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Chapter Text

The halls of the Ministry of Magic, once humming with bureaucracy and buzzing wands, now pulsed with a colder, quieter order. Golden light no longer filtered in through the great stained-glass atrium. Instead, shadows reigned, and with them came fear, compliance, and silence.

After Voldemort and Harry Potter perished together in the final battle, there was no hero left to carry the light. The Order fractured. The resistance splintered. And in the vacuum, the old blood rose.

Pureblood supremacy was no longer whispered behind closed doors—it was written into law.

The Marriage Decree passed within a month. Muggle-born witches, deemed “salvageable assets,” were auctioned off under the guise of arranged bonding, rebranded as "claims." A grotesque performance of power dressed in the language of tradition.

And Hermione Granger—war heroine, brightest witch of her age, last lioness of the fallen resistance—stood at the center of it all.

She was assigned a number.

Catalogued.

Processed.

Prepared for the claiming floor.

—

The chamber stank of incense and fear.

Rows of velvet seats rose in a semicircle around the claiming floor, where witches—paraded like livestock—stood on shallow platforms beneath the cool gaze of robed purebloods. The air was heavy, not with the usual perfume of the Ministry’s atrium, but with something cloying and ceremonial, a sickly sweetness meant to mask the truth.

Hermione’s wrists itched beneath the thin silver cuffs that marked her as property of the Marriage Decree Office. She stood on the dais in a simple cream dress—standard issue—her hair a wild, defiant halo no matter how many times the clerk tried to smooth it down.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the announcer’s voice rang out.  

“Lot Number Seventy-Three. Hermione Jean Granger, twenty-one, muggle-born, war survivor. Fully trained, unbonded.”

The words war survivor caught like a splinter. They made her sound like some rare breed, battle-tested and broken in.

The first bid came from the left balcony.
“One hundred galleons,” Lucius Malfoy said, his voice smooth and mocking. His pale hair gleamed under the enchanted lights, his cane tapping once against the railing as if to punctuate his claim.

“Two hundred,” drawled Antonin Dolohov from the opposite side, lounging like a cat ready to toy with its prey.

Her stomach knotted.

“Three hundred,” Lucius replied without looking away from her.

“Five hundred,” Dolohov countered, smirking.

The numbers climbed, the crowd’s energy tightening like a noose. Hermione’s breaths grew shallow. She tried not to look at either man, her gaze fixed on the marble floor, but she could feel them circling—predators in a gilded arena.

“Eight hundred,” Lucius said sharply, lips curling.

“Eleven hundred,” Dolohov fired back, his eyes glinting with something dark and hungry.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Every number was a nail in the coffin of her freedom.

And then—

A new voice cut through the haze.
“One thousand five hundred.”

It did not come from the balconies.

In the back of the chamber, a figure stood apart from the others—hood up, face shadowed. He was out of place in the velvet-lined auction room, his long coat unadorned, hands bare except for a curious object he held against his ear.

A muggle cellphone.

The man wasn’t watching her. He wasn’t watching the auctioneer. He was listening—to someone else, somewhere else—his head tilted slightly, as though taking quiet instructions.

Dolohov’s lip curled in irritation. “Seventeen hundred.”

The man lifted his chin a fraction. “Two thousand.” His voice was low, measured, carrying just enough to reach the dais.

Lucius hesitated.

“Two thousand five,” Dolohov tried again, eyes narrowing.

The cellphone-man’s reply was instant. “Three thousand.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room. That was not a bid—it was a warning.

Hermione’s skin prickled. Whoever this was, he wasn’t playing the game. He was ending it.

The announcer’s quill scratched across parchment. “Sold. Lot Seventy-Three—claimed.”

And as the hammer fell, the man in the back pocketed the phone and finally looked at her.

Only then did Hermione feel the first real shiver of fear.

Two guards in black Ministry livery gripped her arms before she could step down from the dais.

“This way,” one said, his voice flat and cold.

She stumbled to keep up as they led her through a side corridor lined with runed iron doors, the sound of the auction muffling behind them. The air here was damp and close, smelling faintly of ink and warding salts.

When they turned a final corner, the man was waiting.

He leaned against the wall as though he had been there for hours, hands in his coat pockets, hood still drawn low. The guards stopped just short of him, shifting their grips on her arms.

“Your claimant,” one of them said.

The man said nothing—only tilted his head in the smallest of acknowledgements. Up close, she saw the muggle phone now tucked away in his coat, the faint reflection of the torchlight on its glass screen.

Without preamble, he pushed away from the wall and started walking. The guards released her.

Hermione’s legs felt stiff as she followed him down the long hallway, past more iron doors, until they emerged into a shadowed courtyard. The distant hum of the Ministry’s wards was replaced by the cool hiss of night wind.

He led her to a small circle etched into the cobblestones—an apparition point.

“You’ll take this.” His voice was low, stripped of any warmth. From his coat, he withdrew a length of tarnished brass chain with an old iron key hanging from it.

She didn’t move to take it. “Where—”

“Now,” he said, tone flat, as though the question wasn’t permitted.

Her fingers closed reluctantly around the cold metal. The moment her skin touched it, the key glowed faintly—just enough for her to see the runes carved along its shaft. Then the world yanked out from under her feet.

She landed hard on damp grass, the portkey falling from her hand. The night here was different—thicker, quieter. When she looked up, the Ministry’s marble and glass had been replaced by black silhouettes of trees stretching high against the moon.

And in the clearing ahead, a small cottage crouched in the shadows.

The silence was thick.

No roads. No voices. Just the black lattice of the forest pressing in on all sides.

Her heart began to race. She didn’t know where she was—only that it wasn’t anywhere she wanted to be. Whoever had claimed her could be inside that cottage, watching. Waiting.

She turned sharply toward the treeline and bolted.

The cold air burned her lungs as she pushed between the trees. Branches clawed at her dress, wet leaves slapped her face, but she kept going, desperate for distance, for anything familiar.

She didn’t make it far.

The moment she crossed an invisible line, it felt like she’d run headlong into a wall—except the wall was everywhere. Magic surged against her, heat flaring across her skin before hurling her backward onto the mossy ground.

She gasped, scrambling to her feet and trying another direction. The same thing happened: an unseen force slammed into her, this time sending her tumbling hard enough to jar her teeth.

Panic knifed through her chest. She spun in place, eyes darting between the trees and the cottage, searching for some gap, some weakness in the wards, but they were seamless. She was trapped.

And then she heard it—footsteps crunching slowly through the grass behind her.

She went still.

A figure stepped into the moonlight at the edge of the clearing. Cloaked, hood drawn low, their face was hidden entirely in shadow.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Every hair on the back of her neck rose as they took a step toward her.

She thought “they” because she didn’t know. Maybe it was a woman ? Unlikely, the goal was procreation after all.

The figure crossed the clearing without hurry, each step deliberate. Hermione’s instincts screamed to back away, but the wards pressed like hot glass at her back, hemming her in.

When he reached her, the hooded stranger didn’t speak. He simply took her wrist—not roughly, but with an unyielding grip that promised there would be no escape. The heat of his fingers bled through the thin fabric of her sleeve. With that type of strength it was definitely a man. 

“Let me go, you brute” she hissed, yanking against him.

The only answer was a small twist of his hand that shifted her balance, forcing her to follow as he steered her toward the cottage. No wasted movements. No force beyond what was necessary.

The door opened before he touched it, hinges whispering in the still air. Inside, the single candle on the table flickered to life, casting long shadows along the walls. The scent of old wood and something faintly medicinal clung to the air.

He guided her over the threshold and let the door swing shut. The wards shifted—she could feel them settle around the building like a locked cage.

Her captor released her and stepped around to face her fully.

Hermione stayed where she was, breath sharp in her lungs, the fire of panic burning in her veins. The hood still hid his face.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached up, tugging the hood back in one slow motion.

The candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face—the hooked nose, the pallid skin, the black eyes that had once glinted with contempt from behind a classroom desk.

Severus Snape.

Every muscle in her body went rigid. “You…” Her voice cracked. “You’re dead.”

His expression didn’t change. “That’s what they told you.”

Her throat went dry. “Why—”

“You will not leave this place,” he said, cutting across her words. His tone was smooth, even, and stripped of all emotion—less a threat than a statement of natural law. “You will not attempt to breach the wards again. And you will not speak unless it is necessary.”

It was not the voice of a savior. It was the voice of a man who had already decided her fate.

He moved past her to a cupboard, the faint rustle of his robes following him. “Your room is upstairs. You will find clothing in the wardrobe. Meals will be left on the table.”

Hermione stood frozen, trying to steady her breathing, every instinct torn between demanding answers and finding a weapon.

Snape glanced back over his shoulder, meeting her gaze with those black, unreadable eyes.

“Welcome home, Miss Granger.”

Chapter Text

The stairs creaked under her feet, each step heavier than the last. She half-expected the air to thin as she climbed, for the wards to crush her lungs and turn her back, but the magic here was subtle—coiled in the bones of the cottage rather than pressing against her.

The upstairs hall was narrow, lined with three doors. Snape opened the one at the far end with a flick of his fingers.

The sight made her stop cold.

It was her old Gryffindor dormitory. Not exactly, but close enough to twist her stomach. The same warm scarlet and gold, the same heavy four-poster bed with curtains tied neatly back, even a familiar-looking trunk at the foot. The window was narrow, but moonlight spilled across the rug in the same way it had at Hogwarts, softening the edges.

Her throat tightened. This wasn’t comfortable. This was the design.

“You’ll sleep here,” Snape said, his voice as smooth and detached as ever.

She stepped inside on unsteady legs, eyes darting over every detail. Whoever had arranged this knew her past, knew the pieces that might draw her guard down—or break her faster.

The panic hit without warning. Her heart surged, and she turned sharply for the door. “No—”

But he was there.

His hand caught her shoulder, firm and sure, pushing her back over the threshold before she could even plant her feet. The touch wasn’t rough—it was measured, almost careful—but it was enough to send a shiver down her spine. She hated that it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

He shut the door behind him and looked down at her, his gaze steady and unreadable. “There are rules.”

Her mouth was dry. “I’m not—”

“One,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Obedience. When I give you an instruction, you will follow it without delay or question or there will be consequences”

She clenched her jaw.

“Two,” he continued, “you will keep yourself clean and well-groomed. You will not neglect your appearance.”

Her breath hitched. “And three?”

A flicker of something dark passed over his expression. “You will not lie to me.”

The words landed like a lock clicking shut.

All she could think about was all the time she deceived him in her school year. From the ingredient in his supply closet, to the time she set his cloak on fire. 

“Precisely what I was referring to” he said

She couldn’t believe it. He was reading her mind. He was invading her own personal space. How could he sleep at night she pondered. 

“Years of practice” he said coldly. 

From his pocket, he drew two slender bracelets of polished silver, their surfaces etched with intricate runes. They were beautiful—delicate in design, almost ceremonial—but the moment he slid the first over her wrist, she felt it: the quiet suffocation of her magic being pressed deep, smothered beneath layers of enchantment.

The second followed, settling on her other wrist.

“They will remain,” Snape said. “Do not attempt to remove them. It may hurt”

Hermione stared at the metal circling her skin, her pulse loud in her ears. The room felt smaller now, the air heavier.

Without another word, he stepped back toward the door. “Rest. We begin tomorrow.”

The latch clicked softly as he left, but the weight of the bracelets remained, cold and inescapable.

“What will I do tomorrow ?”

But he never answered. 

The adjoining door creaked open to reveal a bathroom that didn’t belong in a lonely cottage.

It was almost an exact copy of the prefects’ bath at Hogwarts—gleaming marble, high-arched ceiling, a sunken tub large enough for five, silver taps that promised water hot enough to steam the room. Scented oils in cut-glass bottles lined a low shelf, their contents catching the candlelight in jeweled glints.

He had said keep yourself clean and well-groomed.

