' she asked.

Snape snorted derisively. 'Believe me, Dumbledore would never consent to something so mundane. Hiding in a Secret Kept cottage with plumbing isn't nearly as much of an adventure as having a hideout in a cave in the mountains.'

He took Hermione's hand and filled it with the powder. 'To the kitchens,' he instructed. 'We'll go up the backstairs to the garden door. Stay with me at all times, Miss Granger. Do you understand?'

Hermione nodded, and Snape stepped into the fire, saying, 'The kitchens!' in a clear voice before whirling away in the flash of green flames.

McGonagall gave Hermione's shoulders a squeeze. 'You're a very brave girl, and you're doing the right thing,' she assured her. 'You'll be safe with Severus. Trust him!'

Vector offered a steadying hand as Hermione scrambled into the hearth. 'Go quickly and quietly to the cottage, my dear, and once you're there, remember it's your wedding night. Try to enjoy it.'

Hermione dropped the powder into the fire, wondering how she could ever look upon mandatory sex with Snape as anything but an ordeal to be got through.

They fled into Hogsmeade without once being challenged, and Snape led the way down a darkened side street, stopping at the end, before an empty field. He then leant towards her and spoke very quietly.

'The Hogwarts Cottage may be found at number nine, Twirlees Terrace, Hogsmeade.'

The structure seemed to spring from the ground, with steep roof lines and intersecting gables. It was small, though it had a massive chimney dominating the front wall, and lights burned in the small-paned casement windows framing the bright red door. Hermione followed the professor eagerly, hoping it would be warm and dry inside. She hadn't really dressed for a tromp through the snow-covered fields...she was in her thin wedding robes and slippers, after all, not layered jumpers and winter boots.

When they approached the door, it was opened by a bowing house-elf.

'All is prepared for you, Professor, sir!' the little creature proclaimed to its feet.

Snape thrust Hermione into the cottage and brushed past her without a word, stalking from wall to wall and investigating every cupboard. But Hermione paid him no mind...she moved immediately to the fire, which crackled invitingly in the hearth.

The cottage had an upper storey; a loft, presumably where the bedroom was. The ground floor appeared to consist of three rooms...no doubt the doorways led to a bathroom and the kitchen. The front door had opened into the main room of the cottage; it was furnished with a large, yellow, squishy sofa and two matching armchairs. Hermione seized a stool and dragged it near the fire before sitting down to warm her hands and feet.

The house-elf gathered up her discarded cloak, heavy with snow at the hem, and hung it upon a peg before pausing at Hermione's side.

'Would madam like a cup of tea?' it asked in a high, squeaky voice.

Hermione turned a frown on the creature. 'Madam?' she said blankly.

The house-elf nodded sagely. 'Binky knows madam and the professor were married tonight! Congratulations!' And it bowed again.

Hermione closed her eyes, absorbing the blow of truth. 'I'll have some tea, thanks,' she said, and she turned to see the tea service set out on a low table near the sofa...a cosy-covered teapot, two cups with saucers, milk, sugar, and a plate of fresh scones. When Hermione's mouth watered, she remembered she had eaten no supper.

The professor descended the stairs, silent as a wraith despite his boots, and addressed Binky. 'Have you completed all the tasks given you by Professor McGonagall?' he inquired. 'If so, you may go. We won't need you any more tonight.'

Binky delivered Hermione's teacup, then abruptly disappeared, with a loud pop.

Hermione wrapped one hand about the cup, inhaling the fragrant aroma, refusing to give in to the panic lapping about the edges of her consciousness. She would not think about being alone with Snape in this cottage...would not consider the deed they had to accomplish before they would be free to leave this place.

'Are you warm enough?' Snape asked.

Hermione did not look at him. 'I'm warming up now,' she said, staring into the flames and sipping her tea.

She waited for the sound of him pouring a cup of tea, but instead became aware of him standing over her. She angled her face up to watch him from the corner of her eye, surprised to find him watching her. She straightened her spine, then drained her cup and sent it back to the table with a flick of her wrist.

'So, shall we get it over with?' she asked in her most business-like way.

'Perhaps you are capable of functioning without food, but I am not,' he replied testily. 'I was forced to forego my dinner to ...'

He seemed to hesitate, so Hermione finished his sentence. 'To marry me against your will?' she suggested. 'I'm very sorry to have disrupted your routine, Professor.'

