Chapter 8: Tonight's the Night

Chapter 8

Tonight's the Night

Just before dawn, Severus arrived on the doorstep at number eleven, Spinner's End. Quietly, he spoke the password and passed into the sitting room with his trunk. There he found his sleeping bride.

Several impressions struck him at once as he came in the door, and in his state of physical and magical exhaustion, his senses were assailed. The room itself was changed. Even in the candlelight, he could see that all had been dusted, cleaned, and polished to a gleam. The nearly-reflective table tops held crystal bowls of fresh flowers, the scent of which brought a sharp feeling of home to him; when she had been happy, his mother had filled the rooms with the flowers from her garden.

Moving stealthily, unable to resist the urge to get the lay of the land before facing his rightfully upset wife, Severus moved past the sofa where she slept and crept past his mother's portrait, as well, into the kitchen. He found the now-shrivelled lamb shanks under their warming charm; a glance into the fridge showed him the remainder of what he had missed: Scottish smoked salmon, potatoes and asparagus, with a gooseberry fool for pudding – and a bottle of chilled champagne. He frowned. This was no dutiful preparation of an acceptable supper. It was a very special meal prepared with an eye to celebration – a celebration which he had ruined when Lupin's mission had gone pear-shaped. With a regretful shake of his head, he closed the fridge and saw the table, set with the nicest dishes and napery, with a rather more elaborately contrived flower arrangement as a centrepiece; the candles with which the table had been set had burnt until they guttered.

Severus returned to the sitting room and stood before his mother's portrait as she slumbered in the frame. This portrait had been painted during the early years of his teaching career. His father had been deceased, and his mother had gone around the twist, living alone in the house. She had found a portrait artist who was not above using a bit of Dark magic in his work, and she had surrendered a portion of her magic to imbue the portrait with powers unnatural even in the wizarding world. She had lived out the remainder of her life with diminished magical ability, but upon her death, she had been able to act within the house as a bit of a poltergeist. There had been times in the past, particularly when Severus had been all but confined here, after the death of Dumbledore, when he would have cheerfully ordered his mother to go visit another portrait – or when he would have thankfully placed this portrait in the attic – but she had only the two portraits hanging in this house, and he found that he did not possess the necessary nerve to consign his mother's portrait to exile.

As if she felt him watching her, Eileen Prince Snape stirred from sleep and blinked once before whispering, 'Essex?'

'Hullo, Mum,' Severus said gently, touched by her use of his childhood nickname, born of his initials, S.X.

'You've been gone so long ...'

'Yes, but it couldn't be helped – and I'm back, now.'

'I don't like that girl, Severus – what were you thinking? We don't need her here! Send her away.' Speaking to her only child, Eileen's voice held more of a pleading tone than a demanding one.

'I shan't, Mum. She's my wife. But I do want to have a nice long chat with you. Will you go up to the study and wait for me there? I would like to be private with Hermione, just now.'

He spoke with firm resolve, and Eileen could not argue with him. She walked out of the picture frame, and Severus walked around to the front of the sofa, where Hermione slept on. She had slipped down until her head rested upon the arm of the sofa; in the night, she had kicked off her shoes, and her feet were resting upon the cushions. He could see that she had made up her face and done up her hair as if she wanted to make herself attractive to him. The soft pastel colour of the ensemble she wore washed out in the candlelight to an off-white, reminiscent of her wedding dress. The skirt had rucked up somewhat in her sleep; her smooth legs were bare to his eyes up to mid-thigh. And there, upon her left ankle, she wore the ubiquitous gold anklet.

He sat down in the armchair closest to where her head rested, and he watched her sleeping until his eyes grew heavy, and he dozed.

Hermione awoke when the first beam of morning sunlight hit her eyes; she blinked once, then again, sure that the vision of her husband, asleep in the chair before her, was a lingering dream. The night-black hair was tied back from his face, which bore a distinct shadow along the jaw line and over the chin. Whereas she had very much disliked the unsightly, unkempt beard he had been forced to wear in prison, this stubble of beard upon his clean-shaven face was attractive to her in a rather visceral way. A sudden memory of Ron's attempt to affect an unshaven look caused her to emit a giggle, which she quickly suppressed – the orange fluff Ron had managed to grow had simply caused him to look as if he had forgotten to wash his face.