Hermione hesitated at the threshold. She had not had a proper bath in weeks—just quick, tepid washes in overcrowded holding cells. The memory of warm water on her skin felt like something from another lifetime.

She stepped inside and closed the door. The bolt slid home with a soft click.

The marble floor was cold under her bare feet as she knelt to turn the taps. Hot  water gushed in, filling the tub with curling steam. She added a splash of something floral from one of the bottles—it spread quickly, wrapping the air in a scent both soothing and alien.

When she slid into the water, her muscles almost buckled with relief. The heat sank deep into her bones, drawing out the aches of travel and confinement. For a moment she closed her eyes, letting herself drift.

But the stillness was dangerous.

The bracelets at her wrists sat just above the waterline, cool and heavy, a reminder that the comfort was not hers by choice. And beneath that, another truth pressed in—one she had been shoving to the farthest corner of her mind since the parchment with her number had been read aloud.

The Marriage Decree had one goal.

Procreation.

Her breath caught. She had fought Death Eaters, stood on the front lines, bled for the resistance—but she had never done that. Never crossed that threshold with anyone. The thought of it—forced, inevitable—sent a sick wave through her stomach.

She tried to shake it off, focusing on scrubbing her skin, combing her hair with fingers pruned from the water. But the images came unbidden: a faceless man leaning close, her body no longer her own, the law’s cold script written over every choice she’d ever made.

Her chest tightened. The edges of the room seemed to tilt.

She gripped the side of the tub, forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. Again.

Somewhere in the cottage, a floorboard creaked. She froze, the sound anchoring her in the present, reminding her she wasn’t alone—not here, not even in this moment.

She didn’t know if it was worse that he might come in… or that he might be waiting for her when she stepped out.

The water had cooled, and the steam had faded to a thin veil clinging to the mirror. Hermione dried off quickly, wrapping herself in the thick towel hanging by the door. Her skin prickled in the cooler air, and the weight of the silver bracelets seemed sharper now, as if the magic inside them had been reawakened.

She dressed in the simple nightgown folded on the counter—a garment clearly chosen for her, soft cotton,keeping her modest, a gesture she appreciated. It was comforting to see he didn’t put on some kind of lingerie but still leaving her feeling exposed in ways she couldn’t quite name.

The thought of stepping back into her room made her stomach clench. She opened the bathroom door slowly, half-hoping the room beyond would be empty.

It wasn’t.

Snape was seated in the chair beside her bed, the candle on the nightstand casting a flickering halo around him. He wasn’t slouched, but upright, hands folded loosely in his lap. Still and Waiting.

Her breath hitched. “What—”

His gaze swept over her once, not lingering in any one place, but thorough enough to make her want to pull the nightgown tighter around herself. “You followed my instruction,” he said simply.

Her throat was dry. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Compliance is most easily broken at the start,” he replied, his tone as even as if they were discussing an overdue essay. “It is… promising that you did not test me tonight.”

The implication in tonight made her skin prickle.

He rose from the chair, and she instinctively took half a step back toward the bathroom door. His eyes tracked the movement, but he said nothing, simply crossing the short distance between them.

“The rules remain,” he said, stopping close enough for her to feel the faint heat radiating from him. “Obedience. Cleanliness. Truth. Break them, and you will understand the cost.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. “And if I follow them?”

“Then you will find your stay here… tolerable.”

She shivered—not from the draft. There was no comfort in his tone, only the cool certainty of a man who knew he was in complete control.

Without another word, he moved past her to the door. “Sleep,” he said over his shoulder. “We begin tomorrow.”

—

Severus

The cottage was silent except for the faint whisper of the wards breathing against the windows. Snape sat at the table in the small kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, quill poised above a scrap of parchment that refused to absorb ink evenly. The wards here did not like correspondence, but he had learned how to coax them.

He didn’t hear the owl until it was already inside.

A pale bird — Lucius Malfoy’s, sleek and self-satisfied — dropped a sealed note beside the empty teacup and fixed him with its yellow eyes, expectant for a reply that would never come. Snape cracked the wax seal, already dreading the perfume that clung to every letter from the Manor.

Severus,
I trust this finds you in one piece, though I question the wisdom of your most recent acquisition. You must have deep pockets to interfere in Ministry matters so boldly. Three thousand galleons? The auctioneer nearly choked.
If you wished to make a statement, you succeeded. Though I confess, I would rather have known the man who robbed me of my prize. Surely you did not act on behalf of anyone with sense?
Do be careful, old friend. Anonymous wagers draw attention.
— L.M.

Snape’s jaw tightened. Anonymous wagers, indeed. Lucius had been close enough to guess; the man’s vanity would not rest until he uncovered who had ruined his show of dominance.

He burned the letter with a muttered Incendio and watched the parchment curl into black petals.

Outside, the forest wind pressed against the eaves. Inside, another sound threaded through the stillness — faint, rhythmic, like water shifting in a basin. The upper-floor plumbing groaned softly.

She was bathing.

Snape’s hand stilled above the ashes.

He told himself it was nothing — a matter of ensuring the wards were stable, the enchantments on the bracelets holding as designed. Still, he found himself rising, footsteps carrying him to the base of the stairs before the thought had fully formed.

The cottage was small enough that he could feel her magic even through the suppression bands: dimmed, but there. It shimmered faintly like the embers of a dying hearth. Not gone. Contained. Fragile.

He paused at the half-closed door of the room he had built for her. Steam bled into the corridor, fragrant with some floral oil he hadn’t remembered placing there. The scent of calm. The scent of surrender.

He caught his reflection in the brass doorknob — pale, hollow-eyed, a man staring at his own failure.

He turned away.

Downstairs again, he summoned quill and parchment with a flick of his fingers, forcing his mind toward logic, calculation, anything but the sound of water above him.

He began drafting a reply he would never send:

Lucius —
You mistake motive for indulgence. The Ministry plays at control; I play at containment. What I purchased was not a prize but a variable — one they will not account for. Leave it be.

The words blurred. He dropped the quill and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

“Containment,” he murmured, as if the repetition could make it true.

From upstairs came the muffled scrape of pipes as the taps closed. Then silence.

He exhaled, long and slow, until the tremor in his hands stilled.

The owl, still waiting for an answer, gave a low hiss from the windowsill. Snape gave him a treat and the letter to send back to his master.

Would Lucius let it be ? Time will tell

Chapter Text

Flash back, the day of  the new Marriage Decree

The fire in Malfoy Manor burned low, its light the color of old honey against marble and silver. The war had ended, but the house had not changed; decadence endured where conscience had not. With Harry Potter and Voldemort now dead, life was different. Like stuck in time without their hero and villain to guide the story.

Severus sat in the far corner of the study, nursing a glass he had no intention of drinking. His seat, as always, was chosen for its shadow. He had been invited—summoned, really—by Lucius Malfoy to “discuss the new order.”

He had not wanted to come. But appearances, even for a man presumed dead, required maintenance. He had only recently “came back from the dead” and it was exhausting. 

Lucius stood before the hearth, his cane resting against one leg, his expression loose with self-satisfaction. “You should have come back sooner, Severus,” he said, swirling his drink. “You’d hardly recognize the Ministry now. Order. Cleanliness. None of that chaos from the war. The Dark Lord’s vision… refined.”

Snape did not answer. The word refined caught in his ear like a sliver of glass.

Lucius continued, tone conversational. “They’ve found a rather elegant solution to the population problem. The Marriage Decree. Ingenious, really. Bonds made by law, bloodlines restored by necessity. The Ministry gets its stability; the families get their purity.”

Snape’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass. “Purity,” he repeated softly.

“Yes.” Lucius’s lips curved. “Even the Muggle-borns have their uses now. Salvageable assets, they call them. The Decree Office is quite… efficient.”

The words hit like a slow-acting poison. Snape’s expression did not change, but something colder stirred beneath his skin. “Assets.”

“Oh, don’t look so moral, Severus. You of all people know the Ministry’s appetite for reclassification.” Lucius leaned back in his chair, eyes bright with a private amusement. “They’re cataloguing the eligible witches now. Auctions begin next week. I’ve already placed my wager.”

“Wager?”

“On a high-profile Muggle-born. There’s a pool going, you see. Which of them fetches the highest bid. The hero, the outcast, the whore—they’ve all got their appeal. I took the brightest witch of her age, naturally. Granger.”

The name hit him like a wand blast. His control held—barely. Only the faintest twitch of his jaw betrayed him. “Hermione Granger is alive.”

“For now.” Lucius smirked. “She’s being held in the Decree Office. Fully trained, unbonded, and—how did the clerk phrase it?—‘well-tempered despite ideological corruption.’ Imagine that. The girl should fetch a fortune. Some say Dolohov’s already saving his gold for her.”

Lucius chuckled at his own cleverness, but the sound receded in Snape’s ears. He heard only the rush of blood and the faint crackle of the fire.

Granger.
Alive.
And about to be sold.

His hand relaxed slowly, setting the glass on the table with care. The world around him narrowed to edges and numbers—the Ministry, the wards, the pathways of corruption that had always run beneath its marble floors.

“How very enterprising,” Snape murmured.

Lucius’s grin widened. “Come now, Severus, don’t pretend you’re above it. You’ve always had a taste for rare things. If you’ve got the gold, you might even outbid me. Imagine the irony—Professor Snape, owner of the brightest Gryffindor of her age.”

Snape stood. The movement was smooth, unhurried. The old reflexes of Occlumency closed around his mind like iron shutters. “My tastes,” he said, voice soft as the slide of a knife, “are none of your concern.”

Lucius’s laughter followed him to the door, rich and unguarded. “Then drink to progress, old friend! It’s a new world—you might even find you enjoy it.”

The door shut with a click.

Snape did not Apparate immediately. He stood in the long corridor, the scent of wax and cigar smoke clinging to his robes, and let the silence stretch until it cracked.

A wager.
An auction.
Granger.

He had thought himself finished with redemption. Finished with loyalty. But some debts, it seemed, refused to stay buried.

By the time the Manor’s wards registered his departure, he was already halfway to London planning how to get the girl to him without raising suspicion about his intentions. 

–

That night, he walked the empty corridors beneath the Ministry—the ones only ghosts and spies remembered. His boots echoed off the stone. Every turn, every charm, every sensor spell was catalogued in his mind.

He had lived too long in other men’s systems not to know how to break one.

At last, he reached the Maintenance Ward—a place where enchantments converged, where bureaucratic magic tangled with infrastructure. From his coat, he drew a small brass key. Its surface shimmered faintly with layered enchantments.

He had stolen it months before, from a dead registrar who had never known its worth.

With three muttered incantations, the air shimmered. The restricted files of the Marriage Decree Office unfolded before him in spectral ink. Thousands of names. Thousands of fates.

He scrolled until one appeared:
Granger, Hermione Jean.
Status: Processed. Auction pending.

Her number. Her file. Her price.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. It was not grief that moved him—it was calculation. Grief was a luxury. Action was currency.

The man he hired met him in an abandoned atrium from a defecated hotel. The contact was a half-blood broker known as Riv, thin as a reed and twice as nervous.

“You’re certain you can manage it?” Snape asked.

Riv swallowed hard. “The auction’s invite-only, sir. Wards everywhere. But if you want anonymity, I’ve got… methods.” His eyes flicked to the small black device in Snape’s hand. “What’s that?”

“A Muggle communications tool,” Snape said curtly. “You will bring it into the chamber. When the bidding begins for the Granger girl, I will contact you. You will place bids as I instruct. You will not question the amount

Riv hesitated. “That’s—dangerous, sir. They’ll trace the magic, maybe even the sound—”

“They won’t trace a signal that doesn’t exist within their world.”

Snape handed him a pouch of gold—heavy, full, final.
“Three thousand galleons,” he said. “That will be the ceiling. You will stop when I say stop.”

Riv’s mouth fell open. “Three—three thousand? For a Muggle-born?”

The look Snape gave him froze the next word on his tongue.
“Do not call her that again,” he said with fire in his eyes.

