Chapter 9: In Which There Was a Misunderstanding

Improbable Felicity

Chapter 9

In Which There Was A Misunderstanding

The light of dawn seeped into the bedroom at the top of number eleven, Spinner's End, faintly illuminating the couple in the bed. The man lay splayed out in the middle, his inky black hair an oily tangle upon the pillow. In the stuffy heat of early July, the bedcovers had been pushed to the foot of the mattress. His only adornment was the wild-haired girl, who sprawled over and twined about his naked form like an errant sprig of Devil's Snare. In sleep, their faces were completely bereft of care; each slept the sleep of the just and pure – and the well-shagged, of course.

Severus woke, convinced he was only dreaming that he was awake. First of all, he was in his own bed, in his own room – that was impossible. He was in prison. Second of all, there was a naked woman draped over his body. Such things only ever happened in his dreams.

The truth of his assertion was proved out when the woman's eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him, with such a combination of lust and affection that he was deprived of breath. Such wanton incitement warranted that he should tumble the provocateur onto her back and kiss her as she so plainly deserved. One thing led to another, as often happens in dreams, and soon they made slow, languorous love. The dream-Sprite – for the creature was obviously a Nereid – raked her nails down his back in her extremity, wrapping her licentious legs about him and dragging him down to the dangerous warm depths where dwelt such depraved delights.

He remained buried deep within her until she shifted, murmuring that he was a bit heavy – which seemed an unusual complaint from a dream-Sprite. He slipped to one side of her, falling asleep again with his face buried in her orange-scented throat and with one arm pinning her to him, as if he could bring a dream into his waking reality.

Severus woke up with something tickling his nose. Ah – he had ended up the night holding onto Hermione as if she was a teddy bear, and her bushy mane was irritating him. Thank God he had been the first to wake – what would she have thought of such blatant clinging on his part? Rolling away from her, he sat up on the side of the bed. It was after eight o'clock, an outrageously late hour for a man who had to get to his office. Without glancing back at Temptation Incarnate, still sleeping in his bed, he stalked off to have his morning shower.

Each move he made accentuated the soreness of muscles long unused. He tipped a foul-tasting general pain-relieving potion down his throat, grimacing at the taste. He was filled with conflicting emotions of extreme smugness, for having successfully bedded a twenty-one year old girl, and alarm, lest she notice his weakness. It was one thing to do one's duty to complete the charm and to seal them in the marriage which ratified their bargain: his freedom for her financial security. It was another thing entirely to be plagued with the notion that it would be a marvellous idea to go back in there and see if he could convince her that another go would be just the thing.

Adjusting the spray from warm to cold, he stepped resolutely into the shower, determined to cool his libido and to wash away such absurd plans in one chilly go.

Hermione woke with a smile upon her face and a feeling of deep self-satisfaction. Smirking in a way which was entirely unlike her, she had a delightful stretch, making note of the parts of her body which were a bit worse for wear after her wedding night with Severus Prince. Just as she had heard whispered years before amongst the women in the Order, the man shagged like a daemon. At first she had been disgusted to hear Emmeline Vance say it to Hestia Jones and Tonks, one late night at headquarters when the mead was flowing a bit freely. Later, she had simply been curious to know if it was true.

Now, she knew.

Smirking again, she rolled over to wish her husband a good morning, but his pillow was empty. 'Severus?' she called, looking around the room as if he might be lurking in a corner.

Throwing the covers off, Hermione slid to the floor and groped in her trunk for her dressing gown. After a necessary pee and a vigorous teeth cleaning, she set out to look for her bridegroom.

The spare room was empty, save for the presence of Eileen Snape in the family portrait. Eileen inclined her head in a silent greeting, and surprised, Hermione returned the gesture. Mother and son must have had a talk before his nap the day before.

Hermione moved down to the sitting room, which was uninhabited, then looked in the kitchen, hoping to find her taciturn husband drinking his tea and scowling at the Daily Prophet, but he was not there. With very little hope, she opened the door to the back garden and glanced about.

