Rings

With extreme gratitude to JKR.

With special thanks to my fabulous beta, Leigh-Anne.

27. RINGS

When they arrived in their quarters, the table was already laid, and a lunch of soup and sandwiches awaited them. They both, however, ignored the lunch. Hermione fidgeted on her pile of pillows on the bed, nibbling deliciously out-of-season grapes, her stomach too tight with tension to accept more than one at a time, her mouth too dry to savor them.

"First things first," Professor Snape said, and with hardly a twitch of his hand, he brought a bottle of wine sailing through the air toward them. He magicked it open and laid the cork aside, then inhaled. "Tell me, Miss Granger, can you imbibe without making a fool of yourself?" he asked, as he then beckoned a large wooden case from the lowest of his bookshelves.

"It puts me to sleep."

"Ah, so sad, then I suppose I'll have to drink alone." His fingers caressed the wooden case as he watched her toying nervously with a grape stem. "Although a sip or two would most likely do you good."

He opened the case and nestled in black velvet were eight crystal goblets. Not just any crystal. This was a type of glass she'd never seen before. She couldn't restrain her gasp.

Professor Snape lifted one in his long, beautiful fingers and held it up to the light. The goblet was as sheer as gossamer and looked as though a single breath would shatter it.

"Elfin crystal," he said grimly. "The only possession I own that came from my father."

She didn't have to ask which father.

He answered her anyway. "The wizard who seduced my mother when she was sixteen years old and then returned to his wife and family on the Continent. Upon his death, I received this set. It's valuable and, one would presume, a family heirloom. I suppose in the end he felt some sort of guilt." His upper lip curled as if the very idea of his father's guilt offended him.

Hermione remained silent as he held the goblet beneath the bottle and wine like liquid garnet flowed into it.

Again he held it to the light, and this time microscopic facets were clearly visible across the surface. Before, they'd seemed more like cobweb, but now with the addition of colour, they burst into their brilliance and glowed, reflecting warmth back onto his pale hand.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful," she breathed.

He inhaled deeply again, then finally sipped. "I consider it a weakness that I wanted you to see this before we go to the Malfoys'." He avoided her eyes and drank more deeply. And then, eyeing her speculatively, he pulled out another goblet, was on the brink of filling it when...

He reached across the table and offered her a sip from his own.

She leaned forward, felt the shimmer of elfin magic touch her lips, and then the lovely warmth of her father's wine. She didn't realize until he pulled it away that she'd closed her eyes, the better to savor. She pulled them open to find him staring at her, and all she could manage was a breathy, "Oooh."

He drew back in his chair. She noticed he wasn't eating. He stared into the distance and finally spoke again.

"Whatever you think you know of the Dark Lord, put it out of your mind. It is time for you to know the truth."

If not for the wine still warming her mouth and throat, she would have shivered. But somehow the wine (or the goblet? or his strong fingers holding it to her lips?) braced her. She took a slice of thick bread off the top of a sandwich and began tearing it to shreds, watching her fingers, afraid of what he was going to say, yet desperate to hear it, to arm herself for what was coming.

"I told you that he has never hurt me. It's true; he has never physically harmed me in any way. In fact, he can be affectionate with his followers."

She looked up, wary of that word affectionate.

"Yes," he said, his eyes drilling her. "Affectionate. If he thinks affection will get him what he wants." Again, he looked away. "The thing you have to understand about the Dark Lord is how infinitely clever he is when it comes to finding one's ... soft spots."

She remembered his words to her, his fears about the Dark Lord knowing too much about their, their physical union, and knew a chill. "And he uses them to hurt you."

"No." He took another deep drink. "Not usually. The knowledge that he can and will, of course, is heavy. But the fact is..." He looked at her quizzically, as if testing her ability to discern what he was telling her. "There are Death Eaters who derive great pleasure from Muggle-baiting, from raping, from torturing, from destroying. The Dark Lord is happy to oblige them with targets."

