Friday

Thanks to JK Rowling for allowing these liberties.

Thanks to Leigh-Anne for fabulous beta-work.

30. FRIDAY

She drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.

Sometimes, it was voices haunting her.

"... a tawdry little episode from when I was fourteen..."

Fourteen!

Sometimes, eyes.

Glittering black eyes, staring down at her up tilted face.

"You were brilliant."

Sometimes, it was an image.

Half-sneer, half-lust.

Bellatrix.

Voice.

"Bloody fucking brilliant."

Narrowed blue eyes.

"Severus always liked Bella in red." Bella...

She'd thought the dreams couldn't get worse.

"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...."

Oh, god, what kind of pleasure was that, and how it must haunt him. Did he still hunger for it?

Or ever will again.

Pain gnawed at her, the tightness in her chest grown to a surly beast.

And then, those blue eyes she loved so well.

"You mean, you really...you really love him?"

And her own foolish voice.

"Of course I do...."

And then, dimly...

Red eyes.

She awoke in terror, the pain full-blown and horrible, and trembled with it.

"Shhh..."

She heard the quieting noise in the darkness and then his voice.

"...just a bad dream..."

He pulled her to him.

Attempted to stroke her hair.

His hand fell limply across her face as his soft, steady breathing warmed her throat.

The blood in her veins slowed.

Calmed.

Finally, she slept.

XX

Hermione pretended an interest in her bangers, beans and toast. Thus, she paid no attention to the owls, not expecting any. However, when one dropped a Hogwarts-issue internal message in front of her breakfast plate, she was more than a tad startled.

But when a second arrived with a familiar (and thus alarming) red envelope, she was astonished.

She reached to open it; not to open it would be worse.

Immediately, Molly Weasley's voice blasted into the Great Hall.

"So, none of my boys are good enough for you, young lady, but every time you get in trouble you turn to a Weasley to bail you..."

And it exploded.

As ash drifted over her plate, she watched Professor lazily replace his wand and return to his own breakfast.

"I didn't know you could shut off a Howler," she said.

"Now you do."

A glance toward the Gryffindor table revealed Ron's flushed face. She wasn't sure whether he was angry or embarrassed, but it was clear from the expression he shot at Professor Snape that he'd dearly love to know that spell.

"You have another," Professor Snape reminded her with a soft sneer.

She reached for the unopened message. It unrolled when her fingers touched it.

Fortunately, this message was routine and silent.

A summons to the hospital wing for "routine healthcare" signed by Madam Pomfrey.

"I'll be late," she sighed to Professor Snape, showing it to him.

Hermione wished she could send a Howler in response.

XX

"Now, Madam Snape," Madam Pomfrey said as she bustled about, closing the white curtain and casting a privacy charm. "This won't take long, but it's a bit overdue. I'm meeting with all our new wives..."

"This isn't necessary," Hermione interrupted, "and it's making me late to my Potions study."

"It is necessary," Madam Pomfrey said crisply. "It won't take long, but you will cooperate with me."

Hermione clutched her school robes closed in a reflexive action.

"You don't have to undress, dear. This is a quite superficial exam." Madam Pomfrey flittered about, whisking her wand and muttering soft incantations under her breath. "Open, please," she said and checked Hermione's throat. Then her ears, her eyes, and a whisk of the wand over her wrist revealed a silvery set of numbers that were evidently her blood pressure and pulse.

One last whisk of the wand over her abdomen and another quiet incantation, and Madam Pomfrey seemed relieved and satisfied. "So, you're not pregnant?"

Hermione felt herself draw up straighter. "Of course not! Who said...has Draco Malfoy been spreading more lies about me?"

"Mr. Malfoy?" Madam Pomfrey looked surprised. "Why would he know anything about your medical conditions? No, Letitia Spiggot...I'm sorry, Merriman...was in, per your advice, or so she said? Very good of you to send her to me." She shook her head in frustration. "I was able to give the Merrimans some literature that will help them in the... transition required as a newly married couple learn to adjust to one another," Madam Pomfrey ended primly.

Then she fixed a sharp eye on Hermione. "And next time you decide to offer marital advice, my dear, I hope you remember that when advising a young wife on how to handle a Hufflepuff husband, one's responses don't have to be as extreme and physical as you evidently think is necessary when one's husband is Slytherin?"