At the sound of her giggle, Severus opened his eyes, instantly alert. Nervously, Hermione sat up, her hands flying to the falling chignon. Futilely, she attempted to jab a few of the hairpins back in place whilst saying, 'Good morning.'

'Good morning,' he replied, his eyes following the movement of her hands in her hair with lazy interest.

Feeling simultaneously a flush of colour stain her cheeks and an anticipatory tingle dart along her nerve endings, Hermione dropped her hands into her lap. He was looking at her so oddly; she wondered if her hair looked that bad.

'I apologise for ruining the exemplary meal you prepared,' Severus said, his gaze never leaving her face.

'Where were you?' she asked, her memory of the night before returning to her, along with her indignation and insecurity. Her last thought, before she slept, had been that he so much disliked the notion of marriage with her that he was willing to go Siberia rather than go to bed with her.

For an instant, his eyelids dropped, then his gaze shifted to the vase of flowers on the table at his elbow. 'I had a bit of a situation involving my work – something that could not be left for another time.'

Hermione waited for more information, but none seemed forthcoming. 'You stayed away because of a "bit of a situation?"' she demanded more forcefully. 'Do you know how much gold I spent – how much time I spent – preparing for your arrival – for our wedding supper?'

Severus sat forward then, his elbows resting on his knees, and looked her straight in the eye. Hermione had the very strange sensation that she was conversing with someone she had never seen before – although that person bore a striking resemblance in both appearance and voice to her former Potions teacher. It was his manner which was so different.

'I apologise, Hermione,' he said soothingly. 'I can see to how much trouble you've gone – I don't know if this old house has ever been so warm and inviting.' His black eyes flitted from her eyes to her mouth, watching her reaction very carefully. 'I would never have been absent last night had not a co-worker of mine required assistance that only I could provide.'

Hermione felt her upset subsiding in the face of the effort to which he was going to mollify her. 'Please tell me it was nothing illegal,' she said wearily.

An expression much like a smile touched his eyes. 'The probation officials will not be arriving to ship me off to Siberia,' he said.

Hermione made a decision to accept his apology. After all, it was his life on the line – they had until midnight to ratify the Unbreakable Covenant, or all bets were off. Attempting to sound sensible, she said, 'Well then, you must be hungry. Shall we have breakfast?'

Before she could rise, he placed his hand fleetingly upon her knee. 'No – don't go. I ate before I came – I was quite hungry and did not think to find you awake when I arrived.'

Although he removed his hand almost immediately, Hermione could yet feel the pressure of his fingers there, as if her skirt was not covering her knee at all. She did not at all understand why she suddenly felt so short of breath – almost as if she was moved simply by the touch of his hand. She was curious to test that notion – she wanted him to touch her again. Perhaps he wanted her to go to bed with him now. Her palms felt suddenly damp, and her heart seemed to plunge within her chest. In tone of forced practicality, she said, 'Well, if you aren't hungry, what would you like to do now?'

As she watched him, a sudden glint came into his dark eyes, but was just as suddenly gone, and he stood. 'We must, of course, ratify the Covenant today,' he said smoothly, looking down into her upturned face. 'Before we do, however, it will be necessary for me to sleep.' He reached his hands down to her and Hermione allowed him to pull her to her feet. 'Please forgive my indelicacy, but it will be helpful for me to be aware beforehand – have you done this before?'

Hermione felt a small flash of annoyance. 'Could you be more precise?'

The hands which had held hers were now loosely wrapped about her upper arms, his thumbs moving in light, soothing circles. 'Of course.' The pitch of his voice lowered, and it seemed as if he also lowered his face closer to hers, watching her very closely again. 'Have you had intercourse before with a man, or will the consummation of our marriage be your first time?'

Hermione swallowed, hating the burning in her face, which meant that she was blushing again. 'Not the first, no. Ron and I ...'

One of his hands moved quickly to place a single finger across her lips. 'No need for details – it is not my intention to pry – I simply wished to be apprised.'