His eyes glittered dangerously as he answered her. 'I'll not tolerate cheek from you, Granger...we'd best be clear about that from the start.'

He turned his back on her and walked away, his robes billowing, and disappeared through the lighted doorway into the next room. Hermione wanted to remain where she was in protest of his cavalier treatment, but really, he was perfectly within his rights. She had agreed not to be disrespectful simply for the sake of it, and she supposed sarcasm fit into that category. Besides, her stomach was growling, and she found that she, too, was missing her dinner.

She followed him into a small kitchen and stopped in amazement at the sight of the starched white linen cloth and silver serving pieces upon the small, round table. A bouquet of pink and ivory roses graced the middle of the table...the same blooms that adorned the wreath she wore...as well as a supper of roast chicken, jacket potatoes, and sprouts in cheese sauce. A silver bucket held a bottle of wine, and for afters there were fairy cakes, iced in pink and white.

'How lovely!' Hermione exclaimed before she could prevent it. 'But it's enough food for ten people!'

Snape darted her a sardonic look and passed an empty plate. 'We were meant to share the meal with the professors and Mr Jones, I think. But plans changed.'

Hermione eagerly accepted the plate and began to fill it. If she was going to have to be intimate with Snape, at the very least, she could go to that certain doom with a full stomach.

Severus consumed his meal with the single-minded discipline that had served him through a life of serving two masters. The purpose was to fuel his body, permitting him to function until next he required sustenance. He scarcely tasted the well- prepared wedding feast. The girl had resumed her place upon the footstool by the fire, and she ate heartily, her probable misgivings overcome for the moment by youthful appetite.

She made a beguiling picture in her pristine white robes, symbolic of virginity (was she?), and her bridal wreath, the pink and ivory blossoms a match for her complexion, now that she was warm and relatively unafraid. Would the colour palette hold for the rest of her body? Would he be permitted to see her, or would she want to consummate their marriage in the dark with all their clothes on, save for the bits that had to be uncovered to manage the business?

Even her hair was not entirely objectionable tonight, but plaited and pinned upon her crown, with curling tendrils caressing her nape and framing her face. She had tried to look pretty...to please him? Severus had certainly made an effort, appearing for his wedding in his best suit of clothes, his newest robes, freshly showered and shaved. McGonagall had insisted upon snapping a photograph of the bridal pair, promising to have it framed as a wedding gift.

The girl had stopped eating but was pushing food about on her plate with her fork when he stood and took it from her. 'Would you care for a cake?' he asked, stacking her half-full plate atop his empty one. It was no wonder; he was far more experienced at eating to keep going, regardless of how his nerves were faring. He hoped to God she would never need to develop that particular skill.

'I'm full now, thank you,' she replied, briefly meeting his gaze before she looked away again.

Severus set the dishes to washing themselves, steeling himself for the conversation to come. He'd rehearsed what he would say to her, but how she would respond to his suggestion was not a foregone conclusion.

When he returned to the sitting room, she was standing before the fire, shoulders straight, chin up, just as he'd seen her do at duelling practice. Briefly he wondered if she'd pull her wand on him at some point during the proceedings, and just in case, he cast a non-verbal protective spell.

'I'm ready now,' she announced in a voice that scarcely shook at all.

Brave little Gryffindor.

The fire had made the small front room almost stifling, so Severus removed his outer robes and the coat he wore beneath them, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. She watched him with apprehension but remained silent. He slipped the phial into the pocket of his trousers and seated himself upon the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, hoping he presented a picture of confidence, little though he felt it.

'I would like to speak with you before we go on,' he said quietly.

Her brows arched, and she met his eyes, seemingly intrigued but cautious. 'What is there to talk about?' she asked.

'You told me that your ... greatest concern was for how awkward you would feel with me after...' He almost faltered, but finished with, '...tonight.'

She bit her full lower lip, a nervous habit of hers he'd first noted in his classroom when she was a scrubby first-year with protruding front teeth and a perpetually waving hand.

'Yes, it's the most difficult thing, isn't it?' she agreed, seeming to relax a bit. 'I've thought and thought about it, and I can't see a way around it.'

He sat forward, his eyes intent upon her face. 'If I told you there is way for you to achieve our purpose here tonight without being bothered by the memory of it, would you be interested?'