Hermione stared at her, mouth agape. What had Letitia done?

And worse, what did Madam Pomfrey think Hermione had done to her... Slytherin husband? She thought Hermione had...would...

Madam Pomfrey patted her hand. "There, there, I know it's difficult. These things can take time. Has... has Severus been too..."

"No!" Hermione cried. "He hasn't been too anything."

"You can tell me, Hermione. I'm a medical professional and..."

"There's nothing to tell." Hermione fought for calm. Even in her distress she realized that overreacting would make things look worse. "I can assure you, I have had no need to hex my husband." She tilted her nose in the air in an affronted sniff.

"I should think not," Madam Pomfrey muttered, but clearly she assumed it was more out of fear of the husband in question than the absence of need.

Hermione stood. "I really am late. Thank you for your concern, but...Oh, Merlin. Letitia told you she thought I was pregnant?"

"She said you sought refuge in the girls' bathroom because you weren't feeling well, and I'm afraid she jumped to that conclusion, yes."

"And Draco Malfoy passed that information along to his mother," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "So what you're saying is, all of Hogwarts thinks I'm pregnant?"

"I can't answer for the whole of the school, but gossip being what it is... " Madam Pomfrey spread her hands apologetically. "I'm sorry, dear. Time will prove them wrong, though, won't it?"

Hermione left the hospital wing with a snarl.

XX

He had assigned a simple Swelling Solution to the second-year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff class and had managed to control them with the occasional glare and sweep around the classroom.

Now, he sat at his desk with nothing to distract him from the image he'd seen in Miss Granger's memory.

Merlin's sodding bollocks, he'd forgotten how beautiful she'd been.

It was hard to blame his fourteen-year-old self for falling under her spell. But those were memories he'd managed to put aside, and now they were back full force.

He'd never quite figured out how he'd earned her interest, other than the fact that his height had made up for the fact that she was older, he'd been a dab hand at contraceptive potions and she wanted to learn more, and they had made an exotic contrast to Cissy and Lucius's pale glamour.

Bella had been older and definitely more experienced, and his offended refusal to participate in her more sophisticated sexual tastes...not being willing to stick his tongue in any of her orifices...had meant the end of their little affair a little sooner than he would have liked. But there was no heartbreak there. He'd been swept into the Slytherin inner circle, had enjoyed a willing witch's attentions, and those were heady things indeed for an attention- and affection-hungry young Severus Snape.

He didn't hate himself for it.

He also didn't like remembering it.

It had been tawdry with much shagging in inappropriate places, and once...he'd never been convinced it had been purely accidental...Lucius had walked in on them and waited a bit too long before coughing and retreating with a few words about locks and silencing charms.

And Bella had arched and laughed and increased her movements in response. And he'd responded to her, even as he felt blistered with embarrassment that he quickly forced to anger.

Even now, he blistered at the memory, but the anger was too old to surface on command.

But not his anger at Narcissa for bringing it all back.

For wrapping it in a pretty bow and bringing it to Miss Granger.

Though of course it hadn't been Narcissa at all.

Fuck the Dark Lord and his fucking tests.

He raised his head to see a young Hufflepuff with hand lifted in the air. "Professor Snape," the child said, voice wobbly, "I chopped my anitottle root instead of shredding it."

"Five point from Hufflepuff. Go into the supply closet..." He broke off. "I'll fetch you some more."

He stood and walked through the corner door to the closet.

She was so caught up in her brewing she didn't see him standing in the doorway, even after he closed it gently behind him.

Her face was flushed with steam, and her hair wild around her face as she stirred, counting under her breath. She should have spelled the stirring rod instead of risking getting the count wrong. The only thing that stopped him from telling her so was that the very act of pointing out her error could, in fact, cause her to get the count wrong.

With a wave of his fingers, he retrieved another anitottle root from the pile on the work counter.

She didn't notice it fly across the room.

Nor did she notice when he opened the door again and sent it to the student who awaited it.

Nor did she notice when he closed the door again and leaned against it, studying her and her project.

The color of the liquid was near perfect...a dark aubergine. When she completed the stirring and let it sit for five minutes, if brewed correctly it would take on a pearlescent shimmer.