Hermione nodded minutely, the motion of her head causing her lips to slide up his index finger; the lower lip caught on his knuckle and pulled her mouth down slightly, the moist heat within leaving a slightly wet trail upon the flesh of his finger. Hermione knew a crazy urge to part her lips and take the digit into her mouth, but she was forestalled as he jerked his hand from her face, almost as if he had been burned.

In one swift move, his lips were at her ear, and he said, 'You don't know how sorry I am that I was not here last night.' Then he released her and took up his wand, levitating his trunk and causing the hidden door to open upon the staircase. 'After I sleep and shower, we shall have a meal together, if that will be acceptable to you?'

He watched her only long enough to see her accepting nod, and then he followed his trunk through the door and up the stairs.

Hermione scrubbed the make-up from her face and pulled the pins from her hair, brushing it until it crackled, all of the Sleekeazy Potion removed. She had eaten toast and ingested the best part of a pot of tea; now she was trying to decide how to spend the day. The idea of sitting in the house, waiting for him to wake up and have Ministry-mandated sex with her, was unpleasant in the extreme.

After tying her hair back, Hermione cleaned her teeth. As she brushed, she thought. He would probably sleep until late afternoon. She could roast a chicken to replace the poor, abused lamb shanks – but that wasn't the most important thing, was it? She had to get him into bed and complete the charm – he had to penetrate her, to spill his seed within her – and he didn't seem too eager about that. Up to this point, she had held the optimistic opinion that men like to have sex with women – and she was certainly that.

After rinsing her mouth, she patted her lips with a hand towel and considered her reflection. She wasn't very pretty. Her features weren't ugly; they just weren't remarkable in any way. Her body wasn't bad, though. She had breasts – more than some and less than others – and there was a definite difference between her waist and her hips. Her bottom wasn't too big, and her legs were slender. Her chin came up. It was pointless to catalogue her attributes at this point. She needed a foolproof way to get him into her bed – into her body – and she didn't have time to play at it.

Moving past the room where he slept, she descended the staircase to the sitting room. Thankfully, his mother's portrait was empty; apparently Eileen was watching over her sleeping son. Setting her lips in a grim line, Hermione began to pace, setting her formidable intellect to the task of determining how best to accomplish her goal.

Harry Potter opened one eye experimentally, closing it again almost immediately against the bright sunlight pouring into the bedroom. It was Sunday – he had a lie-in on Sunday mornings. Why should he have to get up?

But the persistent ringing would not leave him alone. Sitting up with a groan, he squinted around the room, trying to work out where the sound was coming from – it didn't sound like the doorbell –

'Shite! The phone!' He lunged across the room and grabbed his jeans from the floor, wrenching the mobile phone case from his belt. 'Hello? Hermione?'

He clutched the small mobile to his ear as he staggered back to the bed, collapsing on the edge as he listened.

'Oi, Hermione! No! I didn't need to know that!' He put his free hand to his stomach, as if to quell a bout of nausea. 'Why can't you just buy it at the Apothecary?' His brow creased. 'Oh, come on, Hermione – not that fat old fraud! He'll want me to stay to tea!' He stood and began to pace. 'Oh, all right. But you will so owe me.'

He flipped the mobile closed and glared at himself in the mirror, one word escaping his lips like a filthy epithet.

'Slughorn.'

With a pop, Hermione Apparated to the small garden behind the terraced house on Spinner's End. Clutched in her fist was the tiny phial Harry had procured for her.

'It wasn't so bad,' he had told her with an eloquent roll of his eyes when she had rushed into the sitting room on Grimmauld Place that afternoon. 'I only have to attend his soirée on Tuesday night to meet some of the "right" people.' Hermione had giggled and Harry had pulled her into a hug. 'It's not too late, Hermione. If you don't do it, the marriage certificate will just burn, and you'll be free again.'

Hermione had returned his hug, knowing that he meant well – she had no doubt of Harry's love or loyalty – but he would never understand her feelings on the matter. This way, her life debt would be paid, and she would have a home of her own.

'Thank you, Harry,' she had said, pulling back just enough to kiss his cheek. 'I'll let you know how it goes.'

'Oh, please don't,' he had muttered disgustedly. 'I don't need that image in my head.'