A familiar line appeared between her brows, and she cocked her head slightly. Severus knew she was plumbing the depths of her prodigious memory for a spell that matched up with his words. He watched her with a slight twinge of bewilderment at his encyclopaedic knowledge of her idiosyncrasies. Had he been cataloguing her behavioural quirks for the last seven years? Did he do that with all students or only the ones who annoyed him the most?

'Are you suggesting a memory spell?' she asked him. 'Because I have no desire to subject myself to Obliviate...I've seen what it did to Gilderoy Lockhart. No offence to you, Professor; I'm sure you're a much better spell-caster than Lockhart could ever be.' She smiled a bit wryly. 'In fact, I know you are, because I saw you duel with him.'

Severus made a derogatory noise, and the girl actually chuckled before saying, 'Yes, he was quite ridiculous, I agree. But I have no desire to have a Memory Charm worked on me, sir. I rely heavily on my memory.'

Encouraged by this free exchange of ideas, Severus explained more. 'But what if the method is not a charm that relies upon the skill of the caster to be effective? What if it's a potion?'

He withdrew his hand from his pocket and opened his fingers to reveal the phial.

She came toward him at once, her scholar's curiosity roused, as he had known it would be. Without hesitation she sat beside him on the sofa and took the phial from his palm, her fingertips like sparks of energy against his skin...ah, it was so seldom that he was touched by anyone!

She held the phial up to the firelight, where its opalescent sheen glimmered to the colour of flame. 'At first it looked like Amortentia,' she said, musingly.

'I assure you, it is not a love potion,' he replied dryly.

She darted a rather roguish look from the corner of her eye. 'Certainly not! I would expect better of you, sir.'

He could not prevent a smirk at this comment, and she answered him with a shy smile.

'Still, I can't identify it by appearance,' she said, 'and the seal has me in a puzzle. I've seen the yellow for preventatives, the green for antidotes, the blue for analgesics, the red for narcotics...but what is the black seal? What does it denote?'

Sidestepping the question, Severus posed one of his own. 'Would you care to read about the base potion this one is a variant of?'

'Yes!' she agreed instantly. 'That would be helpful.'

He pulled his wand from his sleeve. 'Accio my copy of Moste Potente Potions!'

He had been careful to place the book among his things for their wedding night, so it zoomed down the stairs and into his waiting hand. He presented the book to the girl.

She hefted it curiously. 'I've checked this book out from the Restricted Section before...'

He cut across her with a slightly malicious barb. 'But of course you have! How else might you have brewed Polyjuice Potion with ingredients stolen from my private stores?'

She flushed crimson but did not back down. 'As I was saying, Professor, the copy in the Hogwarts library is about half this size.' She thumbed through the pages and stopped. 'You see? There are over six hundred pages in this book, but the Hogwarts edition ends on page three hundred ninety-four!'

He settled back against the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest. 'Yes, well, this edition is more ... complete than the one in the school library. The potion you're looking for is bookmarked.'

The girl turned obediently to the marked page near the end of the book and began to read, her eyes running swiftly through the text. 'Chemically, this appears to be some sort of hypnotic drug,' she murmured. 'Muggles use such things to induce an amnesiac state in patients for the purpose of medical procedures. I can't imagine what the application would be in the wizarding world.'

She turned her gaze to his face, an almost eager expression in her eyes. Severus felt a rush of validation; his skill at reading people and predicting their reactions was serving him well tonight.

He took the book from her, closed it, and put it aside. 'Suffice it to say that with a slight alteration of this formula, you produce a potion which provides a unique benefit.'

She tilted the phial in the firelight. 'What benefit? Are you going to tell me?'

Severus inhaled and slowly released the breath before answering. 'If you ingest this potion, everything that occurs between your swallowing it and the time you next sleep will be wiped from your memory when you awaken.'

She considered this information. 'What if it made me sleepy, and I fell asleep immediately after taking it?'

He frowned. 'Then you would have wasted an extremely expensive potion,' he snapped. 'There is nothing in it to induce sleepiness.'

'But I still don't understand what class of potion it is,' she said. 'I've never seen phials with black stoppers, not in the infirmary storeroom, or the Potions cupboard, or in an apothecary shop. What is it?'