She dropped the bread, not even able to pretend an appetite.

"However, he would never force those of us who have no taste for such activities to participate. Instead, he uses us for other of his business."

Again, he stared at his goblet, now empty, and took time to refill it. "The Dark Lord has no sexual nature. He didn't seem to even before his return. Odd in a man with his physical beauty," he said bitterly, "but he'd turned his desires into different directions at a young age, and evidently wasn't seduced by his hormones. And yet..." Another sip, another swallow, another thoughtful groping for words.... "And yet he appreciates pleasure, or rather, appreciates providing pleasure and seeing his followers partake of it."

"Revels," she whispered. She'd heard of the revels.

He inclined his head in a nod, and the curtain of limp hair fell back, exposing his eyes and throat to her. "Indeed."

She didn't want to know. She didn't want to know what he'd done at revels, or whom he'd done it with. She kept her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white, waiting for him to tell her things she didn't want to hear.

"And at the revels, there are those who revel in taking their pleasures for the pleasure of our Lord. Who display themselves for him and for all present to view...." His voice drifted for a moment. "Lucius and Narcissa were his favorites." Another deep gulp of wine. "They always had a bit of the exhibitionist about them. They liked being... observed."

She felt her cheeks burning, and she no longer saw her clenched hands because her eyes were clenched shut just as surely, and her heart hammered in her breast.

"But even though they were his favorites, when Narcissa conceived and they decided it was no longer appropriate to participate in the revels, the Dark Lord never said a word. It was their decision to make."

She forced the words from her lips, even though she didn't want to hear the answer.... "And you?"

"I did not participate in revels."

She could breathe again.

"There are those who only participate in revels, though. Women whose only desire is to please...."

She looked up at that.

His eyes pierced through her. "With the use of Polyjuice Potion. And Heart's Desire. And lust potions."

She felt sick rising in her throat.

"Because all they want to do is please... and there are those who are very willing and eager to be pleased in such a manner, and I am not one of those men."

Oh god.

"I, however, provide those potions. And if those were the only potions I provided, those to be used by willing participants, my sins would be few enough. But I also provide the potions that keep the Dark Lord... functioning. Potions that poison. Potions that heal. Potions that torture. And of course I mustn't forget the Veritaserum that will ultimately bring the downfall of those who are now my compatriots. And every batch I brew, I wonder if someone will swallow it and then reveal my betrayal of the Dark Lord...." He dipped one fingertip into the wine, and then watched the drop splash onto the tabletop, idly, as if he discussed the weather. "I wonder if, perhaps, this time I'm brewing my own death."

She reached out to him, reached to touch him...to comfort him...and instead he pulled away and shrugged out of his frock coat, then rolled back his left sleeve.

To expose his Dark Mark.

She'd never seen it, really seen it, before. Glimpses, yes, but never bared for her to examine, but instead she sought his eyes. His flat, black eyes, which jerked back toward his arm, ordering her to look, to see.

The skull. The snake. The tortured black magical tattoo on his angel-white skin.

Her eyes stung. She felt her shoulders shudder and realized she was crying. "I'm sorry," she gasped. How could she be so weak? She shook her head, dug her fingers into her hair as she pushed it out of her face. Control yourself, you stupid girl!

"Why are you crying?" His voice was low, calm.

"It must have hurt horribly. To get it. To... to want it."

His head snapped up at that. "Perhaps... yes, when you put it that way, the wanting of it was an ache, a pain that could only be relieved by receiving it, or so I thought." He stretched his arm further and touched her cheek and forced her to look into his eyes, eyes that now glittered.

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice turned to velvet. "It did not hurt to receive the Dark Mark. Receiving the Dark Mark ignites every pleasure sensor in your body, in your mind. It turns your body liquid, your mind incandescent. It's an explosion unlike anything you have ever experienced before, or will again...."