Hermione had just wrinkled her nose and Disapparated.

Glancing at her wristwatch, she saw that it was nearly four o'clock; Severus would be up and about any time, now. Pocketing the phial, she marched up the back steps and into the kitchen to put the chicken on to roast.

Just as she closed the oven door, she heard the shower begin to run in the bathroom upstairs. Feeling slightly sick with apprehension, she slipped up the staircase and into the bedroom. She pulled the phial out and held it up to the light; the liquid was a molten gold. It was nearly impossible to believe that the miniscule bottle held twelve hours of luck, but she knew very well how it worked – the tiny amount she, Ron, and Ginny had ingested the night of Dumbledore's death had protected them all.

Without further ado, she uncorked the phial and swallowed the Felix Felicis; almost immediately, the thrill of possibility thrummed through her.

Right. She needed to get ready – and she knew just what to do.

Kicking off her trainers, she stripped out of the jeans and tee-shirt she wore and snatched a bottle of nail varnish from her cosmetics bag. She sat upon the floor and meticulously applied vermillion polish to her toenails. That completed, she cast Parvati's best varnish-drying charm and forced herself to sit perfectly still for three minutes. Next, she extracted from her trunk a scarlet peasant blouse and matching skirt, similar in style to the ensemble she had worn the night before. She had planned to don one of her sexy bras, but Felix told her to dispense with it. She tossed her plain cotton bra into her trunk and pulled the red top over her head, slipping the stretchy top of the blouse off her shoulders. She reached for tights, but Felix told her no – to leave her legs and feet bare. With a philosophical shrug, she reached for the Sleekeazy – then laughed aloud when she realised she was to leave the hair down. She slipped a clip in her skirt pocket, applied a coat of red to her lips, and ran lightly down the staircase, through the kitchen, and into the early evening fragrance of the garden. With a Severing Charm, she cut a fully-bloomed red rose; with the clip in her pocket, she secured the flower in her hair, just above her left ear.

When she re-entered the kitchen, the shower had ceased to run. She pressed the play button on the battery-operated CD player she kept on the kitchen counter and set about placing the food on the table, the music seeming to pulse in her blood with the unlimited opportunity of the liquid luck.

Severus cocked his head when the music came on below stairs; it was his first indication of the whereabouts of the elusive Hermione. He had gone looking for her when he had awoken, but she had been nowhere to be found within or without the house. He took a deep, relieved breath. He had feared that she had come to her senses and run away from him. He was very glad she had not done so; not only did he have no desire to take up residence at Zhokhov Island, but he now felt a sense of responsibility towards the girl. It would have been his duty to go find her if she had run off.

Moving into the bedroom, he stood before the full-length mirror to appraise his appearance. He wore a severely-tailored charcoal grey shirt, open at the throat, and dark denims with his usual black boots. The black hair was bound in a queue. He had shaved with painstaking care and applied the aftershave pushed upon him by Minerva. He was not handsome – he would never be handsome – but he was clean and sharply dressed.

And he wanted the girl.

Oh, yes, he wanted her.

He would enjoy sex with his wife on this, their wedding night – and he would do his dead-level best to make sure she enjoyed it, as well.

Descending the staircase, he quietly approached the kitchen and froze at the door.

Barefoot, Hermione stood at the table with her back to him; she was fussing over the table setting – but she was also dancing. The music was a hot jazz number, and she danced where she stood, her hips gyrating, her bare shoulders moving sinuously to the beat of the music. As she twisted to reach across the table, he saw with a shock that went straight to his groin that she wore no brassiere, and that her breasts were bouncing with each move she made. The brown hair spilled down her back in its unmanageable mass of curls; the tips of the hair reached nearly to her bum when she arched her neck back in response to the music. Nestled in the curls was a red rose, the same shade as the skirt which swirled about her knees as she moved to the rhythm of the music.

And upon her left ankle was the provocative anklet.

He knew an urge to take her upon the table top, the china shattering as he fucked her amongst the fallen flower petals of the overturned centrepiece.

'Severus?'

He dragged his eyes from her arse to her face as she looked over her shoulder and smiled at him.

'Could you open the champagne, please?'