Where had he gone? Why had he not spoken to her before he left, even if it was only to go down the corner shop for bread or milk? Feeling a bit miffed, Hermione set about preparing the morning-after breakfast she had planned. In thirty minutes, the kitchen table was covered with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fried tomatoes, and adorned by new flowers from the garden – and still, she had no company.

Having progressed from miffed to disappointed, Hermione sat down to her lonely breakfast, struggling not to feel like an abandoned bride in some tacky Muggle novel. Determinedly, she enjoyed a rather larger meal than she usually indulged in for breakfast, also indulging herself in remembering the happenings of the night before in nerve-tingling detail.

Severus sat behind the lovely old mahogany desk in his corner office, feeling as if he were in another dream. The desk itself was his very own, from his dungeon office at Hogwarts; Minerva had undoubtedly counted it amongst his personal effects when she was choosing what things she would remove from the school. The rest of the room, however, was like something out of the fantasy of a school teacher who dreamed of bigger things. Two walls were glass, looking out over both Diagon Alley and Charing Cross Road. One wall was covered with his framed diplomas and honours from twenty-plus years in academia, beginning with the full certification he had received after taking his N.E.W.T.s. Before the desk were two elegant leather armchairs. In the outer office was the secretary Minerva had assigned to him; she had promised that if the person was unacceptable, he could choose his own assistant, but that Daphne Greengrass would do to be getting on with.

She had called a general office meeting and all forty-seven of the staff members of Security Solutions had crowded into the meeting room. Introduced to the assembled persons as Mr Prince, Severus had received the applause of the roomful of his former students with a blink of surprise.

'Well, what did you expect?' Minerva had demanded later in her best no-nonsense manner. 'Did you actually imagine that Alastor and I would hire the other sort?'

Walking quietly through the different departments, watching his people at work, Severus had been gratified at the murmured, 'Welcome back, Professor,' and, 'Thank you, sir,' he had heard from more than one employee.

'Your role in the war was detailed for these people, Severus,' Minerva had explained over a shared luncheon in her office, where they were joined by Alastor Moody. 'When I was sure you were going to be released, I had a meeting where every pertinent detail of your involvement was shared with your employees.' She added primly, 'For company morale, it is imperative for there to be a unity of spirit.'

Moody had snorted. 'It also didn't hurt that this old tartar invited anyone who didn't concur regarding your heroic part in the war to pick up their severance pay and leave – and it was downright amazing how she made it sound like an offer to step outside and settle it like wizards.'

Severus had actually grinned. 'You're a scary old girl, Minerva.'

Now, he paged idly through the current list of their clients, attempting to concentrate on the details of the contracts, but he was feeling the need of his now customary afternoon kip – and he was having a damnably difficult time keeping Hermione out of his mind. Muttering a curse, he decided a walk would not be amiss, and he strode out, telling the efficient Miss Greengrass that he would not be gone long.

Out in the warm afternoon sunlight, his long legs carried him down the walkways, and he pondered his problem. After a full week of staring at the wedding photograph of Hermione and giving himself permission to indulge in sexual fantasies about her, he was finding it difficult to stop doing so. He did not have the photograph – it was hidden amongst his shirts in his still-packed trunk – but he no longer needed to hold it to see every detail of his bride's appearance in his mind's eye. The fact that he now had first-hand experience of what her skin felt like beneath his hands – of how the anklet tasted on his tongue as he laved her leg from her toes to the sensitive back of her knee to the tangle of brown curls at the juncture of her thighs – of where she liked to be touched, kissed, and licked – now that he was in possession of these damning pieces of intelligence, it was proving arduous to honour his plan. And it bloody well didn't help matters that every time he moved he hurt, and every time he hurt, he remembered what activities had brought about his sore muscles.

Dammit! After consummating their marriage, he had resolved he would not bother her again – that he would not inflict his attentions on her. She had done enough, after all – she had saved him from being sent to Siberia; she had tolerated his sexual advances – he would allow her to get on with her life as she wished.