When the day of the auction arrived, Snape sat alone in the darkened flat above a shuttered apothecary. The cellphone lay on the table before him, its glow a cold, alien light.

Below him, the city moved like clockwork—an empire of silence and obedience.

At precisely eight o’clock, the phone vibrated once. Riv’s voice came through, distorted by static.
“They’re starting. Malfoy’s here. Dolohov, too. She’s next.”

Snape said nothing. He listened to the faint hum of the crowd through the line—the laughter, the murmurs, the bidding.

“One hundred galleons,” Dyer muttered. “From Malfoy.”
“Two hundred—Dolohov.”
The numbers climbed, quickening.

“Eight hundred,” Lucius again.
“Eleven hundred—Dolohov. He’s pushing.”

Snape’s hand tightened around the phone. “Fifteen hundred.”

Riv repeated it aloud. The room on the other end fell quiet.
Snape could almost hear Lucius’s disbelief.

Then came the reply.
“Seventeen hundred.”

“Two thousand,” Snape said.

A pause. Then Dolohov again: “Two thousand five.”

Snape didn’t hesitate.
“Three thousand.”

The silence that followed was complete.

He could picture it—the collective unease, the confusion, the sudden awareness that someone had ended the game.

Then Riv’s voice, low and awed: “Sold. Lot Seventy-Three—claimed.”

Snape closed the phone and sat in silence for a long while.

When he finally rose, the night beyond the window had gone utterly black.

—

Before her arrival

Hogwarts lay in stillness when he arrived.
The wards, though altered since the war, still recognized him — grudgingly, like an old hound that no longer remembered whether it loved or feared its master. The air smelled faintly of dust, wax, and the ghosts of children’s laughter.

He hadn’t walked these corridors in months. Not since the trials. Not since the Ministry had called his service “redemption” and then dismissed him like a tool gone blunt.

Now he was here under the pretense of maintenance — the Headmistress’s permission quietly granted.
But his purpose was anything but bureaucratic.

He moved through the castle in silence, his boots whispering over the stones. The torches dimmed as he passed, recognizing the rhythm of his stride.
When he reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, she startled, pressing a hand to her painted chest.

“Severus Snape! You haven’t the password!”

“And yet,” he said softly, “you will let me in.”

Something in his tone — perhaps exhaustion, perhaps command — made her glance away. The portrait swung open without another word.

The Gryffindor common room greeted him like an old adversary.
The fire burned low, the chairs slightly askew, the scent of ash and parchment still thick in the air. He remembered detentions here — years of arrogance, laughter, and insolence that had driven him to fury.
And yet, standing here now, he realized he missed it. The noise. The life. The unthinking courage of youth.

He crossed the room slowly, his fingers trailing the edge of an armchair as if memorizing texture. Every detail mattered: the warm hues, the velvet drapery, the sharp tang of cedar polish in the air.
If he was to build her a refuge — or something that looked like one — it must be perfect.

He paused by the window, looking out toward the Forbidden Forest. The trees swayed darkly in the distance.
He imagined her — Hermione — staring through a window like this, clutching her books to her chest, believing in justice and rightness and the rules that held the world together.
The same rules that had failed her.

Snape’s jaw tightened.
It wasn’t kindness that drove him to this task. Kindness was dangerous — soft and mutable.
No, this was strategy.
A controlled environment. A space that would anchor her mind after the shock of capture, keep her from fracturing under fear.
If she felt safe, she would be pliable. If she believed she was among familiar things, she would obey.

That was what he told himself.
He didn’t let the other truth take shape — the one that whispered that she deserved a home, not a cell. That she’d already survived enough cruelty to fill several lifetimes.

He turned toward the staircase leading to the girls’ dormitory. The wards resisted, as they always had against boys — even grown men — but his magic was older, darker now. They gave way with a flick of his hand, the scent of rose and dust spilling through the air.

He entered quietly.
Five canopied beds stood in a perfect circle, scarlet curtains drawn back.
Sunlight, pale and cold, fell across the rugs, lighting the faded embroidery of a lion mid-roar.

Hermione’s bed had been the one by the far window. He knew it without checking — she had always sought light to read by.
He traced the edge of the bedpost, imagining the space transfigured: same colors, same size, same warmth — but in his cottage, under his control.

“A replica,” he murmured to the empty room. “Not a shrine.”

The air didn’t answer, but he could almost hear Minerva’s voice:

You’re human after all, Severus.

He exhaled sharply and turned to leave.
But as he reached the door, he caught sight of a faint scratch carved into the wood of a desk — initials, shallow but stubborn.
H.G.
He brushed a thumb over them, and for a moment, he didn’t feel like a savior or a strategist. Just a man who had watched too many children grow and die and now was trying — futilely — to save one.

When he returned to his cottage that night, he summoned wood, stone, and silk by wand and will.
Scarlet draperies unfolded from nothing, gold trim weaving itself in slow curls along the bedposts. The firelight in the hearth shimmered warmer than it ever had before.
The room was complete — every line and color a memory rebuilt from guilt and longing.

He stood in the doorway, exhausted, and whispered,

“There. You’ll remember who you are.”

Then, after a pause, quieter still:

“And perhaps… so will I.”

Like on cue, he felt the wards shift. She was there. 

"Let this crazy charade begin"

Chapter Text

Present time

Hermione sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, hands folded tightly in her lap. The curtains, tied back neatly as if inviting her to look, framed the pale morning light spilling in from the small cottage window. The room was perfect — too perfect. Every detail mirrored her old dormitory at Hogwarts, from the faded rug beneath her feet to the faint scent of polished wood and wax that clung to the air.

And that was what unsettled her.

It wasn’t the warmth or the familiarity — those were nearly comforting in a way she had not felt for weeks. No, it was the deliberate precision of it all, the way Snape had taken something deeply personal and recreated it under his control. It wasn’t her room; it was a copy, a stage, and she was the unknowing actress.

Her gaze wandered to the desk by the window. She remembered the nights she had stayed up here, poring over books by candlelight, the occasional whispered argument with friends, the tiny victories of spells mastered or essays written. The echoes of laughter and reprimands felt almost like ghosts now. And yet, seeing it again, she realized how much of herself had been imprinted into this room — how much she had given, willingly or not, to the rhythm of Hogwarts life.

A shiver ran down her spine. She had survived battles, Death Eaters, and imprisonment, but this — this replication of a childhood safe space — felt like a new kind of imprisonment. She understood, coldly, that the room was meant to calm her, to soften her defenses, to coax obedience out of her. And yet… there was something else there, too, something she wasn’t ready to name.

Snape.

Even the thought of him in proximity made her pulse quicken. Not with fear, exactly — though there was plenty of that — but with something harder to define: awareness. The way he had built this room, chosen the colors, the layout, even the scent, spoke of an intimacy that unsettled her. He had watched, remembered, and meticulously reconstructed. She could not separate the act from him. And she hated that she was thinking of him at all.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to breathe. This room, he had told her, was meant to remind her of who she was, to anchor her in a world that made sense. But the more she thought about it, the more it anchored her to him, to his control, his will, his unspoken presence.

And yet — she hated that, too. Because beneath the fear, there was a flicker of… understanding. Of gratitude. Of recognition that, in his own rigid, cold way, Snape had spared her something. She could wash, sleep, and exist here without the constant fear of the Ministry’s eyes, without the cruel spectacle of the auction floor. He had provided safety, and she could not pretend that she didn’t notice it.

Her hands clenched tighter in her lap. She didn’t trust herself to think any further. Not yet. Not while the bracelets on her wrists pressed against her skin like a constant reminder of the boundaries she could not cross.

She opened her eyes again, staring at the scarlet curtains, the neatly made bed, the familiar clutter of a life that was both hers and a copy. Her chest tightened. She didn’t know what she felt exactly — relief, anger, fear, fascination, or all at once.

All she knew was that in this room, recreated down to the last detail, she was reminded of everything she had survived. And everything she would have to survive still.

A quiet voice in the back of her mind whispered something she did not dare acknowledge. That perhaps, in this controlled, mirrored space, she might even begin to understand Snape.

And perhaps that terrified her more than the Marriage Decree ever could.

–

The cottage had fallen into its usual hush by the time he ascended the stairs. A candle floated beside him, its light cutting a narrow path through the dark hall. From behind her door came the faint rustle   of movement — fabric brushing against wood, the sound of someone trying very hard not to be heard.

He knocked once.

A pause. Then, quietly, “Yes?”

He pushed the door open just far enough for the candlelight to reach her face. She stood near the bed, hair still damp from the bath, the silver bands at her wrists catching the glow.

He held out a small, leather-bound book.

“You will read this,” he said. “Tonight. Memorize the contents before morning.”

She took it without answering. The cover was plain, unmarked, but the weight of it was wrong — heavier than a book should be. Her brow furrowed as she turned it over in her hands.

“What is it?”

“My schedule,” he said simply. “And yours.”

He stepped back, his expression unreadable. “Every hour is accounted for. You will rise when the bell sounds. Meals are at fixed times. You will attend to the tasks listed therein and keep written notes of your progress. Order prevents collapse, Miss Granger. You would do well to remember that.”

Her mouth tightened, but she nodded.

“Good.” His gaze flicked to the book again. “There are rules for correspondence, for leaving your room, for the use of magic once the bands are lifted. Follow them exactly.”

He turned to go, then paused at the threshold. “You may ask your question”

How did he know she had questions at this moment ? He probably assumed because she always had questions back when they were in school. Would she be able to ask him about the room ? she pondered.

“Today Miss Granger”

He was not a patient man, that she knew for sure.

“I was wondering… how did you pick my room? I mean.. Why? To hurt me ?”

For a flash, he looked hurt by the question but as soon as realize it, his mask fell back in place. 

“I wanted you to have a room that was familiar. I didn’t know how you grew up. This was the closest thing I could think of. I … “ he hesitated 

“I know I wasn’t always nice to you and your friends. I can look in a mirror, I know this is not what you would have wanted for life.”

She could see the shame and guilt very clearly now. She always thought he was heartless but now she could see his vulnerable side. He was… letting her in ?

“I made a promise. To Dumbledore before he died. That I would protect the golden trio. I failed, Harry is dead, Ron is nowhere to be found and you were captured for this stupid law. The dark lord may be dead, but the dark side is not. We must be careful.” 

He walked closer to the door now.

“I never thought you were Evil Professor, I know you don’t see it but I saw what you did to protect us.”

“You should be scared, you must have lived hell to think i’m this way”

And on that he left her pondering about who he really was under that cold mask.

The door closed behind him with a soft click and he was gone.

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, the book heavy on her lap. The first pages were lists — neat columns of times and duties written in his precise hand.

06:00 — Rise
06:15 — Wash, dress
06:30 — Breakfast (alone)
07:00 — Reading and written exercises
…and so on.

She was surprised to see that he still wanted her to read and write. She didn’t think a woman should be able to in these stupid times.

The entries continued through the day, each hour occupied, every action measured. By the time she reached the back of the book, her eyes ached from the precision of it.

Then, near the final page, the handwriting changed. The letters grew smaller, softer — not the rigid script of instruction but something more deliberate, almost private:

Your obedience is your freedom, trust must be earned for the both of us

The words were clinical, almost antiseptic, but they tightened her chest all the same. The language of discipline, not cruelty, yet it left no room for comfort.

She closed the book slowly, her hands trembling.

Downstairs, she could hear him moving — the steady rhythm of a man following a schedule he had written long before she arrived.

Rigid man. Rigid rules. And she was now one more entry in his ledger.

–

The morning came without sound — only a dull gray light leaking through the high windows. Hermione woke before the bell, the weight of the book still beside her on the coverlet. The memory of its contents pulled her fully into the day.

She opened it again.
06:00 — Rise. 06:15 — Wash. 06:30 — Breakfast. 07:00 — Reading.

The words were clean, absolute.
No room for hesitation.

She obeyed.