He nodded and set about his assigned job, carrying the bottle back to the sitting room doorway to give her unimpeded access to the stove. He removed the wire caging over the deeply imbedded cork and began to work it slowly from the deep green bottleneck, never taking his eyes from his wife's form as she moved from the stove to the table, from the table to the fridge, from the fridge to the sink, her body continuing to move in rhythm with the music.

Was she ready for him? Would he have to woo her? Was she resolved, or had she become eager, as he was eager?

The cork escaped the bottle with a loud pop, drawing her smile to him again, and he lowered his eyes, schooling his face to impassivity before moving into the room and pouring the foaming wine into the crystal flutes on the table.

'Shall we eat?' she asked, standing behind him with a platter of roast chicken.

He nodded, taking the platter from her and placing it on the table before correctly holding her chair for her, just as his mother had taught him to do, so many years before.

The conversation over the meal was light and enjoyable. Hermione knew which subjects to broach and which to leave, and was pleasantly surprised by the apparently sincere interest Severus evinced in her studies and the astute questions he asked as she expanded upon her subject.

With a combined effort, they cleared the table and moved into the sitting room with their wineglasses and the champagne bottle. Severus stood, watching to see where she would sit, and Hermione knew she had successfully passed the test when she sat upon the sofa. She then dumbfounded him by patting the seat for him to join her; he returned the favour by staying on his feet and studying her over the rim of his wineglass as he drank.

'You look very nice tonight,' she said, knowing she would have to defend her words, but also knowing it was the right thing to say.

'In what way do I "look nice," Mi- Hermione?' he asked.

'You've gained some weight back, your colour looks as if you have spent some time outdoors, you are rid of the scruffy beard, you've cut your hair, and you've had your teeth fixed,' she replied with a small smile. She saw his lips tighten. 'I had Madam Pomfrey fix my overbite when I was fifteen, and it was the best thing I ever did for my appearance.'

One of his eyebrows rose. 'I must return the compliment and tell you that you are quite fetching, tonight.'

Hermione felt her cheeks flush in unabashed pleasure at the flattering remark. 'Thank you – that's the nicest thing you have ever said to me.'

He stepped forward to pour more wine into her flute, then tilted the last of it into his own glass. 'Will you raise your glass with me?' he asked, looking into her eyes, his voice soft and compelling.

Hermione stood and raised her glass, which he touched with his own. 'To us – to tonight,' he intoned, and they each drank.

Hermione held his gaze. 'Will you raise your glass with me?'

Severus lifted his glass again, and Hermione touched it with her own, her eyes never leaving his, as she said, 'To our marriage and our home.'

She was sure she saw surprise before he drank again.

Then, Felix prompted her, and she set the half-full glass on the side table. 'Will you excuse me? I believe I'll have a bath, now.'

She smiled at him as he inclined his head in acknowledgement and waved his wand to open the door to the hidden staircase; she could feel his eyes upon her as she sashayed out of the room, deliberately exaggerating the natural swing of her hips.

Some of his favourite erotic pictures featured women in bathtubs – she could certainly reproduce that.

Severus sat in the armchair facing the open doorway to the staircase, listening to the water running in the bathtub. The knowledge that she was up there, removing all of her clothing before slipping into the water, had him half hard as he sat, waiting.

He drained the last of his glass of wine, wishing it was something stronger. Was she making herself clean before slipping into an insubstantial nightdress and taking him to bed? Or was she stalling, avoiding his touch until the last possible moment?

He nearly jumped when she called to him.

'Severus?'

He stood and walked to the doorway, where he could clearly see the light at the top of the stairs – she had not closed the door. Half-hard twitched up a notch.

'Yes?'

'Could you bring my wine? I left it on the table.'

She was inviting him into the bathroom while she was bathing?

'Would you mind?' she added, her voice floating down to him like a Siren's call.

He did not answer, but retrieved the glass and hastened up the staircase, approaching the doorway with some caution. Her back was to him as she reclined in the old-fashioned tub, her dark hair spilling over the side and hanging nearly to the floor. The surface of the tub was full of bubbles.

'Shall I levitate it to you?' he asked, allowing his voice to illustrate his amusement.