But was it mere toleration? his treacherous libido demanded, aptly assisted by the slight twinge between his legs. She called you into the bathroom deliberately and asked you to touch her naked body – she kissed you and stroked you and clung to you – she asked you to do it again ...

He shook his head and swore aloud, and a single woman walking alone down the way crossed the street to get away from him. And what the hell was this confusing, roiling ache in his chest? It had first assailed him when she had come into his prison cell and explained that she would marry him, but that he would be getting a bad bargain because she was infertile. It felt like pity, but he knew it was not, because pity woke in him a desire to annihilate its subject. This was something different – something new – and he did not like it.

Turning abruptly, he headed back for the office.

By mid-afternoon, as she pottered about the back garden, Hermione was near tears. Obviously, she had misinterpreted the happenings of the night before. She thought she had connected with Severus on a level other than the purely physical. The way he had touched her, looked at her, kissed her, made love to her – it had all seemed so remarkable and extraordinary to her – but it had obviously been nothing more than the necessity of sealing the Unbreakable Marriage Covenant. He had never pretended to feel anything for her; he had never shown the least sign of attraction to her. She might be in the unfortunate situation of fancying her husband, but he obviously did not return the favour.

But we did it more than once, her inner strumpet pointed out. He wasn't perfunctory – he went out of his way to make it amazing.

'Oh, sod off,' she muttered grumpily to her inner voice as she pulled weeds in the herb garden. '"Perfunctory" is a bit of a mouthful for a sex-crazed trollop.'

But, really – if he didn't want her to become foolishly infatuated with him, why had he driven her to such heights of pleasure? What the hell was he playing at? If she fell like an idiot for her tall, lithe, snide bastard of a husband, he had no one but himself to blame – and he would just have to suffer the consequences.

She took special pains over preparing their dinner that night. She had no intention of serving champagne and Scottish smoked salmon every day, but she had learnt from her mum a number of ways to smarten up a plain supper; her favourite had been freshly baked homemade bread.

That sorted, she showered, shaved, and applied orange-scented lotion to every inch of skin she could reach. Remembering Felix's instructions of the day before, she left off her bra and donned a thin white blouse and a pretty flowered skirt, leaving her legs and feet bare once again.

At six o'clock, she arranged herself carefully on the sofa and picked up her book.

At eight o'clock, she ate a piece of bread and butter to stave off the worst of her hunger pangs.

At nine o'clock, she sent Snowe with a tersely-worded missive:

WHERE ARE YOU?

At ten o'clock, Snowe returned with a tersely-worded reply.

I am at work. Do not wait up.

SXP

Hermione crumpled the piece of parchment and closed her eyes, trying to swallow past the painful lump in her throat. Why was he avoiding her? And why did she care so damn much? Why did life have to be so stupidly complicated?

Trying not to cry, she stormed into the kitchen to see to the uneaten supper, then she flew up the stairs and threw herself upon the bed, succumbing to a bout of tears. She swore to herself that she would not make a habit of it – but hadn't she had earned a good cry?

At two o'clock in the morning, Severus crept into the bedroom to make sure she was breathing; he had been unable to make a determination from the doorway. Standing over her, looking down into her tear-streaked face, he could clearly see the rise and fall of her chest. Why had she cried? Had she been worried about him? He extinguished the candles and went down to grab a bite to eat from the kitchen.

He could understand that she might be a bit miffed to have prepared a meal which he did not return home in time to eat, but he thought the clear message of the carving knife which pinned the blameless loaf of home-made bread to the wooden cutting board was a bit much.

After tossing and turning on the camp bed in the study for the best part of two hours, he gave up. All he could think of was Hermione, lying in the bed across the hallway. He wanted to go in there and wake her, to explain it was best this way, to avoid any unnecessary emotional entanglements – he wanted to undress her and touch and kiss her entire body – he wanted to join with her and to find that peace which had been his the night before.

In desperation, knowing it was an act of rank cowardice, he cast a cleansing charm on himself, dressed, and Disapparated back to the office.