By the time she descended the stairs, the cottage was already awake. A faint scent of ink and parchment drifted from the study, and somewhere deeper inside, she heard the faint clink of glass on wood — Snape, already at his workbench.

He had not locked any doors. That surprised her. She half expected wards to confine her movements, but the house was open — if unnervingly quiet.

The kitchen was neat, functional, like everything else here. A pot of tea sat waiting on the stove, still warm. A plate covered with a linen cloth held two slices of toast, perfectly cut.
He had written 06:30 — Breakfast (alone), and indeed, he was nowhere to be found.

She sat and ate, eyes drifting to the windows that looked out over the moor. The world outside was pale and endless, but it no longer felt like a cage. Not yet. 

The day unfolded as the book dictated. She studied each section, her quill scratching notes in the margins. Rules upon rules — how to address him in conversation, the times she was permitted to use the library, the expectations for order and cleanliness.

There were pages on silence, on focus, on discipline when they were in public. There was a note saying that when they were inside she could go where she wanted and speak freely. 

It was maddening — and oddly comforting. The predictability of it dulled the sharp edge of her fear. By midafternoon she was moving freely through the cottage, testing doors, mapping corridors.

The potion lab was as precise as she remembered him to be: rows of jars labeled in Latin, gleaming copper scales, the faint perfume of crushed herbs. The adjoining library smelled of dust and oil and candlewax. Its shelves towered to the ceiling, filled with more books than she could read in a lifetime.

No part of the house felt warm, but none of it felt hostile either. Only controlled.

By evening, she had learned where everything was — from the storeroom to the small enclosed garden with its strange silver-leaved plants. The routine began to settle around her shoulders like a cloak. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable.

When the final bell of the day sounded, she returned to her room as instructed. Her muscles ached pleasantly from walking and not being in a little cell like she had been in the past year. The book said she was to sleep at ten and rise at six. Simple. Reasonable.

But when she opened the door, she stopped.

Laid neatly across the bed was an outfit — folded with precision.
Dark gray wool. High collar. Modest, structured, unmistakably deliberate. A note lay on top, in his hand:

To be worn tomorrow and when we tend to outside business

Nothing more.

She ran her fingers over the fabric. It was soft, clean, and — she had to admit — her exact size. A uniform, then. It was somehow comforting. Like Hogwarts

For a moment, she simply stood there, the stillness pressing around her. Then she placed the note inside the book and folded the garment at the foot of the bed.

—

The wind moved against the windows, steady and low. She extinguished the candle, lay down, and stared into the dark — not afraid anymore, but alert, curious.

The house of rules had begun to make sense.
And that, she realized, was what frightened her most.

The second morning came with the soft clang of the bell and the pale light of dawn spilling across the floor.
Hermione rose before it could ring a second time.

The gray dress waited where she had left it. When she drew it on, it fit with uncanny precision — neither too tight nor loose, the fabric heavier than it looked. She fastened the collar and studied herself in the mirror. Plain, proper, and almost anonymous.

Exactly as he would want. 

She wondered if he had someone living with him when they were still in Hogwarts. If he was ever loved. She wonders if he ever experienced the warmth of a woman. Ridiculous thoughts. She herself had never been touched. When the war ended, she lost contact with any other survivors. Before that, well, she was too busy to survive. The third chime of the bell bringed her out of her deep thoughts.

Downstairs, the kitchen was again prepared: tea steaming, a plate laid out, and another note.

Library, 07:30. Bring the book.

She obeyed.

The library’s fire was already lit when she entered. Snape stood near the window, his back to her, sleeves rolled up as he poured something dark into a vial. He didn’t turn when he spoke.

“You have read it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He corked the vial and set it aside. “Good. The rules, as you may have deduced, are not static.”

He gestured to the book in her hands. “Open it.”

She did.
The ink on the page rippled faintly, the tidy columns of yesterday’s schedule rearranging themselves like water disturbed by wind. Lines of new text appeared — times and tasks that hadn’t existed before. Study of ingredient taxonomy. Cleaning of glassware. Dinner preparation.

She blinked, startled. “It changed.”

“Of course it did.”
He approached, his tone calm but clipped. “That book is charmed to adjust to your progress — or lack thereof. Disobedience results in an increased workload. Compliance earns stability.”

Hermione frowned. “So I’ll never know what to expect.”

“That is the point.”
He regarded her closely, the candlelight catching on the sharp planes of his face. “The world beyond this house is chaos, Miss Granger. Within it, you will find order only when you earn it.”

He paused then, his voice lowering — not unkind, but firm.
“If, however, you prove consistent — if you obey, apply yourself, and maintain discipline — I will consider providing you with a weekly schedule. Predictable. Fixed. A privilege, not a right.”

The words settled like a challenge rather than a promise. Hermione nodded once, unwilling to show the spark of excitement that flared inside her. “Understood.”

“Sir” he said coldly.

She looked at him with a puzzled look. Quickly she understood he was asking for respect. 

“Understood, Sir” she said softly. 

“May I ask a question”

“You don’t have to ask this every time when it’s the two of us, just ask your questions” 

He said almost irritated.

“Are you going to … teach me? It says Study of ingredient taxonomy on the agenda today”

“Yes, you were.. Are a bring student, it would be ashamed to let it go to waste”

She blushed, flattered by his compliment but also grateful to be able to continue her study.

“I hate to say it that way but under the ministry eye you are my property”

She winced at that.

“Therefor, if I wish you as an assistant for my apothecary I can do as please. As long as you are… fulfilling the procreation requirement”

“You have an apothecary ??” She said, no longer hiding her excitement.

“I do, I opened it anonymously when everyone thought I was dead. Now enough question and off you go. 

He waved his hand to dismiss her and she left the room, full of hope.

Why did he come out of hiding ? His plan to stay dead looked pretty solid..

The rest of the day unfolded beneath the living schedule’s quiet tyranny. Tasks appeared in the book without warning — fetching items from cupboards she hadn’t yet cataloged, labeling phials in handwriting meant to test her patience, cataloguing ancient texts until her eyes burned.

The day bled into evening in a blur of ink and glass.
The silence of the cottage had begun to change shape in her mind—no longer oppressive, but almost expectant.

When she finally closed the ledger, the light outside had gone violet and thin. Her muscles ached pleasantly; her thoughts were slower, less frantic. She was getting used to the rhythm here, even if she hated admitting it.

After supper, she sat at the small desk in her room and opened the enchanted book. The pages rustled softly, rearranging themselves as the words for the next day wrote themselves out in crisp, ink-black lines.

Most of it was familiar—
Breakfast, 0700.
Inventory, 0830.
Apprentice study period, 1000.
Meal preparation, 1800.

Her eyes followed the neat script until she reached the bottom of the final page.
There, in smaller handwriting, one new line had appeared.

You will meet with me each evening in my room after your bath. Then you will return to your own.

Hermione froze.

The letters looked newer than the rest, the ink not yet dry—shimmering faintly as if the book itself were waiting for her reaction.

Her first instinct was to slam it shut, but her eyes lingered, reading the words again and again. Meet with me after your bath.
The phrasing was clinical, restrained, but the implications curled through her mind like smoke.

Was this… another test?
Or the beginning of what she had feared from the start?

Her stomach tightened. He had told her the book would change according to her obedience, that the magic within it reflected his expectations. She had followed every rule, completed every task. Was this her reward—or the next step in whatever this arrangement was meant to become?

She glanced toward the door, half expecting to hear footsteps outside, but the hall was still. Only the fire’s slow crackle filled the silence.

Hermione shut the book carefully, her pulse quick in her throat. She pressed her hand against the cover as if to still the magic within it.

“Meet with me after your bath.”

The words echoed in her mind long after the candle had burned low.

She didn’t know if she dreaded tomorrow…
or if she was more afraid of what would happen.

Chapter Text

The day passed in silence.
The house felt emptier than usual—no sound from the laboratory, no low rumble of a man moving in the next room. Snape was gone.

Hermione moved through her tasks automatically, her mind circling the words written at the bottom of her schedule.

You will meet with me each evening in my room after your bath. Then you will return to your own.

The meaning of it shadowed every action she took. By afternoon she had convinced herself that it was simply another test of obedience—something to be endured with composure. Still, when the clock struck eight and she stepped into the bathroom, her hands trembled.

She filled the tub carefully, adding oils until the air was thick with lavender and heat. For the first time since her arrival, she brushed her hair until it shone, scrubbed her skin until it stung. The ritual steadied her, even if she wasn’t sure why she cared so much about doing it right.

When she finally stepped out, the water cooling behind her, she felt the stillness of the cottage tighten. He was back. She could sense it—his magic, faint but unmistakable, humming through the walls.

She dried off, dressed in the simple robe laid out for her, and crossed the hall. The door to his room was ajar. Candlelight flickered inside.

He was seated at the writing desk, a stack of parchment before him. When she entered, he didn’t look up immediately, only spoke in that low, deliberate tone.
“You read your instructions.”

“Yes, sir.”

He set down his quill. “Good. Then you understand why you’re here.”

Hermione clasped her hands. “To… meet with you.”

A faint twitch passed through his jaw. “Partly.”

He stood, the candlelight carving sharp planes across his face. “The Marriage Decree is not a private matter. It is enforced by those who authored it—men who have returned to positions of power and who monitor compliance closely. They expect results.”

She felt the meaning in that single word. Results.

He went on, quieter now.. “I will not force you. But understand this—the law does not care for consent. It demands lineage. Continuation. A show of obedience to the new order.”

Hermione’s throat felt tight. “And if we don’t?”

He hesitated. The pause was its own answer.
“They would intervene. Neither of us would choose the alternative.”

The air seemed to thin.

Snape moved toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “You are here to survive, Miss Granger. As am I. We will navigate this as quietly as possible.”

She stood still, the words I will not force you echoing through her mind, both a relief and a wound.

Finally, he turned back to her. “You will continue your studies. Your duties. And when the time comes that this… requirement must be fulfilled, you will be informed first.”

Hermione nodded slowly, unsure if she could speak.

Snape inclined his head, a signal that the conversation was done. “Return to your room. Rest.”

She lingered for a moment, searching his expression for something human, something beyond duty. But his gaze was shuttered again, and she understood the conversation was closed.

When she stepped back into the hall, the air felt colder. The candles guttered in her wake.

–

The next evening came with rain.
It fell in thin, steady sheets against the windows, soft enough to sound like breath. The cottage seemed smaller when it rained, the walls drawing closer, the air carrying that faint scent of damp stone and burning wood.

Hermione finished her bath earlier than usual, unsure what waited for her this time. The book had not changed its instruction—it still ended with the same line.

But something in the neat handwriting seemed less like command tonight, more like invitation.

She stood outside his door for a heartbeat before knocking once.

“Enter.”

Snape sat at the same writing desk as before, but there were no parchments this time, no vials or quills. Only a single candle and two cups of tea, steam curling between them.

He gestured toward the second chair. “Sit.”

She obeyed, smoothing the fabric of her robe as she did. The silence stretched between them until he finally spoke.

“I’ve given some thought to the decree,” he said, his tone deliberate. “If we are to be... bound under its terms, it serves neither of us to live as strangers.”

Her pulse quickened. “You mean—”

“I propose that we spend an hour together each night. Conversation. Reading. Whatever may help us understand each other. There will be no expectations beyond that.”
His eyes flicked toward hers, steady. “Consider it… preparation. Not for their benefits, but for ours.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. The offer was unexpectedly human, almost gentle in its logic. “Thank you,” she managed. “That would help.”

A faint nod. “Then we begin tonight.”

At first, they sat in silence, the rain filling the gaps between words. Hermione searched for something safe to say and, failing that, reached for the only thing that came to mind.
“Would you like to play a game?”

Snape raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “A game.”

“It’s something students do,” she said quickly. “To learn about each other. Truth or Dare.”

He looked faintly appalled. “You are suggesting that I participate in a juvenile Gryffindor pastime.”