She stopped stirring, lifted the rod straight up out of the liquid so that it disturbed as little of the surface as possible and in fact only dripped a single drop of mixture, and that exactly into the impression that the rod left in its absence. The surface smoothed over like glass.

Perfection.

She raised her eyes to his and glared.

"Everybody thinks I'm pregnant."

Ah. She knew he was there.

"And this would be because...?"

"Because I ducked into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom to have a bit of privacy, and the idiots who were in there hiding assumed it was because I was ill."

He arched his eyebrows.

"All right, I told them I wasn't feeling well, but that was no reason for them to jump to the obscene conclusion that..."

"Obscene?"

"Professor!" She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Will you please allow me a little hyperbole? The entire school thinks I'm pregnant!"

He sighed. "One, you are married. If you were pregnant, it would not be a great scandal. Two, we both know you aren't pregnant. So other than the tedium of living in a fishbowl where everyone is watching your every action, what bothers you about this?"

"Living in a fishbowl where everyone is watching my every action!"

He shrugged. "That won't be changing." He indicated the cauldron. "It looks adequate. In future, I suggest you use a stirring spell to assure the count of rotations."

"I chose to count to keep myself too distracted to hex somebody or something."

Fuck.

This mood didn't bode well for his brewing plans.

Not that he would change them.

No, there would definitely be brewing tonight.

And her thoughts evidently followed his.

"Tonight," she said suddenly, her expression animated. "What do I wear tonight? Old robes? Will it be messy? You never told me what we'd be brewing, either. Is it..."

"I have no time for your questions, Miss Granger." He drew himself to his full height and looked down his nose at her. "I have a class to teach."

And as an afterthought, "Wear whatever is comfortable. It hardly makes a difference."

At which point, he returned to his class, though his thoughts never quite made it there.

Being caught up in his plans for brewing.

XX

Dinner was a rushed affair. Hermione ate sufficiently, but with no appreciation or notice of the delicacies of the High Table. Professor Snape offered her wine...surprising, if they were going to be brewing...but she stuck to pumpkin juice.

She excused herself early, earning a questioning raised eyebrow.

"I have some Arithmancy equations to complete. I thought if I did them first, my mind would be clear for our project."

"Excellent idea," he responded, watching her over the rim of his own goblet.

And so she'd rushed through an Arithmancy assignment that would have normally absorbed her full attention and then drifted to Professor Snape's private lab.

She wiped down the work surface and performed a quick Scourgify in preparation.

She examined his cauldrons; most of them were new. She had no idea whether they needed iron or copper or glass or ceramic or...

She heard his entrance and whirled to face him.

"Professor!" She smiled at him, excited. "Which cauldron do we need?"

"It's not there," he said, his black eyes glittering.

"Where..."

"First, it needs to be seasoned. You've never had to season a new cauldron for use, have you, Miss Granger?"

"No, the ones we buy for school are preseasoned."

"Indeed." He walked toward her with a slow, lazy, elegant stride. "Well, tonight there will be no shortcuts, and we won't be trusting any kind of 'preseasoning' that may have already happened. We will start from scratch."

"All right," she responded, as it seemed a response was required, even though she was confused.

"A cauldron that has been improperly prepared can ruin any potion put in it."

She nodded. That certainly made sense.

And she supposed that was why their student cauldrons were preseasoned, to eliminate that potential.

Why was he staring at her so intently?

She cleared her throat. "Does that mean we'll be using an iron cauldron? They're the most challenging to season, or so I've read." She winced at that last part. Book learning. Why'd she bring that up?

Fortunately, he ignored it. "No, not iron."

He stopped in front of her. She had to tilt her face up to meet his gaze, he stood so close. She felt a strange awareness that she didn't understand, that didn't seem to have anything to do with brewing.

"Then..." she pushed on, "what kind of cauldron are we using?" She glanced around nervously. "And where is it?"

He put his hands on either side of her face and turned it back to him. She couldn't look away if she wanted to. She didn't want to.

He bent closer, and she thought he was going to kiss her and thought ridiculously, But it's not Saturday night.

He didn't kiss her.

Instead, he bent closer and murmured into her ear.

"Miss Granger, you are the cauldron."