Hermione found his discarded clothes in a heap upon the camp bed the next morning. He had been here, but she had not known it. He had been here, but he had slept alone. He had been here, but he had no interest in seeing her.

Clearly, she was in need of further occupation. If she did not find something to do with her time, her husband's lack of interest in her, in their home, and in their marriage would break her as surely as if she had been taken captive by a Death Eater.

Unable to ignore the implications of that, she flung the clothing which smelled of him onto the unmade camp bed and flounced out of the room to get her shower.

Hermione gave the skirt to her business suit one final twitch before entering the office and approaching the good-looking young wizard at the reception desk.

'Good morning, Bunting,' she said when he looked up from his magazine and opened his lips to speak. 'Hermione Prince, here to see Professor McGonagall. I don't have an appointment, but will you please ask if she can see me, anyway?'

Bunting paled slightly. 'P-Prince?' he asked nervously. 'Here to see McGonagall, though – right?'

Hermione nodded, wondering what she had done to make the young man appear so anxious. He stood and hurried down the hallway, returning almost at once with Minerva McGonagall.

'Hermione!' the older witch exclaimed, taking her hand with a smile. 'How good to see you! Are you all right?'

Hermione returned the clasp of Minerva's hand thankfully. 'Yes, but I would like to speak with you. Could we go to your office?'

'Of course!' Minerva said, standing back and indicating that Hermione should precede her down the hallway. 'You know your way – I'll be with you in just a moment.' As Hermione walked away, Minerva bent to speak to Bunting in a whisper. 'Tell Mr Prince that I said he should stay in his office until I tell him the coast is clear.'

'But he's off taking a walk, Professor,' Bunting said. 'Is that Mrs Prince?'

Minerva closed her eyes in exasperation. 'Yes, Bunting, that is Mrs Prince, but she is not yet aware of her husband's occupation. Please, when he comes in, give him my message straight away.'

She left the erstwhile Hufflepuff watching the office door for the return of his employer and followed the pride of her former House down to her office. Entering, she found Hermione looking disconsolately out the window. The girl looked up as Minerva entered, and she seated herself before Minerva's desk with a business-like air. Minerva took her seat as well before saying, 'You look very well. I trust you got the house sorted out as you like?'

Hermione nodded. 'Yes, I have the house all arranged – and that's why I've come, Professor. I'm here to accept the position you offered to me.'

Minerva blinked. 'I'm afraid I don't see how the two things are connected, my dear,' she said, stalling for time. She had offered Hermione that position without the whisper of a notion that she might one day marry Severus, and wasn't the issue was now moot? Surely the girl meant to finish her graduate degree at the Muggle university before she began her work career?

Hermione's lips compressed. 'I find that I don't care to sit about the house like someone's housewife, Professor – after all, you didn't do that, did you? I want to have a career of my own. I have better things to do with my time than to wait for someone to come home from work.'

Minerva nodded, trying to look as if she were thinking things over. Severus was obviously making a right cock-up of his marriage if his bride was in Minerva's office less than forty-eight hours after the consummation, looking for something to get her out of the house and away from him. 'Yes, my dear, but I had understood that you meant to finish your last year at the university before you began your career?'

Hermione sat forward. 'I have thought of that, ma'am. I only have the one term left – it isn't a full year – and I don't see why I cannot finish the coursework and hold a job, as well. I am perfectly up to the task, I promise you.'

Minerva allowed a small smile to touch her lips. If anyone was up to the task of taking a graduate course of study whilst working a full time job, it was Hermione Granger. 'I am so very pleased that you have decided you wish to work with us,' she said, sitting forward and folding her hands before her on the desk. 'Nevertheless, there have been some changes around her since last we spoke about it.'

Almost as if on cue, the inner door to her office, accessible only to house-elves and fellow executives, burst open and Severus walked in, a sheaf of parchment in his hands. 'Minerva, what is this bollocks about a second proposal for Brocklehurst? The first plan was perfect for them – I designed it myself! Do I need to pop around and have a word with ...?'