She smiled, despite herself. “Unless you’re afraid of losing.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing she’d ever seen to amusement. “Very well. I’ll indulge you. But only with limits. Nothing that can injure any of us.”

“Agreed.”
She leaned forward. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Hermione considered. “Why did you really take me from the auction?”

His expression hardened for a moment, then softened just enough for honesty. “Because I could not stomach the thought of who might have, if I hadn’t.”

The words sat between them, heavier than she’d expected. “That’s... a truth I can respect.”

He inclined his head. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

He studied her. “Do you regret surviving the war?”

Her throat tightened. “Sometimes,” she said quietly. “When I think of what came after.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable this time. It was... shared.

When the clock struck the hour, Snape set down his teacup. “Our time is finished. The rule remains—you will return to your room.”

Hermione stood, pausing at the door. “Same time tomorrow?”

His reply was curt, but there was warmth buried under the words. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

She left feeling lighter, uncertain why.

And when she reached her room, the enchanted book on her desk shimmered faintly—as if acknowledging her compliance.
At the bottom of the new page, one line of fresh ink appeared:

I asked for the truth. You answered well.

—

The book had changed again overnight.

When Hermione opened it that morning, the lines shimmered and rearranged, forming a neat column of tasks in the same precise handwriting she was beginning to recognize as Snape’s.
Wake at six.
Breakfast at seven.
Two hours of reading.
Laundry and cleaning by hand.
And then—

You may spend one hour in the garden, weather permitting.

It was the first allowance she’d been given since her arrival.
Freedom, contained within a border.

The back door creaked when she opened it.
Cool morning air rushed in, carrying the scent of damp soil and pine. The garden stretched behind the cottage in tidy, overgrown squares—herb beds and narrow paths long since left to nature. Wild rosemary tangled with sage, thyme crept over the stones, and a few stubborn flowers reached toward the pale sun.

Hermione breathed deeply. The wards hummed faintly at the edges of the property, an invisible perimeter, but within them the air felt open—alive.

She found a pair of old gloves and a trowel resting on a bench, as if someone had left them there years ago. The handle fit her hand perfectly.
Kneeling, she began clearing the weeds from a patch of overrun lavender, her fingers brushing soft stems and cool dirt.

For the first time in weeks, she felt her heartbeat slow into something natural.
Work. Order. Purpose.

Every so often she glanced back toward the cottage, half expecting to see him watching from the window—but the glass stayed empty. Snape had left early, as usual, his absence marked by the quiet ticking of the clock and the faint scent of potion residue that lingered in the air.

When the sun climbed higher, she removed her gloves and pressed her palms to the soil. “You’ve been neglected,” she murmured to the plants, smiling faintly. “But we’ll fix that.”

The wind stirred, carrying the sound of her own voice away.
For a fleeting second, she felt almost human again.

That evening, the schedule guided her once more—dinner left on the table, bath at nine, meeting at ten.

The rules remained strict, but the familiarity of them gave her something she hadn’t expected: safety.

When she knocked on Snape’s door, he answered with a short, “Enter.”

The same scene as before: two cups of tea, the same candle. But tonight there was a subtle difference. A book lay open between them—his, by the look of the cramped, meticulous notes lining the margins.

“You’ve been in the garden,” he observed without looking up. “I trust you found it adequate.”

“It’s wonderful,” she said honestly. “Wild, but alive. The herbs have gone to seed, though. I could help restore them if—”

He lifted his gaze. “If you remain obedient, you may continue to tend them. It will give you something to do besides count the hours.”

She smiled despite herself. “You make it sound like a punishment.”

“It’s discipline, Miss Granger,” he said dryly. “A concept you are not entirely unfamiliar with, I trust.”

She bit back a retort. “I prefer to think of it as structure.”

He almost smirked. “Semantics.”

They sat again, facing each other across the candlelight. Hermione could feel her pulse in her fingertips. The memory of their previous night—the unexpected intimacy of honesty—still lingered.

“Truth or dare?” she said softly.

Snape regarded her with suspicion. “You persist with this… game.”

“It worked last night,” she said. “Didn’t it?”

He exhaled slowly, resigned. “Truth.”

She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “What frightens you most, Professor?”

The silence stretched. The candle flame wavered in the draft between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“Wasted potential,” he said. “My own. Others’. The idea that everything I endured led to nothing but ashes.”

Hermione swallowed. “That’s not true,” she said softly. “The war—”

“Left corpses,” he cut in, though his tone was more weary than sharp. “And a Ministry that sells its survivors. Forgive me if I don’t share your optimism.”

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she poured more tea into his cup, steady-handed, a small act of rebellion against his bleakness.

“Then I’ll fix your garden,” she said. “Something will grow here, even if you’ve given up on it.”

His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. “You are impossibly stubborn.”

“Thank you.”

He looked away, but there was the faintest curve to his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something smaller. Softer.

When the hour ended, she rose as before.
At the door, she paused. “Tomorrow night?”

Snape nodded once. “Tomorrow.”

But as she turned to go, his voice followed her quietly.

“Miss Granger—leave the lavender by the window. It thrives in the morning light.”

She glanced back, surprised by the detail, the care behind it. “Yes, sir.”

And when she returned to her room, the book on her desk shimmered again, its ink shifting to record the day’s final entry:

Progress requires patience. And roots grow best in tended soil.

Hermione touched the page, smiling faintly.
For the first time since the decree, she didn’t feel like a prisoner.
She felt… planted.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled softly through her window as Hermione rose. The garden awaited later, but first, the ritual of the day. She dressed carefully in the uniform Snape had chosen, following every line of the book’s schedule, though her mind still replayed last night’s hour.

She had been nervous at first. He had asked her to answer a personal question—a truth.

“Tell me about your first close… relationship,” he had said quietly, his black eyes unyielding.

Hermione had hesitated, cheeks warming. Memories rose unbidden—friendships, brief crushes, moments she had thought trivial then, but were more meaningful now under scrutiny. She spoke softly, deliberately, choosing words that were honest but restrained.

She had been nervous at first.
He had asked her to answer a personal question—a truth.

“I suppose it depends what you mean by ‘close,’” she began carefully, fingers curling against her knee. “There were people I cared for deeply—friends who felt like family. But if you mean romantic… there was someone. We were young, and I think we wanted to believe that was enough. That courage and loyalty could make up for everything else.”

She paused, uncertain whether to go on. He gave no sign either way, his face as still as carved stone.

“It ended,” she said finally. “Quietly. No great tragedy. Just… growing up, realizing we wanted different things.”

The words hung between them, gentle but weighted. She looked down, tracing invisible lines on the table with her finger, half-afraid to meet his eyes again.

When she did, she found him watching her—not with judgment, but with a kind of detached curiosity, as if studying something delicate that might crumble under too much pressure.

“Who was it?” he asked calmly

“Ron Weasley, surely you knew that”

“I had my doubts, I didn’t want to assume. Could have be Mr. Potter”  V

She laughed out loud at that. 

“Harry ! Never he was like a brother to me” She could remember him foundly.

“And you?” she asked after a moment, her voice softer now, testing the boundary between courage and intrusion.

His lips curved slightly, though not quite into a smile. “You’re deflecting.”

“Maybe,” she admitted, a small flicker of humor in her tone. “But I think I’ve earned the right to ask in return.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound caught between amusement and resignation. “My first close relationship was a long time ago. I was certain it would shape my life. In a way, it did.”

Hermione didn’t press. She sensed that was all he would say—and perhaps all he could.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and meant it.

“Don’t be,” he replied quietly. “Some lessons are worth the pain they cost.”

She nodded, letting silence settle between them again. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just full, like a space they were learning to share.

And when she smiled faintly, he caught it, just for a second, before looking away.

“Your turn next time,” he said, his voice dry but lighter somehow.

“Next time?” she echoed, startled.

His eyes glinted. “Surely you didn’t think I would stop at one truth.”

“Your turn,” she had said, leaning back slightly. “Truth or dare?”

He had fixed her with a sharp look. “Dare.”

“Alright,” she said, suppressing a grin. “I dare you to wear a color other than black tomorrow. Something bright. Just once. I want to see if it suits you.”

The moment hung between them. Candlelight flickered, casting long shadows.

Snape raised a single, dark eyebrow. “You are aware, Miss Granger, that I rarely, if ever, indulge in frivolity.”

“And I dare you,” she said firmly, “because you always indulge your own rules. Why not this one?”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he inclined his head. “Very well. One day only.”

Hermione couldn’t suppress the grin that rose across her face. “I’ll hold you to it.”

–

The following morning, Hermione came down to breakfast expecting the usual sight—black robes, black shirt, and that eternal air of foreboding that seemed to hang around Professor Snape like a personal storm cloud.

Instead, she stopped halfway down the stairs, eyes widening.

He was at the table, reading The Daily Prophet, wearing… dark green.

It wasn’t bright or cheerful—heaven forbid—but it was undeniably color. The rich shade caught faint glints of sunlight as he turned a page.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from smiling. “You actually did it,” she said, half-laughing.

He didn’t look up. “Did what?”

“Wore color.”

He made a dismissive sound, folding the paper with unnecessary precision. “If you are referring to my shirt, Miss Granger, I’ll have you know that this shade is traditionally associated with cunning and intellect.”

“Mm,” she said, sliding into her seat across from him. “So you’re saying it’s Slytherin chic?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “If you insist on reducing it to fashion commentary, then yes. It is Slytherin chic.”

Hermione snorted. “It’s almost… flattering.”

“Almost?” he drawled, arching an eyebrow.

She grinned, buttering her toast. “Well, it’s an improvement. You look less like a walking thundercloud.”

That earned her a low hum—something between amusement and warning. “Careful, Miss Granger. You’re dangerously close to complimenting me.”

“I’d hardly call it dangerous,” she said lightly.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, dark eyes catching hers. “You underestimate the effect such statements can have.”

The air shifted, just barely. The teasing tone remained, but there was a spark beneath it—a glimmer of something she wasn’t sure how to name. Hermione’s breath hitched before she could stop it.

Snape seemed to realize it a heartbeat later. The faint smirk that had been forming froze, his expression faltering in quiet horror at himself.

He cleared his throat. “I—ah—should check the temperature in my lab. Some ingredients are sensitive to humidity.”

“It’s breakfast,” Hermione said, laughter bubbling up despite his fluster. “Are your potions really that desperate for attention?”

He stood abruptly, pushing back his chair. “They are volatile,” he said sharply, which only made her laugh harder.

“I’m sure they are,” she managed, eyes dancing. “Tell them I said good morning.”

He gave her a look that was equal parts glare and retreat. “You are insufferable.”

“Thank you,” she said brightly.

He left in a sweep of green and black, muttering something under his breath that might have been a curse—or a prayer for patience.

When the door closed behind him, Hermione couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

In his lab, meanwhile, Severus Snape stood over his workbench, gripping the edge with both hands. He could still hear the echo of her laughter, bright and unguarded, and it twisted something deep in his chest.

Flirting, he thought grimly. Merlin help me, I was flirting.

He exhaled through his nose, long and slow. “This is unacceptable,” he muttered, glaring at an innocent cauldron. “Absolutely unacceptable.”

And yet, when he caught his reflection in the polished brass—green shirt and all—he couldn’t quite suppress the faintest, traitorous smile.

—

At lunch, they met outside to eat in the freshly cleaned garden. Hermione had made a sitting area to eat in when the good days would come. Today was exceptionally warm for a fall day so they decided to have their lunch out.However, a sudden shadow passed over the table, and an owl swooped down, wings beating the warm air breaking their p. It landed lightly between them, talons gripping the edge of the wood, a folded parchment clutched in its beak.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. He reached out, plucking the note from the owl’s grasp with a flick of his fingers. The bird blinked, then vanished into the blue sky, leaving a faint streak of feathers behind.

Hermione watched him unfold the parchment, the weight of his expression drawing her heart into a tight knot.