With avenues of evasion diminishing, he gambled. 'I did not expect an interrogation,' he said testily, plucking the phial from her fingers. 'I see I have misjudged you. I went to a great deal of trouble to procure this for you, believing you would be pleased to have a solution to your most troubling dilemma.'

Her hand shot out, and she grasped his wrist; Severus felt the jolt of contact like a shiver of anticipation.

'Wait!' she said, and he felt a jubilant rush of relief.

Apparently, her straightforward soul could not conceive of the machinations of a mind such as his.

'Well?' he demanded, looking pointedly at her hand, wrapped about the starched French cuff of his shirt.

'If I take this potion, everything that happens tonight, until the next time I sleep, will be wiped from my memory?'

He waited until she lifted her eyes to his before he answered. 'It will be as if it never happened,' he promised.

She looked pensive, and he played his final card.

'Hermione,' he said, and her warm brown eyes widened in shock, for he had never called her by her given name before. 'You can trust me. The purpose of our alliance is for me to protect you. The potion is simply one more way for me to do that.'

She took the phial and broke the seal with one twist of her wrist. 'What is it called?' she asked, holding the potion aloft as if to toast him with it.

'The Lethe Elixir,' he replied and was rewarded by an ironic smile.

'How appropriate,' she said and swallowed the liquid. Then she surprised him by hurling the small crystal vessel into the fireplace, where it shattered with a tinkling of glass shards.

Sitting at the edge of the sofa cushion, she turned sideways to face him. 'Will you take a dose as well?'

'I have no need of it,' he answered, feeling an infinitesimal reduction in his normal state of tension. He need not guard every word and action now, for she would remember none of it.

She considered this. 'I suppose any period of ... forgetfulness ... could be a detriment in your ... position.'

He rested an arm along the back of the sofa, his mind turning from the seduction of her intellect...how else could he have manipulated her into taking the potion?...to the seduction of her person. That was the next item on his agenda, and it deserved no less careful attention to execution.

'I have no desire to forget tonight,' he said allowing his gaze to move from her eyes to her lips and back again, pleased that he could speak the truth to her.

She blushed rosily. 'That's a really decent thing for you to say!' she exclaimed. 'Thank you.'

He gave her half a smile, but did not answer her. He had no idea, really, of how to proceed. He'd seldom ever been in such a situation with a woman whose presence had not been paid for in coin or influence.

'Professor Vector reminded me that it's our wedding night and I ought to enjoy it,' she confided, settling back beneath his arm, and when he brushed the nape of her neck, she shivered deliciously.

'Professor Vector loves giving advice that's not always easy to implement,' he said, inclining his head towards her to take a breath of her hair.

She turned towards him, their faces inches apart. 'You smell good,' she murmured, breathing deeply. 'Sandalwood and musk.'

Severus felt an aura of unreality settle over him. No woman, paid or otherwise, had ever said such a thing to him, and this one...my wife! his disbelieving mind whispered...actually had the tip of her nose very close to his throat.

'How shall we begin?' she whispered, and though she sounded trusting and strangely comfortable, there was another component to her acquiescence...something very much like captivation.

The insight brought a wild, heady sensation, and it spurred him in an elemental way quite unconnected to reasoned planning.

He cupped her chin and tilted her face up to his, the arm about her drawing her closer. As he slowly lowered his lips to hers, her eyelids fluttered closed, and her hand rose to caress his cheek.

With his lips a mere millimetre from hers, he said, 'I believe it is customary to begin with a kiss.'

5 July, 1998

The closing of the front door roused Severus from his reminiscences, but he paid no mind to the indistinct figures that moved through the murk of the sitting room. In his mind he saw again the vision that had met his eyes when he opened the attic room door...that flash of her nakedness, of petal soft ivory breasts tipped with pale pink nipples crinkled against the chill...for the texture and taste of her skin were indelibly imprinted in his memory, both his treasure and his torment.

After six long months, for some inexplicable reason, his wife was waking to her sexuality, needful enough that she sought him out for satisfaction. And what had she said to him?

I know that you don't want me, but ...

He rose from the table so suddenly that his chair wobbled, but thankfully, did not fall. If it had done, he would not have known, for he was halfway up the staircase and moving quickly...she must not be permitted to think she was unwanted.

A/N: You may find the version of Isn't It Romantic from my playlist, as sung by Johnny Mathis, here: http://youtu.be/5EbZ_Ofqi4E