He stopped talking when he looked up from the parchment and saw the rigid form of his wife rising from the seat before him.

'You!' she spat with every evidence of great loathing. 'What are you doing here?'

He stood suddenly straighter, glaring at her as if she was a firstie who had forgotten her Potions homework. 'This is where I work, madam,' he said in arctic accents. 'Perhaps you would be good enough to explain what you are doing here?'

She laughed once, plainly incredulous. 'This?' She waved her hand about the office. 'This is Professor McGonagall's office!'

He sneered, as he might if the firstie in question had insisted that someone else's Patronus had eaten her homework. 'Obviously, not this specific room. It is, as you have brilliantly noted, Minerva's office. Nevertheless, this is my company. I own it.'

Hermione's jaw dropped, and Minerva stood hurriedly. 'Please, Severus, you are welcome to use my office for as long as you like.'

Slipping out, she closed the door and marched down to Nigel Bunting's desk. 'Mr Prince is in my office, Bunting – was I not quite clear that I did not wish to have him there?'

Bunting looked horrified. 'He hasn't passed my desk, Professor – perhaps he came back from his walk when I was on my tea break ...'

Minerva just waved Bunting off and went in search of her own cup of tea, wishing she had thought to disarm the Princes before she had left her office; she was quite fond of her furnishings, after all.

Severus felt oddly wrong-footed, and he had no idea what to do to put things right. Why was Hermione here? And why was she so angry? And, did she have the carving knife with her?

'This? This is your company?' Hermione all but shouted. 'How could you not tell me that?'

He stalked past her and discarded the parchment on the desk. 'I scarcely see how that is pertinent,' he snapped.

'No,' she cried, 'I suppose you don't. I have no right to know where you go or what you do – in spite of the fact that the Ministry released you into MY CUSTODY!'

His brows contracted. 'You knew I was at work. Where else would I be?'

She seemed to swell with fury. 'I didn't have a clue where you were until I sent an owl to you last night! I'm responsible for you – you cannot behave as if you answer to no one!'

His eyes narrowed. 'That does not explain why you are here now.'

She turned her back on him and went to look out the window. 'That's none of your business.'

He felt a flash of anger which he knew to be irrational. 'Look at me when I'm speaking to you, girl.'

She remained where she was. 'Go to hell, Severus.'

He closed the distance between them in three strides, pulling her about by the arm to face him. 'What you do is my business,' he hissed. 'I am your husband.'

She flared at him so violently that the pulse of magic pushed him back; she completed the job by jerking her arm away from him. 'Oh, so you're my husband when it gives you an excuse for doing whatever you bloody well want to do – but the rest of the time I can go hang!'

He glared at her. 'What in the world are you on about, girl?'

Another bit of uncontrolled magic pushed him farther back. 'My name is Hermione, if you don't mind – or Mrs Prince – and isn't that amusing?' She took a deep breath and walked away from him, beginning to pace behind Minerva's desk. 'I am of so little importance in your scheme of things that I don't even rate being told the name of your company or the business in which you are involved.'

Knowing full well he was at fault, Severus picked up the parchment again from the desk and turned a shoulder to her. 'My office is no place for this display of hysterics. Go home. I will speak with you there.'

'Oh, really?' she said, her voiced seeming to throb with indignation. 'When will that be? When I'm sleeping? When you come by to drop off your dirty laundry and pick up clean clothes?'

He kept his eyes averted, staring at the paperwork in his hands, unseeing. It took everything he possessed to keep from jerking her up and kissing her senseless, kissing her until she forgave him, kissing her until neither of them could think of anything besides the other.

'Fine.' She spoke the word with great finality, which dragged his eyes from the paperwork to her retreating back as she marched to the door. 'This was such a huge mistake. I'll get out of your house so you can stand to be there.'

'No!' The word felt as if it was jerked from him.

Hermione did not slow or turn to him.

'Hermione! No!'