She sat up slowly, turning her face to him, her smile inviting. Her hair swung forward, some drifting into the water and some seeming to float atop the bubbles. The displaced water streamed down her throat and her arms, washing away some of the bubbles which obscured her breasts from his eyes.

'From dryad to naiad,' he murmured, approaching her, unable to stay away.

'It's nothing you won't see soon, anyway,' she said, sounding a touch breathless.

He offered the glass, which she took, the smile lingering upon her lips. Mightily, he kept his eyes upon her face.

Hermione sipped delicately at the flute of champagne, her eyes travelling intentionally down his body. Severus took the opportunity to check her out, but the magical bubbles in the bath were doing their job; her body was not visible behind the impenetrable bubble guard. When he returned his eyes to her face, she handed him the now empty wine glass.

'Would you wash my back?' she asked, extending her hand and Summoning a large bath sponge from the shelving on the wall.

He stared at her, wondering at her motives, but her expression was entirely guileless. He Vanished the wineglass and unbuttoned his sleeves, beginning to deliberately roll them up his forearms. Hermione watched his every move, and she did not seem to be breathing. Good, he thought. I'm not the only one who's nervous. He took the sponge from her and knelt on the bath mat.

'It will be necessary for you to move your hair, Naiad, if you wish for me to wash your back,' he said, and she gathered the hair into her hands and twisted it into a functional, if untidy, knot upon her head, held in place by a non-verbal charm.

'Like that?' she asked, her voice subdued.

'Exactly like that,' he agreed, admiring the graceful curve of her neck and beginning to rub the sponge over her skin. 'Did you wish for me to apply additional soap?'

Hermione took a tube of scented bath gel from the edge of the tub and passed it back to him. He squirted the orange substance onto the sponge, recognising it as the source of the mandarin orange scent he had detected on her skin more than once. The gel promptly lathered on her back as he rubbed with the sponge, wishing simply to touch her with his bare hands. When he could stand it no longer, he allowed the sponge to fall into the water and scooped water in his hands to pour down her back, rinsing the suds and smoothing them away with the palms of his hands.

'Don't stop,' she whispered.

'Turn to me,' he responded, his voice caressing. He retrieved the sponge, and when she turned her torso to him, he began to wash her throat, then her shoulders, his hands moving in slow circles over her skin. She closed her eyes, as if luxuriating in his touch. Emboldened, he ran the sponge over her breast, eliciting a small pleased exhalation, so he repeated the action with the other breast. She surprised him then, by opening her brown eyes, which were no longer brilliant and alert, but which were slumberous and unfocussed. She looked directly into his face with trusting expectation.

He dropped the sponge and used his hands to caress both breasts with the lightest of touches, watching her face as he did so. In one languorous movement, she closed her eyes, arched her neck, and thrust out her breasts. Instinctively, his head dropped and he caught her lips in a kiss. She seemed to sigh against his lips, impossibly responsive, her mouth open to his. His tongue slipped between her parted lips and she hummed, reaching for him with her bubble-wet hands, dampening first his cheek, and then his hair as she caressed and clutched at him. Their tongues touched and tangled. His hands gently palmed her breasts and squeezed them before reaching his thumbs to rub her pebbled nipples simultaneously. She actually cried out, then, and he inhaled the cry, his tongue invading further into the warm cavern of her mouth.

One hand abandoned her breast and slid down her rib cage and over the expanse of her lower abdomen. She did not resist him, but allowed his exploring finger to gently delve between her nether lips. She was slick – even in the bathwater, he could differentiate the viscous fluid of her desire. Tentatively, he rubbed the protrusion beneath his fingers and, capturing her tongue with his lips and sucking it gently into his mouth, he teased the tip of her tongue with the tip of his own, mimicking the action with the fingertip teasing between her thighs. In very short order, she was attempting to pull him into the bathtub with her.

He pulled back from her, the finger buried beneath the water continuing its caressing. 'My apologies, Naiad, but the tub is not big enough for what I have planned for you. Will you come with me to the bed?'

'Yes,' she breathed. 'Yes, please.'