“The Ministry,” he said flatly, scanning the text. “They have scheduled a visit… in one month. To confirm compliance with the procreation law.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. One month. That was all the time they would allow for her body to… for the law to be satisfied. She swallowed hard, glancing away toward the lavender she had nurtured. The garden that had felt like freedom now seemed fragile, a world away from the stark reality inked onto that parchment.

“They will come here?” she asked, her voice small.

“Yes,” Snape replied, setting the note on the table. His dark eyes met hers, unreadable but piercing. “They will inspect, they will question, and they will enforce. The consequences of failure are… well understood.”

Hermione’s hands gripped the edge of her chair. She had fought Death Eaters, walked through fire, bled for her beliefs—but this… this was different. This was the Ministry itself, confirming the measure of her body, her compliance, her captivity under law.

Snape’s gaze softened fractionally. Not warmth—never warmth—but the faintest acknowledgment of the fear she carried. “You will not face them unprepared. That is why the schedule, the rules, and the… nightly meetings… exist. They are for your protection as much as for the law.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened. “Protection?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, dark eyes settling on her. “In a house where others might not hesitate to take what is demanded, I ensure you remain intact, whole, and aware. You have agency within the boundaries set here. You have safety.”

Her breath caught. Despite the weight of the Ministry’s looming visit, she felt the small, undeniable truth in his words. He would not allow her to be harmed beyond what the law required. He was… a guardian of sorts.

For the first time, she realized the strange duality of her emotions: fear for the law and her circumstances, but trust for him. Respect, gratitude, and a cautious comfort that had grown slowly in their shared hours.

The owl’s message lay between them, a stark reminder that the stakes were rising. But for a fleeting moment, the garden remained hers, the sunlight warming her face, and the man beside her—rigid, exacting, yet quietly protective—remained the only constant she could hold onto.

She picked up her tea, letting the warmth seep into her hands. “Then we prepare,” she said softly.

Snape inclined his head. “We do.”

And as they sat together, the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint hum of morning life in the garden offered a fragile, temporary solace against the storm of the law to come.

Chapter Text

Hermione moved through her morning ritual with brisk focus—dress, breakfast, herbs, lists—yet her thoughts kept circling back to that parchment.

One month.

One month until the Ministry’s inspection, until strangers would stand in their home and judge their bond like it was a potion to be graded.

By late afternoon, she was dusting the windowsills when a low voice cut through the quiet.

“Miss Granger.”

She turned to find Snape in the doorway, robes neat as ever, expression somewhere between discomfort and determination.

“We must begin preparations for the Ministry’s visit,” he said. “Part of that… requires a degree of physical familiarity. You are to appear unflustered by proximity or contact.”

Hermione blinked. “Physical familiarity?”

“Yes,” he replied, tone perfectly serious. “You must be accustomed to touch.”

“Touch,” she repeated, setting down her cloth. “As in… hugging?”

He looked faintly pained. “If absolutely necessary.”

She fought a smile. “Oh, this I’ve got to see.”

“Miss Granger,” he warned, “this is no laughing matter.”

“Of course not,” she said solemnly, eyes twinkling.

He gestured stiffly toward the center of the room. “Stand there.”

Hermione obeyed, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as he approached with the same wary precision he used when handling venomous plants.

“Now,” he said, clearing his throat, “I will demonstrate acceptable… contact.”

“Acceptable,” she echoed. “Right.”

He extended a hand—slowly, very slowly—as though she might burst into flames. Then, for reasons known only to himself, he offered the back of it, like an awkward suitor from a Regency novel.

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Is this a handshake or… courtship?”

He froze. “Neither. It’s—oh, for Merlin’s sake—hold still.”

She snorted. “I am holding still. You’re the one hovering like you’re about to duel me.”

“I’m assessing my angle,” he snapped, taking another cautious step.

“For a hug?”

“Yes. There are logistics involved.”

That was it—she laughed outright, and he gave her a look so scandalized it only made her laugh harder.

“Compose yourself, Miss Granger,” he said sharply. “This is serious training.”

“You sound like you’re teaching a Potion lesson,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Advanced Hugging for N.E.W.T. Students.”

“I assure you, your sarcasm is not improving your performance.”

“Neither is your posture,” she retorted. “You’re standing like you’re about to recite an oath.”

He scowled but—Merlin help him—actually tried to relax. “Better?”

“Almost,” she said, stepping closer. “Now try… less scowling. More human.”

“Less scowling?” he repeated dryly. “You ask the impossible.”

“Just bend your knees slightly—yes, there! Now you’re not looming like a gargoyle.”

He exhaled, long-suffering. “Charming.”

“Honest,” she countered, grinning.

Finally, he moved—a slow, deliberate motion that resulted in his hand settling on her shoulder. It was a small, hesitant touch, but the contact was warm. Surprisingly warm.

“There,” she said softly. “That wasn’t so—”

He flinched, stepping back too fast and nearly knocking over a chair.

Hermione bit her lip. “Easy there, Professor. It’s a hug, not an ambush.”

He straightened, jaw tight. “This requires… repetition.”

“Oh, definitely,” she teased. “Wouldn’t want you failing your hugging exam.”

His eyes narrowed, but the faintest smirk tugged at his mouth. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing,” she said before she could stop herself.

He stiffened, the faint pink on his cheeks deepening. “I am warm, not—”

“Blushing. It’s adorable.”

His breath hitched. “Miss Granger.”

“Yes, Professor?”

“I strongly recommend you cease speaking before this lesson becomes… counterproductive.”

She grinned. “Too late.”

Something flickered in his eyes—something dangerously close to amusement. Then, abruptly, he turned on his heel. “I’ll be in the lab,” he announced. “Cooling off.”

Hermione folded her arms, trying not to laugh. “Good idea. You seemed a little flustered.”

He paused at the doorway, giving her a withering look. “You are impossible girl”

“I know,” she said brightly. “But admit it—you’re having fun.”

He said nothing. But as he disappeared down the hall, she could’ve sworn she heard the faintest sound—half sigh, half laugh.

Hermione smiled to herself, brushing her hands together. “Progress,” she murmured. “One awkward hug at a time.”  

Down in his lab, Severus leaned over his cauldron, trying to ignore the memory of her laughter. Or the way her eyes had lit up when she teased him.

“Hopeless,” he muttered, stirring the potion far too vigorously. “Absolutely hopeless.”

And yet… he was smiling. Just a little.

—

By evening, the cottage had quieted into a gentle hum—the clock ticking, the fire crackling, the faint rustle of parchment from the lab below. Hermione had told herself she was just being kind when she carried a tray of tea and shortbread to Snape’s workroom.

Kindness, that was all. Definitely not curiosity. And absolutely not because she couldn’t stop replaying the afternoon’s “lesson” in her head—his awkward half-hug, the way his voice dropped when he’d told her to cease speaking, the sharp flutter that had taken root in her chest.

She knocked lightly. “Professor?”

From inside came his familiar, clipped tone. “Enter.”

He didn’t look up as she stepped in, too focused on the cauldron in front of him. The green shirt—that cursed shirt—was half-unbuttoned now, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tendons shifting beneath pale skin as he stirred. He looked almost… human. Uncomfortably so.

Hermione set the tray down on a cleared space beside him. “Thought you might need tea.”

“Caffeine is unnecessary,” he said absently, still stirring.

“Humor me.”

That earned her a glance—sharp, assessing, but not unkind. “I recall you used that same phrase when you dared me to wear color.” 

“And it worked,” she said, smiling. “So I’m clearly onto something.”

He gave a soft hum, more acknowledgment than argument, and reached for a beaker. The air between them filled with the scent of crushed herbs and simmering potion.

Hermione leaned against the counter, watching him. “You’re very quiet tonight.”

“I am working.”

“Mm. That never stopped you from scolding me before.”

His lips twitched. “Consider this… growth.”

She grinned. “Progress on both our parts, then.”

He shot her a sidelong look. “You refer, I presume, to your improved ability to not mock your instructor mid-experiment?”

“Among other things,” she said softly.

That made him pause, hand hovering above the cauldron. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the quiet bubbling of the potion.

Then he cleared his throat, voice slightly rougher. “You shouldn’t linger here. Some of these fumes can be—unpredictable.”

“I can handle unpredictable.”

“Miss Granger—”

“Hermione,” she interrupted, surprising them both.

He froze, eyes flicking to hers. The sound of his name from her lips—soft, deliberate—hung in the air like a spark.

“Very well,” he said at last, quieter now. “Hermione.”

Her heart gave a traitorous flutter. “See? Not so difficult.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured, gaze dropping briefly to her mouth before he caught himself.

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “You’re staring.”

“I am thinking,” he corrected quickly.   

“About what?”

He hesitated. “That this experiment in ‘familiarity’ may be proving… more complex than anticipated.”

Hermione’s laugh came out breathier than intended. “You mean the hugging lesson?”

He shot her a dry look. “Among other things.”

Something in his tone made her pulse skip. The space between them felt smaller than before—just a few inches, filled with too much awareness.

And before she could second-guess herself, she stepped closer, reached up, and kissed him.

It wasn’t careful or calculated—just a quick, startled press of lips against lips. Warm. Real.

For a single heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then his breath caught, and she felt the faint tremor of him resisting the instinct to pull her closer.

Hermione pulled back first, eyes wide. “I—um—tea,” she blurted, completely forgetting the tray as her brain short-circuited. “You—should drink it—before it gets cold.”

And then she ran.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Snape frozen beside his cauldron, one hand braced on the table.

He stared at the space she’d just vacated, the ghost of her kiss still lingering like a jolt beneath his skin.

After several long seconds, he exhaled, muttering to no one in particular,
“Hopeless. Entirely… hopeless.”

But the corners of his mouth curved, just slightly—traitorously—into a smile.

—

The door to her rooms clicked shut behind her, and Hermione pressed her back against it, heart hammering like she’d just outrun a Hungarian Horntail.

“Oh, brilliant,” she whispered to herself, voice half hysterical, half mortified. “Just brilliant, Hermione.”

She slid down the door and sat on the rug—red and gold, plush and warm, designed by him to echo the Gryffindor common room. It was meant to make her feel safe, grounded. Tonight, it only made her feel exposed.

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, oblivious to her complete psychological collapse.

“I kissed him,” she said aloud, as if hearing it might make it less absurd. “I kissed Severus Snape.”

Her hands flew to her face. “Merlin’s beard, what is wrong with me?”

She pushed herself up and began to pace. The little room seemed to shrink with every turn she took. His voice kept replaying in her mind—dry, teasing, so unexpectedly human. And that look when she’d said his name. Hermione.

He’d said it like a promise. Or a warning.

Her stomach twisted. “It wasn’t even a real kiss. Just—an impulse. A stupid, adrenaline-fueled—” She stopped mid-sentence, groaning. “No, no, that was a real kiss, and I’m in trouble.”

The logical part of her brain—the one that had survived war, rebuilt ministries, solved impossible puzzles—tried to intervene.

You’re overreacting. It was a moment. A mistake born from proximity and stress. You’re living together, for heaven’s sake. Emotional confusion is normal.

But the rest of her—her treacherous, blushing, fluttering self—didn’t buy it.

He’d looked at her differently today. When she’d teased him about color, when she’d leaned too close over his notes, when her laughter had made his lips twitch in spite of himself. Something had shifted.

And she liked it.

Hermione groaned again and threw herself onto the couch, face buried in a pillow. “You absolute idiot,” she mumbled into the fabric. “You’ve gone completely mad.”

Her mind kept flicking through the day like a series of dangerous snapshots: his rolled sleeves, the scent of his potions, the brief spark in his eyes when he realized she was teasing him—and the stillness that followed her kiss.

He hadn’t pushed her away. He hadn’t even moved.

That, somehow, was worse.

She sat up abruptly, cheeks hot. “He’s probably in his lab right now, brewing something just to avoid thinking about it.”

The thought sent a nervous laugh tumbling out of her. “And here I am, talking to myself like a lunatic.”