He dropped the papers, and they fell to the floor, scattering over the carpet, but he walked right over them to put one hand firmly against the door to prevent her from opening it. He was standing inches from her; the business-like knot of her hair left her lovely neck bare to him, and the scent of her orange bathing gel floated up to him. A sudden image of her, naked and needy in the bathtub, speared his consciousness and his hands closed over her shoulders, his head dipping so he could take a breath of her hair.

'Naiad,' he murmured, nuzzling the hair above her ear and pressing hot, greedy kisses to the back of her neck. 'You mustn't speak of leaving me.'

She twisted in his grip, and she was unaccountably clinging to him, crying, great bunches of his shirt being crumpled in her fists. Thinking only of soothing her, he swept her up and sat in Minerva's desk chair, settling her in his lap. 'No, Sprite – you mustn't cry,' he murmured, kissing the tears from her cheeks.

'W-was it so bad?' she sobbed. 'Was I so awful at it?'

He cradled her against his chest with his right arm, rocking her gently back and forth. 'I've never known you to be awful at anything you've ever done,' he assured her, wondering what she was on about.

'Then why?' she cried, turning her tear-drenched face to look up into his eyes. 'Why did you run away from me? Don't you want to be with me? Don't you want to m-make love again?'

Gobsmacked, he stared at her, frozen in the act of murmuring another meaningless reassurance.

'I can l-learn to be better at it,' she assured him. 'I just need to practice. I always learnt more from practical sessions than f-from classroom lectures.'

'Practice?' he repeated stupidly. 'What is it that you want to practice, exactly?'

'Everything,' she said and astonished him by pressing a very wet, but very demanding, kiss to his lips.

For several minutes, there was nothing but the woman in his arms, inciting him past the point of reason. A noise in the hallway brought him back to a sense of their surroundings, and he released her lips, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to the top of her head. 'This is not a marriage of love, Hermione,' he reminded her gently. 'I don't expect you to be a dutiful wife.'

She pushed on his chest until she was more or less upright, and she accepted the handkerchief he offered her. 'Sod dutiful,' she said baldly. 'It may not be a marriage of love, Severus,' she added, wiping her cheeks, 'but it is a marriage for life.' She completed her use of the handkerchief with a blow of her little nose, then she tucked the linen away in the pocket of her navy blue over-robe and looked at him sternly. 'So, if love comes of our marriage, you'll just have to be brave about it. You're stuck with me.'

The only answer to this idiocy seemed to be to kiss her again. He had scarcely begun to do so properly when the inner office door opened again, and Lupin and Moody appeared in the doorway.

'Hello Severus – good to see you, Hermione – where is Minerva?' Lupin lounged in the doorway, smirking at them.

'Get lost, Lupin – can't you see I'm on my honeymoon?' Severus growled. 'Tell Minerva she'll see me when she sees me.'

And clutching his prize to him with desperate tenderness, he Disapparated directly to their bedroom, where he proceeded to investigate her assertions of a desire to 'practice.'

The next month was a very happy one. Severus could not shake the feeling of unreality which assailed him when he stopped to think about it – so he didn't. He experienced it. His Sprite wished nothing more than to feed him, read with him, talk to him, and take him off to bed and have sex with him. The enlarged bathtub became a permanent feature of their bathroom, and creative uses were found for it. He felt the occasional twinge of guilt for his prolonged absence from Security Solutions, but as Minerva had tartly pointed out to him, the business had run smoothly for two years without his daily presence – it could undoubtedly stand for him to take a proper honeymoon.

Even his mother seemed happier, participating in perfectly civil exchanges with Hermione and humming to herself at odd moments.

The little terraced house on Spinner's End had never known such idyllic days. One summer afternoon, Hermione lured him out to sip Pimm's beneath the shade of the old tree in the back garden; as was wont to happen, her chair was soon abandoned in favour of his and they cuddled together there, the drinks glasses forgotten, the ice melting in the heat of the August sun.