His eyes were pure black seduction, and fear jolted through her. Fear that if he wanted her to, she would do anything for him, and for one terrifying moment, anything was a frightening thought indeed.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" he asked.

No. No. She wanted to pull away, but couldn't. No.

Suddenly, he gave her cheek a sharp slap. Not hard, but stinging. "Think!" he snarled. "Tell me what I just told you. Use your brain...."

She rubbed her cheek, suddenly angry, the spell broken.

"How dare you!"

He grabbed her hand and held it. "Think."

Choking on fear and anger, she finally reached for control and tried to do just that. What had he told her? And why?

And then it came to her.

"The Dark Lord... doesn't control his followers through fear, but instead... he exploits their desires...."

His grip on her hand loosened, and he stroked her cheek. She flinched away from him and refused to meet his eyes.

"And...?"

And. She swallowed. "He allows people to be used the way they want to be used." And suddenly, with sharp clarity, she realized something else, something even more frightening. "He doesn't send you off to risk your life and do things you hate doing and pretend to be someone you aren't, for the greater good. He allows you to serve him in ways that bring you... satisfaction."

"Very good, Miss Granger." He retreated to his glass. "Although the day always comes when his desires take precedence, the fact is that he has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to lackeys to do his bidding. Why force anyone to do anything they might find distasteful? Why refuse someone anything they might find pleasurable? The way to build a loyal base of followers isn't through fear, but through temptation." He glanced at her across the rim of his goblet. "And what would your temptation be?"

She jerked her eyes away from him. She tossed the grapes onto the table and rubbed her hands on her blue jeans and felt the uneasy energy skittering through her veins. You was the word that echoed through her head and the reason she refused him access to her thoughts.

You.

A thought that confused and terrified her.

"In all fairness," he continued, though even she knew that he was not easily confused with a 'fair' man, "Albus is at a disadvantage. If he only asked people to do that which they found easy, who would do the difficult things? It's not as if the Order is overrun with members with no conscience and few morals."

She glared at her fists as they clenched in her lap. "Why must you be so hard on yourself? There are Aurors who cross every line that exists, and nobody concerns themselves with their lack of conscience and morals!"

He flashed his Dark Mark at her. "Why, indeed?" And tossed back some more wine.

"You're getting drunk," she accused.

He snorted. "There's not enough wine in this bottle to accomplish that feat."

She hoped he was right.

"And tell me," he asked, "why did I choose to serve one master over the other?"

"Because... because Professor Dumbledore is on the side of what is good." She knew even as the words left her lips that they were feeble and foolish.

"I chose Albus because his terms of service came with an end date. If this war ever ends, and I survive it," and at that, his laughter was bitter, "which is unlikely...my role can end. I can walk away."

"Is there no other reason?" she asked.

He averted his eyes. "None that I care to discuss."

"Professor," she said, "I don't believe you. I don't believe that you would choose the Dark, not today. Not now. I don't believe you." And what she wanted to say was, 'Stop scaring me.'

He shrugged.

"What was your... soft spot?" she asked.

She felt him retreat.

"What did he use to tempt you?" she pushed.

She felt his anger.

"Would it work again?" she demanded. "Tell me, tell me what I'm fighting!"

"Don't be a child," he snapped. "You don't get to demand answers from me."

"Why not? Whether or not you think I'm a child, I am your wife."

He stared at her.

She stared back.

"I believe it's time for you to dress for tea."

XX

He leaned against the mantle. What the fuck was he doing?

More to the point, what was she doing?

She'd been in the bathroom for an hour, though the quiet Miss Granger who had entered with her things in some sort of zip-bag over her arm was nothing like the Miss Granger who had bounced in from their outing the day before, practically vibrating with excitement over the things she'd brought back with her.

He felt almost guilty for that. She'd been looking forward to her little game of dress-up, and now her movements were heavy with misgiving.

Good. It wasn't a game.

But part of him, a very small part, wished she had a glimmer of the joy she'd had before.