Her gaze drifted to the journal on the table—the enchanted one they used to write when words were easier than speaking. She hovered a hand over it, tempted.

She could apologize. Explain. Pretend it was all part of the familiarity exercise. He’d see right through it, of course, but it would at least give her something to do other than sit here replaying the moment like a cursed memory.

She opened the book. The quill hovered over the page.

Dear Professor—

No. That sounded too formal. Too distant.

Severus—

Too intimate.

She chewed the end of the quill, then scrawled quickly before she could think too much about it:

I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what came over me. You were kind, and I—reacted. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.

She stared at the words. They looked pathetic on the page—small, flimsy things that couldn’t possibly carry the hurricane in her chest.

She snapped the book shut before it could glow with his response.

“Enough,” she said to the empty room. “You’re overthinking.”

But as she sat there, surrounded by the comforting relics of Gryffindor colors—the flicker of gold, the smell of firewood, the echo of laughter that didn’t belong to her anymore—Hermione realized something quietly terrifying.

She wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

She was afraid of herself.

—

The knock came just as Hermione was setting her tea cup down, the sharp, imperious bang-bang-bang of someone who had never been taught patience.

She froze.

A moment later, Snape’s voice echoed from the other side of her door—low, clipped, urgent. “Hermione.”

Something in his tone made her rise instantly. She opened the door, and his expression told her everything before he even spoke.

“Ministry inspection,” he hissed. “They’re early. And Lucius bloody Malfoy is with them.”

Her stomach dropped. “But—the visit isn’t until—”

“I’m aware,” he snapped, though his irritation wasn’t directed at her. He raked a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “We have one minute. Listen carefully.”

Hermione’s pulse thudded in her ears. He looked paler than usual, his composure pulled taut. The green shirt from yesterday was gone; he was back in black, a fortress in fabric.

“You need to act the part,” he said quietly. “They expect to see compliance, domestic harmony. You must appear… comfortable with me.”

“Comfortable?” she repeated, half incredulous.

“Submissive,” he corrected, voice softer but laced with distaste. “Don’t argue, just—”

“I know,” she cut in, already squaring her shoulders. “I can do this.”

A flicker of approval crossed his face—then something else, something almost protective. “Good girl.”

Her heart stuttered at the words, though his tone was all strategy.

Before she could respond, the knock came again—louder, impatient.

He exhaled sharply. “Remember—smile when they look at you. Let me lead the conversation. And whatever happens, don’t contradict me.”

She nodded. “Understood. Sir”

Snape opened the door with the smooth, cold control of a man stepping into battle.

Two figures filled the threshold. The first—a plump, officious-looking woman in Ministry robes—wore an expression that suggested she smelled something unpleasant. The second, tall and silver-haired, looked far too smug for a man who was supposedly there on business.

“Ah, Severus,” Lucius Malfoy drawled, voice as silken as ever. “How domestic you look. I was in the area and thought I’d accompany Madam Worthington for a—what shall we call it?—a surprise welfare inspection.”

“Your thoughtfulness overwhelms me,” Snape said dryly.

Hermione stood just behind him, hands folded, her expression carefully neutral. Her heart was hammering, but she kept her face serene.

Madam Worthington’s gaze flicked to her. “And the wife?”

Snape stepped aside smoothly, gesturing toward her. “As you can see—well cared for. Content.”

Hermione dipped her head in polite acknowledgment, then glanced up at him with a soft, practiced smile that nearly fooled even herself.

Lucius’s lips curved. “She looks rather radiant, Severus. Domestic life agrees with her, it seems.”

Hermione could feel the venom behind the compliment. The Ministry woman was circling the room now, taking notes, her eyes darting to the hearth, the neatness of the space, the proximity of their chairs.

Lucius turned his attention back to her. “You must tell us, my dear, how your husband treats you.”

She felt Snape go still beside her.

She looked at him—just a heartbeat too long—and something wordless passed between them.

Then she smiled. “With care,” she said, letting warmth color her tone. “He looks after me quite well.”

Lucius chuckled. “Does he now? I admit, I never thought Severus had a nurturing streak.”

Hermione tilted her head, eyes bright. “He surprises me too, sometimes.”

She saw the faintest tightening of Snape’s jaw. She knew he hated this. Hated being paraded as a compliant participant in a mockery of choice.

So she did the only thing she could think of.

She stepped closer to him, slipped her hand into his, and before her courage could falter—kissed him.

It was meant to be quick. A show.

But the second her lips brushed his, the room seemed to vanish. For one terrifying, intoxicating heartbeat, it wasn’t an act.

She felt his breath catch. His hand twitched in hers, not pulling away, not moving closer—just there, trembling slightly between control and surrender.

When she finally drew back, her pulse was a thunderstorm in her ears.

Madam Worthington looked scandalized but impressed. “Well. It appears domestic harmony is quite genuine.”

Lucius’s smile sharpened like a blade. “Indeed. How very… convincing.”

Snape’s voice was calm, perfectly detached. “If your inspection is concluded?”

The woman gathered her parchment. “Everything seems in order. We’ll note this as a positive visit.”

Lucius lingered a moment longer, gaze flicking between them, eyes glittering with something that made Hermione’s skin crawl. “Do take care of each other,” he said smoothly.

Snape’s reply was frost-edged. “Always.”

When the door finally closed behind them, the silence in the room was deafening.

Hermione turned to him, still catching her breath. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, voice low but not angry. “You did exactly what was needed.”

Their eyes met.

It wasn’t fury she saw there—it was confusion, restraint, and the faintest glimmer of something dangerous.

“Next time,” he said softly, “warn me before you decide to improvise.”

She gave a breathless laugh. “You looked like you needed convincing too.”

His mouth curved—barely. “Be careful, Hermione. You’re getting too good at pretending.”

She swallowed hard. “Maybe I’m not pretending anymore.”

The words hung there.

Before he could answer, she turned and slipped back toward her room—heart pounding, mouth still tingling, aware that whatever line they’d been walking had just disappeared completely.

Chapter Text

The lab smelled of copper and crushed herbs, a familiar, bitter comfort that should have steadied him. Instead Severus stood very still, the Ministry visit recircling through his head like a bad incantation — the way Worthington examined the cottage with practiced disinterest, Lucius’s smile like a blade, Hermione’s kiss still warm under his skin. He had been alone only a short while, or so he told himself, but the silence had only honed everything into a single, bright ache.

He should have stayed. Returned to his work, let the cauldron and its predictable mathematics absorb him. He could measure, stir, correct. He could not be surprised by his feeling.

As if answering that thought, he found himself moving, the corridor swallowing his boots in soft shadow. The Malfoy manor’s outer door was only a memory of polish and marble; the inner rooms were softer, more dangerous. That’s where Lucius entertained friends. That’s where he used charm as a weapon.

When he arrived, a faint, private laugh drifted through the doorway — not loud, not obscene, but the kind of sound that implied an intimacy Severus had no wish to witness. He paused in the threshold, all courtesy discarded. The room was dim; a figure rose in the corner as a pale shape of preoccupation. Lucius had not expected a visitor. He never expected Severus.

“Severus.” Malfoy’s voice was silk and amusement. The smile took a second to drop. “To what do I owe the—”

Severus did not wait for the rest. He crossed the room in three long strides, cloak sweeping like a shadow, and stopped so close Lucius could smell the faint, medicinal tang of his presence. The laughter died. The woman — gone from Severus’s sight, as much because she was not his business as because she was suddenly irrelevant — melted back into the shadows.

Lucius recovered quicker than most. He turned, eyes narrowing into knives that had once carved up houses as neatly as a knife might carve bread. “I thought your little domestic drama had pacified you,” he said, voice low. “Or are you here to—”

A motion, and Severus’s wand was in his hand. It was a muscle memory: draw, point, focus. He had never imagined he would aim it at Lucius Malfoy in such a private space. The metal gleamed once in the lamplight.

The tip hovered at Lucius’s throat. The gold thread of his tie, the delicate skin there — Severus did not dwell on the unnecessary details. He spoke with the same cool precision he used in class when dissecting flaws in a potion. “Stay away from my—” he began, then corrected himself, the word an ugly, bitter thing on his tongue. “Stay away from her.”

Lucius’s amusement shattered into a narrow, brittle thing. He had never been addressed like that, with a wand’s authority and a man’s raw, near-animal insistence. For one sharp heartbeat he was the predator, then the balance of the room shifted; he was the one being hunted.

“You forget yourself, Severus,” Lucius said, forcing civility, but his fingers twitched. “There are conventions—”

“You will not touch her. You will not speak to her in a way that suggests you own a right to do so. You will keep your distance.” Severus’s voice was flat, a scalpel. “One attempt, one slander, one lecherous look too many — and you die.”

The word landed in the air, cold and precise. Lucius’s face went a color so pale it matched the silver in his hair. Around them the room waited: servants frozen in doorways, the hush of portraits watching with wilting interest.

“You would kill me?” Lucius’s laugh was brittle and small. “Over a—”

“Do not test me,” Severus said. There was no theatrics, no flourish of bravado. The threat was a single line of fact. “I am not making an idle promise.”

For a moment Lucius did not speak. Something like calculation moved behind his eyes. He had power: wealth, influence, allies who could make life inconvenient in ways far beyond a snapped neck. He also had caution. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“So are you,” Severus returned. “Start by staying two wards’ breadth away, and we shall call it prudence.”

Lucius swallowed. He had always known Severus could be dangerous, but not like this: stripped of irony, stripped of patience, absolutely willing. The mask slipped — just for a beat — revealing the man beneath the polish: cornered, startled, and, for once, a little afraid.

“You forget who I am,” Lucius hissed finally. It was not bluster; it was a note of wounded pride.

“And you forget who I protect,” Severus said. It took him effort not to press the wand harder, to make the promise into an act. He felt the blood at his temples, the precise, clinical hum of anger that makes you calm enough to be terrifying. “One more step and I will remind you.”

Lucius’s fists clenched once, audible only in the small room. He looked at Severus as if seeing him for the first time — not the professor with memories or the man wrapped in past insults, but a living, dangerous thing that could no longer be catalogued and dismissed.

“Consider yourself warned,” Severus said, and without another word he lowered the wand, turned, and left. The air behind him snapped like a closing book.

Lucius remained standing long after the door had shut, hand pressed to his throat. His expression had changed in some subtle way — not beaten, but reevaluating the map of threats and alliances that made his world run. Severus’s silhouette receded down the corridor, every step measured, every breath a countdown.

Outside, the night had a cold edge. Severus walked until the anger turned to a dull, steady ache he could set like a jar upon a shelf. He was not naïve about consequence; he was not blind to retaliation. He simply knew what he had done, and why.

He had put a line in the dark. He had made it clear: cross it, and you would find out how serious he could be.

—

The cottage door swung open quietly, though the snap of the latch sounded in Hermione’s ears like a gunshot. She had been tending the herbs, hands busy, heart uneasy, waiting for the familiar soft sound of his footsteps.

He entered without preamble. Black robes, black eyes sharper than any blade. His expression was unreadable, but the air around him thrummed with a quiet, dangerous intensity.

Hermione set down her pruning shears. “Severus… where have you been?”

He paused in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back. The faint scent of travel and cold stone clung to him, a reminder that he had walked through more than just the night.

“We’ve angered the wrong person,” he said, voice flat. Each word carried weight, and she felt it like a physical pressure in her chest.

“You… what?” she asked, stepping closer. Her fingers flexed nervously, brushing the edge of her apron.

“I was obliged to intervene,” he continued, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the hearth. “There are individuals who… perceive threats where none should exist. That perception is dangerous. I made certain they understood consequences.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “Severus… you—you put yourself in danger?”

He gave a short, humorless shrug. “I protected what must be protected.” His eyes finally landed on hers, sharp, unflinching. “Including you.”

Her throat went dry. “Including me…”

“Yes.” He stepped closer, voice dropping just enough that she felt it along her skin. “Which brings us to a matter of immediate concern.”