He released her and stood; she barely had an opportunity to protest before a non-verbal spell brought her out of the water and into his arms; she was slippery from the bubble bath and deliciously smooth to the touch. None too strong, he carried her immediately to the bed and deposited her there, remaining on his feet and beginning to unbutton his shirt. He bent to pull off his boots and socks before stepping out of his trousers and pants in one go. He saw Hermione shiver and he Summoned a towel from the bathroom, bending over her delectable, naked form to rub the water from her body. 'How rude of me to invite a Naiad to my bed and to forget to dry her.' He dried her arms, her torso, her hips, and each leg, ending at her left ankle, where he rolled the delicate golden chain between his fingers. 'I wondered if you wore it in the bath.'

She sat up and reached for his face, pulling him down into a kiss which went on and on as their hands travelled over one another's bodies, stroking, caressing, touching, teasing, and exploring. Then she had a grip on his shaft, carefully investigating his length and girth, and he felt his control slipping.

'Does the Naiad remember the Covenant Charm?' he asked her, his voice roughened with need.

'Sic nostrum veneficus redimio nos et unus,' she replied. 'Please.'

He moved over her, looking down into her face. 'Yes, Sprite – now. But we must remember the incantation.'

'Yes,' she agreed, gladly parting her thighs as he positioned himself. 'Yes – come to me, now.'

And he accepted the invitation, thrusting surely into her body.

Hermione moved up to meet him as he entered her, and she was shocked to hear the groan that she uttered as he filled her. It was as if she had never done this before – almost none of the sensations he had elicited from her thus far were familiar from her times with Ron. Severus touched her as if the feel of her body beneath his hands was an end within itself; Ron had touched her as if there were certain actions he was required to perform before he could get down to what he was there for.

She forced herself to open her eyes and found her husband's face suspended over hers, his eyes closed, with a look of exquisite agony as he moved within her. She, her body, was giving him this pleasure, was wresting this extreme show of carnality from a man whose humanity had been doubted by everyone she knew for all the years she had known him. The emotion which welled up in her was foreign to her, and completely divorced from the effects of the Felix Felicis; she knew now, with complete certainty, that the potion had been unnecessary. He had wanted her – wanted to stroke her body with his. An entire new set of responses thrilled through her at this knowledge, and she reached one hand to stroke down his gaunt cheek.

The midnight eyes opened then, seemingly surprised by the tenderness of her gesture. 'Can you move with me, little Naiad?' he purred, rotating his hips as he moved within her and being rewarded by her gasp.

'I can,' she said, concentrating to match his rhythm. He stroked and stroked and watched her face, and Hermione felt as if the very blood in her veins was afire.

It startled her when he began to speak. 'Sic nostrum veneficus redimio nos et unus,' he chanted, infusing each word with strength and clarity, never slacking his pace. The darkened room was illuminated by a glowing, silvery arch, which began at Severus' shoulder and reached up into a demi-arc over their bodies.

'Concentrate, Sprite,' Severus murmured, resting his weight on one elbow and dipping his head to nip once at her lower lip. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair just as he slipped two fingers between them and stroked the bundle of nerves at her apex.

'Sic nostrum,' she gasped as his fingers teased the fire in her veins to spread out, burning everything in its path, 'veneficus redimio nos et unus!'

Several things happened at once. A glowing, silvery arch emanated from within her very core, it felt, and grew up and over, until it touched the demi-arc Severus had made. The two equal, matching sides came together and locked, forming an unbreakable bridge, and the colour changed from an insubstantial silver to a solid gold. Simultaneously, a surge of power not dissimilar to the hook-behind-the-navel sensation of travelling by Portkey ripped through her, a streak of red magic which twined about the golden bridge like a flowering vine; somehow, she knew this was the discharging of her life debt to Severus, made manifest. She was astonished when a streak of green magic erupted from the wizard buried within her body; the green joined the red as it coiled about the constructs of the golden bridge. The golden, red and green seemed to twine together to create an unbreakable cord.

Now, it felt as if her soul was rushing headlong out of her body, pulling her consciousness with it; the focal point of the journey was the face of Severus Prince, her husband, who watched her with eyes so intense he seemed oblivious to the crackling magical energy filling the air above their coupling bodies. With a final, insistent pluck at the nub beneath his fingers, Hermione felt the giant wave of her climax hit her body, dampening the inferno in her blood as it washed over her, sweeping her, unresisting, out to sea. Only the striving body of her husband kept her anchored to their bed; with a final guttural cry, helpless against the force of the passion and the combined magicks, he climaxed as well, proving, in the end, that he knew very well who held him cradled in her body.