And now, he just wished she'd come out.

She hadn't let him see what she'd retrieved from her mother's closet, and the tension was gnawing at him. What would he do, say, for Merlin's sake, if it was unsuitable?

And now...now, he waited for her to come out, waited with the small accessory he'd retrieved for her, and each moment that passed left him with more misgivings.

It was as if she was hiding from him.

Oh fuck.

She was hiding.

He walked to the door.

"Miss Granger?"

Silence.

"Miss Granger."

"I'll be right out..." Her voice was muffled. And... unhappy.

And fuck fuck fuck.

He dragged his fingers through his hair and forced himself to be calm, to think, for fuck's sake. He could send an owl and tell them she was ill. He was ill. The whole fucking school was ill.

He braced himself for the worst and opened the door.

Holy fucking Merlin's ghost.

Where the fuck was Miss Granger?

And who had taken her place?

She was taller.

Slimmer, if that was possible.

And a woman.

There was nothing girlish about her, and he felt a quite perverse pang of loss, as if someone had robbed him of something... of years, of years with her, because she wasn't his Miss Granger, she was someone new who looked like Miss Granger but... wasn't.

He cursed himself for an idiot and forced himself to breathe.

This was what he wanted, what he needed, for fuck's sake. For her to grow up, damn it, and the sooner the better.

He just hadn't expected it to be so...so sudden.

He wanted to touch her.

She was sheathed in a soft, topaz-hued garment that skimmed down her body and begged to be touched.

Before he could move or speak, she turned to face him and braced herself against the sink, her eyes wide and shimmering.

"What's...what's wrong?" he asked, his mouth dry. He stepped closer, closer, until he'd joined her at the sink, and fought to keep his hands to himself.

"My hair... " she whimpered. "I can't..." She shook her head helplessly. "It's awful!"

"Horrid," he agreed absent-mindedly, giving in to temptation and stroking her shoulder with his fingertips. "But I'll have you know I've grown quite fond of it."

"Really?" Her eyes were huge, beseeching.

"Miss Granger, would I lie?"

"You are an excellent liar."

He ran his hand from her shoulder, down the snug sleeve that ended at her wrist. She was demurely covered, yet he felt himself stirring as if she were naked.

"I thought you'd end up in tweed." He attempted to force acid into his voice, but wasn't at all certain that had worked.

"It's cashmere," she said, her voice choked.

Of course it was, though he'd never imagined an entire frock made of it.

"It's not quite my size. It was made for my mother, and I think, I think it's supposed to cling more." She stared at herself in the mirror and ran her hands down her sides.

Was she blind? No, the dress didn't cling... it caressed.

It wasn't obscene, but Merlin his body reacted as if it were. It draped over her small, firm breasts and hugged her waist and fell to well below her knees, where her calves were hidden by tight, black kid boots...with heels that explained her sudden growth spurt--and he suddenly felt sorry for Narcissa. How cruel, to see this young Mudblood enter the room looking like this....

And he felt a surge of something that tasted almost like a victory hard won.

His wife...his wife...glowed.

And her hair was a disgrace.

"It's a very good thing we stopped by Spinner's End," he snapped. He opened his hand and revealed the charmed hair comb. "It was my mother's."

She took it with a gasp. "It's beautiful!" She traced the carvings...phoenix, runespoor, and unicorn entwined with moonvine. She turned her face up to his, and her lips were parted, and he dearly wanted to kiss them...

He took her hair in his hands and gave it a twist, then secured it with the comb. "Where is your wand?"

She pulled it out of her sleeve.

"Stick it through," he ordered.

Eyebrows meeting in a furrow, she reached behind her head with her wand, and he guided it through her hair at a diagonal.

"It's charmed to disappear," he said. "With this comb, your wand is invisible, but should you need it..." He pulled her hand down to her side and then released it. "Reach for it."