Pushing the blasted red peasant blouse up, Severus buried his overlarge nose between her breasts, which seemed even more succulent to him of late. She twisted and sighed at his ministrations to her nipples, and he said, 'Is it only with this shirt that you never wear a brassiere? If so, I should order you one in every colour of the rainbow.'

Her gurgle of laughter filled him with that roiling, burgeoning feeling in his chest; he felt it nearly every day now, though, so it did not alarm him as it once had done.

'I wore this shirt on our wedding night,' she said.

'I know,' he interpolated, lazily nibbling again at the soft underside of her breast.

'Well, I left off the bra then because I was trying to lure you to bed,' she said.

He raised his head to look into her eyes; they had discussed this before. 'I still can't believe you thought I needed to be lured.' Hermione flushed, something she had done frequently in the beginning of their honeymoon, but which she did less often now, six weeks on. 'And what brings this colour to your cheeks, hmm?' He rubbed his thumb over her nipple, one eyebrow raised interrogatively. She shivered, arching into his touch; he moved his hand away. 'Tell me, little Sprite, or it's no more petting for you.'

She took his hand and brought it back to her breast. 'I was so worried about getting you into bed,' she confided, 'that I had Harry procure some Felix Felicis potion from Professor Slughorn, and I took it before we went down to dinner that night. The Felix told me to wear this top and to leave off my bra.'

Severus stared at her, stunned. 'You took Felix Felicis before we had sex?'

He had abandoned her breasts, so she pulled her shirt down and stood up. 'Yes – I told you, I was determined, but had no confidence that I could seduce you.'

Severus burst out laughing, reaching up and pulling her back down to his lap. 'You are the most redoubtable girl; I'm thankful you were on our side in the war,' he said, before kissing her to breathlessness. Releasing her lips, he murmured in her ear, 'Don't you know that infertile women take Felix Felicis to increase their chances of pregnancy?'

Hermione sat back and stared at him. 'Slughorn never told us that!'

'Well, it's not one of the advertised uses of the potion, but it is a well-documented side-effect. It's a good thing your fallopian tubes were damaged beyond healing, or you'd be shopping for a cot, by now.' He pulled her more securely against his chest, sliding his hands up her bare back beneath the red peasant blouse. 'We'll do very well without sprogs, you and I. The little buggers are hell on one's sex life.'

Hermione slipped away from her satiated husband and closed the bathroom door behind her. After emptying her frequently-full bladder, she stared in the mirror at her swollen breasts and counted again in her mind the weeks since her last period. It had been about a week before her Azkaban wedding – two weeks before her wedding night – which would place her ovulation right around the time of their Felix Felicis-enhanced wedding night.

The tubes are ruined, she reminded herself. The Healers said that even though my womb was intact and my ovaries were unharmed, a fertilised egg could never make it into my womb to implant.

She closed her eyes and gathered her courage. Why should this be more frightening than standing with Harry against Voldemort and the Death Eaters? Because she desperately wanted it to be true – and because she desperately hoped it was not true.

She took a deep breath, stood up straight, and cast a pregnancy scan on herself. Before her wondering eyes, a golden aura emanated from her. Ah, she was in good health! Excellent. She had lowered her wand when the faint echo limned her aura, then formed a perfect oval before her lower abdomen.

It was pink.

Her knees seemed to weaken, and she clutched the sides of the sink, sagging.

She was pregnant. She was going to have a baby girl.

She had sworn to Severus that she was unable to bear a child – promised him that he would not be called upon to be a parent to a baby. He had told her how that pleased him – that he liked being alone with her – and they were happy together – why did this have to happen now?

Stumbling to the toilet, she fell to her knees and was sick.

A/N: Nereid – In Greek mythology, a sea-nymph, one of 50 or (in some accounts) 100 daughters of Nereus and Doris. They lived with their father in the depths of the sea. Thetis and Galatea were Nereids.

SubHub told me that Hermione breaks Severus in this chapter - that when she turns to leave him in Minerva's office, he is driven to pursue and restrain her. Happily for us all, she didn't mind.