'Hermione,' he said before he sagged to one side, his head coming to rest upon the pillow beside her.

'Severus,' she responded, turning on her side and pressing her sweat-damp body to him.

'Sleep,' he gasped.

'Yes,' she crooned.

The physical and magical exhaustion carried him into sleep almost instantly; Hermione held out long enough to cover their bodies with a light blanket before she slept, as well.

Dennis Creevey, youngest clerk in the Ministry Bureau of Statistics, looked up when the marriage contract on the desk before him shimmered; the Ministry seal appeared and he stood to move the parchment into the permanent file. The Ministry offices were closed on Sunday, but he had been well paid to come in on the weekend and to monitor this particular situation.

He let himself out of the office and locked the door behind him before moving down the corridor to the Ministry Atrium. With a wave of his wand, a silver Patronus appeared and was sent on its way.

Minerva sat straight up in her bed when the silver Yorkshire terrier burst into her room. 'The Covenant is ratified,' the enthusiastic little Patronus reported, and chased its tail in circles for a moment before prancing away.

'I told you,' the gruff voice rumbled from the other pillow. 'She's a comely lass – you worry too much. Snape is too much of a man not to bed her.'

Minerva lay back down, moving into the circle of the arms ready to receive her. 'You don't know him as well as I do, Alastor – he ties himself in knots with his over-developed sense of honour.' She laid her cheek upon his chest and took a shaky breath. 'I am that relieved to have it all over – although Remus was perfectly prepared to forcibly abduct him and smuggle him out of the country, if necessary, to keep him out of harm's way.'

Mad-Eye Moody snorted in amusement. 'I would have paid real money to see him try, anyway.'

Even Minerva laughed, then, and the two settled back down to sleep.

Two hours later, Severus awoke from a dead sleep to find Hermione Granger – no, Hermione Prince – clinging to him as she slept. He smirked to himself. Well, it had been damn good sex. It probably had given her fond inclinations towards him. Naked, he slipped out of the bed and padded into the bathroom to empty his bladder.

As he washed his hands at the sink, Severus stared unseeing at his reflection and mused over the events of the evening. He had not been alarmed by the green emanation which he had created; he had recognised what it was as it passed through his body like the jerk of a Portkey. He had felt the same sensation when he had stepped in front of Harry Potter during the last confrontation with the Dark Lord, casting a Shield Charm which had held off other attackers until Potter's final business with Voldemort was complete. That action had finally paid the life debt he owed to James Potter, for which he was enormously thankful. He had known that he would owe Hermione a life debt for saving him from prison – but he had possessed no idea that the consummation of their marriage would somehow satisfy that debt. The life debt could only be laid to rest by saving the life of the other person, or in the case of Potter, saving the life of their nearest relative – or by some other signal service so significant that the other person's life was forever changed and improved. The implications were too large for him to contemplate now. He was too tired to think – or do anything else, for that matter.

He dried his hands and moved quietly back into the bedroom. Hermione was sitting up in the bed, her wild hair a tangled nimbus about her head, looking forlorn.

'I woke up, and you were gone,' she said in a voice of desolation. She rose to her knees, her breasts and the triangle of her mons clearly visible to him in the candlelight.

Severus was astounded when his groin twitched. Oh, really? he thought, looking at the plaintive creature in his bed. After all, old man, it's still your wedding night, his stirring erection informed him.

'Severus?' she said.

He moved back to the bed and sat beside her; he was astonished when she came instantly into his arms. He stroked her hair. 'My little Naiad,' he whispered. 'Do you think you can Transfigure the bath? Make it twice as big?'

Hermione tilted her chin to look up at him. 'If I do, will you do that to me again?'

His lips twitched. 'Some variation of that,' he agreed.

Wordlessly, she stood and took his hand, pulling him along to the bath.

A/N: The Latin roughly translates to "the joining of our magic unites us as one."