She reached and whipped it out in a fluid movement, then slowly put it back. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

She stared at herself in the mirror, and he wondered what she saw, and knew from the consternation in her eyes it wasn't what he saw...and he forced himself to swallow.

"Fuck," she muttered.

"Miss Granger!"

"I wanted to surprise you." She turned a pouting face toward him. "I wanted to make an entrance."

"Believe me, you will."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up, and she pushed past him and practically cheeked her way out of the bathroom and to the small wooden casket on the bed...

Fuck, if those boots and that dress didn't elevate her normal level of cheek to new heights.

--And she opened the casket and ran her fingers through...

"Bloody fucking hell," he said, following her to stare at the contents.

"My grandmother's rubies," she said matter-of-factly, holding a choker up to her bare throat. "Overkill?"

If there was any blood in his body that wasn't on its way to his groin, it was in his cheeks. Fucking hell, he'd wanted to impress her with his fucking goblets, and here she was, running her fingers through fucking rubies like they were mere trinkets.

And he didn't dare let her wear those rubies to the Malfoys'.

But how to tell her without sounding like a fucking sod who was simply humiliated by her privilege?

Which he fucking was.

She looked up at him and frowned. "Okay, too much." She dropped them back into the casket with a shrug. Then she lifted a ring, simple ring, if one didn't consider the size of the ruby ostentatious, which it fucking was.

"I need a ring, though...." She hesitated, stopped short of actually sliding it on her finger, and then looked at him with an expression of sheer disdain. "This belonged to my grandmother, the witch, not to be confused with my grandmother who was not a witch, but the grandmother who everyone called a witch simply because 'bitch' was considered rude. These rubies were the spoils of war from her third marriage."

And still, she held the ring and didn't put it on.

"Why do you need a ring?" he finally managed to ask.

She was avoiding his eyes; he knew that look, and it almost always meant trouble. Again, the half-shrug. "I just... wanted a ring besides the Ministry ring."

Odd, the way she stressed the word wanted, almost like she meant needed.

"It's a very nice ruby," he said placidly, quite proud of his aplomb in the face of extreme duress.

And still she didn't put it on.

"Your grandmother must have been a harridan."

"Well, pretty much so, yes." She twisted the ring in her fingers. "But it's not that, not really." She sighed and was about to slip it on when he closed his hand over hers and stopped her.

"If you don't mind that it's barely larger than a chip..."

She looked up at him expectantly, her lips parted.

"I have a ring."

She inhaled, and her breasts swelled beneath the cashmere, and he cursed himself for raising her expectations.

He crossed briskly to his armoire and opened the drawer. He pulled out the ring box.

She took it from him and opened it, and he saw the silver ring with its runes worn smooth from age, and it's lone, small, dark emerald, and it looked even shabbier than he remembered.

"Please... " she said softly. "Put it on me."

He slid it onto her finger, and it looked ludicrous beside the golden Ministry ring. He was about to pull it off again when she gripped her hand over his fingers and stopped him, and he saw her lips moving and her eyes closed and felt a moment's suspicion. What was she doing, why did she need a ring, and why did she want him to put it on her?

This was spellwork, not sentimental desire.

"Miss Granger," he growled.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open. "Oh! I almost forgot!"

She pulled his hand to her hip, and he felt the outline of her boycut knickers, and he totally forgot what he'd been about to say.

Boy-cut knickers. He felt ridiculous relief ease through him.

She was still his Miss Granger.

Then, her eyes fixed on his, she flickered her fingers and...

They fucking disappeared.

"Miss Granger!"

She grinned. "My mother would kill me if I didn't wear appropriate foundation garments."

"What garments? If you think you're going within ten feet of Lucius Malfoy without you knickers..."

"Welcome to the twentieth century, Professor Snape. It's called a thong, and it's miserably uncomfortable, and you're the only person on the planet who could get me to wear one."

She prissed away from him to fetch her cloak.

He swallowed thickly.

At least she didn't seem to be nervous any more.

He hoped that was a good thing.