“Immediate concern?” she echoed, frowning.

“We must move the… procreation plan forward.” The words were clipped, deliberate. His lips pressed into a straight line. “I cannot afford any more complications. We cannot risk further distraction or exposure.”

Hermione’s breath caught. She had known the Ministry visit was tense, that Lucius was dangerous, but this—this sense of immediacy, this edge in his tone—made her pulse spike.

“You mean… now?” she asked, voice low, trying to hide both fear and something else — anticipation.

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. The plan cannot be delayed. Every moment lost is a vulnerability. I will not risk you—or our… arrangements—being endangered by fools who mistake restraint for weakness.”

Hermione swallowed, heart hammering in her chest. “Severus…”

“I will not discuss this further,” he said sharply, and the word further sliced through the air like a dagger. “I expect compliance. Immediate, precise, unhesitating.”

The tension in the room was almost unbearable, crackling like lightning over dry grass. Hermione felt a shiver, a wild mixture of fear and longing, as she stepped closer to him.

“Of course,” she said softly. “I trust you.”

His eyes darkened in approval. “You will demonstrate that trust. Without question.”

Hermione’s pulse raced at the authority behind his tone, the heat in his eyes, the subtle, unspoken promise threading through his words. She nodded. “I… understand.”

He turned, pacing toward the windows to ensure the curtains were drawn. “Good. That is… satisfactory. Tonight, we act. There is no room for hesitation.”

Hermione’s knees threatened to buckle. “Yes… I can do that.”

Severus glanced at her, every inch the commanding, unyielding man she had learned to respect, and she realized something dangerous: she had never felt more compelled, more ready, to obey.

And just like that, the night promised more than tension—it promised the consequences of a line crossed, a plan accelerated, and a bond sealed in fire and unspoken need.

–

Hermione moved through her preparations with careful precision, almost ritualistic. The bathwater was warm, scented with lavender and chamomile, and she let herself linger longer than usual, trying to calm the storm of nerves coiling in her stomach. The candlelight flickered across the tiles, casting gentle shadows, and for a moment she imagined this could be a peaceful evening — if only she could quiet her thoughts.

But she couldn’t.

Her mind kept returning to the inevitability of the night, to the “plan” Severus had said needed to move forward, to the way his presence made her pulse race and her thoughts scatter. Your first time, she reminded herself, inwardly trembling. This is your first time with him. Don’t let yourself lose control before you even start.

She dried herself carefully, brushing her hair until it fell in a soft cascade, then dressed in something simple but elegant — a gown that allowed her comfort, but also made her feel like herself. One glance in the mirror, and she caught her own reflection: eyes wide, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly parted. Breathe, Hermione. Remember, it’s him. You trust him.

The thought should have reassured her. Instead, it sparked a fresh wave of nerves. Do I trust him enough to let go? Will I… like it? Will I mess everything up?

The knock at the door startled her, and she jumped, heart racing.

“Dinner is ready,” Severus’s voice called softly from the hallway, though the edge in it made her pulse leap. She stepped out, trying to steady herself, and found him waiting, impeccably dressed, black robes shifting perfectly, posture that suggested command — and just enough vulnerability that her chest fluttered.

“Shall we?” he said, eyes flicking over her with a glance that was almost… assessing.

They sat across from each other at the table, the low light of the candles making everything intimate and dangerous. The meal was simple, carefully prepared, but the silence between them was thick, weighted with anticipation. Hermione felt it pressing in, and she cleared her throat.

“I… I wasn’t sure how to…” she began, then trailed off.

“Speak?” he prompted, voice low, faintly amused.

“Yes,” she whispered, cheeks heating. “Or… behave. I don’t know.”

He let out a quiet, clipped exhale. “You are… tense,” he observed, leaning back slightly. “That will not do.”

She blinked. “Not do?”

“No. Tonight is… serious. But not joyless. You must permit… some levity.”

Hermione swallowed, heart thudding. “Levity?”

He leaned forward slightly, just enough that the candlelight caught the angles of his face. “I might be persuaded,” he said dryly, “to allow a little teasing. If you can tolerate it.”

Her breath caught. “Flirting?” she whispered, incredulous, half-smiling.

“Perhaps,” he said, dark eyes glinting. “If you’re strong enough.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I suppose I’ll manage.”

“You always do,” he murmured, voice low, and she felt the heat rise in her ears. He reached for the wine decanter, poured a small glass for her, then his own. “Not that this will steady your nerves, of course. But one might hope.”

Hermione sipped carefully, debating internally whether to retreat into propriety or to let the rising warmth in her chest remind her that tonight, she would have to surrender. First time… with him. Will I be able to…? Will I like it? Will I—

“You are trembling,” he said suddenly, leaning back with a faint smirk. “Either from nerves… or anticipation.”

She choked on her sip, coughing into the napkin. “Anticipation, of course,” she said, trying to regain composure. Yes, anticipation.

“Good,” he said, eyes fixed on her, calm and dangerous. “That will serve you well.”

Hermione’s pulse raced, mind spinning with every glance, every subtle inflection. The first time… it was no longer a concept, no longer abstract. It was here, imminent, and threaded with both fear and desire.

She set her glass down, fingers trembling slightly. “Severus…” she said, voice low, almost questioning.

“Yes?” he prompted, tone patient, controlled, but with an undercurrent of… something unspoken.

“I—” she hesitated, heart pounding. “I want to trust you.”

His lips quirked, a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “You do. And that is all that matters.”

The candlelight flickered between them. The air thickened. The teasing, the flirting, the tension — everything converged into a single, sharp point of awareness. Hermione realized with a jolt: there was no turning back. Tonight, she would step beyond fear, beyond hesitation, and into the one thing she had never let herself do before.

And Severus? He watched her like a hawk, composed, commanding, but underneath — just beneath the surface — the barest edge of a shiver betrayed him.

The game had begun.

After an amazing dinner where they tease each other and laughed, they moved to his bedroom where they both sit on the sofa near the fire.

The fire cast a warm, flickering glow across the room, and Hermione’s pulse raced with every shadow it threw across the walls. She had spent the evening preparing: a bath that soothed her trembling limbs, her hair brushed until it fell soft and shining, a simple gown that made her feel like herself but still delicate, poised.

Her stomach twisted as she thought of what was coming. I’ve never… done this before. Not with anyone. The words echoed in her mind, heavy with anticipation and fear. Will I be able to…? Will I like it? Will I embarrass myself?

The knock at the door startled her, and she straightened, heart hammering.

He was there, dark robes like a shadow, his eyes fixed on her with that unreadable intensity that always made her shiver. He didn’t speak first — didn’t give instructions or warnings. He simply closed the door behind him, the quiet click sealing them in their own private world.

Hermione swallowed, her hands trembling slightly.

He moved closer, his steps measured, calm, and impossible to ignore. Without a word, he reached for her, brushing a hand lightly over hers. She felt a shiver travel up her spine, anticipation knotting with nerves.

“I… I’ve never…” she whispered, voice shaking. “With anyone, I mean…”

He didn’t reply, didn’t need to. His hands found her shoulders, guiding her gently toward the bed. Every movement was precise, careful — firm but reassuring. She followed instinctively, letting herself be drawn into the rhythm he set.

Her breath caught as his hands lingered briefly, adjusting the folds of her gown, smoothing her hair back from her face. His touch was confident, sure, intimate without being forceful. She felt the tension coiled in her chest begin to loosen.

As she lay down, he stayed close, one hand resting lightly at her side, the other brushing the hair from her neck, thumb tracing a faint path that made her knees weak. She exhaled shakily, allowing herself to sink into the security of his presence.

A soft, deliberate pressure of his hand along her arm made her flinch and then melt all at once. He leaned down just enough that his chest brushed hers when he moved, guiding their proximity without a word. Every touch, every small motion, told her: she was safe, and she was wanted.

Hermione’s pulse raced, heat blooming across her skin. She could feel him close, steady, utterly in control, and the sensation was intoxicating. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself breathe into him, letting the nerves transform into something electric and alive.

Her lips parted slightly. “Severus…”

He responded with a brush of his hand over her cheek, fingers gentle, anchoring her, not asking, not commanding. His eyes met hers for a heartbeat — dark, intense, unreadable — and then he lowered his mouth to hers, a soft, exploring kiss. Not hurried, not urgent, but full of a quiet insistence that left her breathless.

Her hands found his robes, fingers clutching at him as the room seemed to shrink around them. She felt his warmth, his certainty, his quiet attention, and for the first time, the fear of doing something new began to ease.

She was still nervous. Still unsure. Still trembling.

But in his presence, following the flow of his silent, assured movements, Hermione realized she could trust him — completely, utterly.

With a surge of confidence, she straddled him and he groaned instantly. She could feel him growing under her. His kiss was getting deeper, with more urgency. He was letting his guard down to give place to pure intimacy. She could feel he was letting go. 

For a heartbeat, the world outside ceased to exist. Snape’s heart hammered in his chest, a mixture of fear and something else—something almost unbearable—that had nothing to do with potions or politics. She was giving herself to him willingly. She grew to care for him and he almost felt love for a moment.

And then it came: a thunderous crash that shattered the fragile intimacy. The doors exploded inward, splinters flying, and a flood of Ministry enforcers poured into the room, their wands raised, voices shouting.

“Severus!” Hermione screamed, stepping back, her body pressed instinctively against his. Hide her little modesty she had.

Snape reacted before he thought—shield charms flaring, his own wand a blur, a protective wall forming around her. “Get back!” he roared, every ounce of fury focused on keeping her safe. Spells ricocheted off the walls; books tumbled from shelves, the room a chaotic storm of noise and movement.

Through the smoke and clatter, a familiar voice cut sharply. “Ah, Severus,” Lucius Malfoy drawled, stepping into the room with the unnerving grace of someone who knew he owned the moment. His smirk was venomous, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “How touching. You thought you could claim her… without witnesses. How naïve.”

Snape’s teeth clenched. “Step aside, Lucius. She belongs with me.”

“Belongs?” Lucius laughed, low and dangerous, flicking a glance at the Ministry enforcers. “There is no seal. No record of your… union. By law, she is mine to hold until the trial.” He gestured, and two aurors surged forward toward Hermione.

“Don’t touch her!” Snape shouted, lunging to block them. Spells collided, sparks igniting in the chaos, but they were too many. He fought desperately, every incantation driven by panic and something raw in his chest he had never named. Hermione struggled against the hands pulling her back, her screams piercing the storm of noise.

Lucius leaned closer, his voice smooth and cruel. “I’d think you’d have learned by now, Severus. You cannot protect her from the law—or from me.”

Snape’s world narrowed to a single point of unbearable focus: her. Her eyes, wide with terror, her hands reaching for him as they dragged her away. He moved faster, casting spell after spell, but the room was a blur of movement, shadows, and shouts.

And then… she was gone.

The last thing he saw was Lucius’s triumphant smirk as the door slammed, shutting him out of the world he had barely begun to hold together. Silence fell like a physical weight, broken only by the distant echo of Hermione’s cries, fading down the hall.

Snape’s wand slipped from his fingers. He sank to his knees amid the wreckage of his room, chest heaving, mind racing. Fury, grief, and helplessness tangled inside him like a living thing. She had been torn from him—taken by law and by Malfoy’s cruel hand.

And yet… he would not let it stand.

Chapter Text

The carriage rattled violently over the cobblestones, the wheels groaning under the weight of its passengers. Inside, Hermione sat huddled, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her knuckles white from gripping the edge of the bench. The robes they provided for her were disheveled, and the thin chains on her wrists dug into her skin, but it was the suffocating certainty of her helplessness that made her stomach churn.

Lucius Malfoy lounged opposite her, his long fingers drumming lightly against his cane. The faintest smile tugged at his lips, the kind that promised cruelty masquerading as amusement. “Comfortable, my dear?” he asked, voice silk over steel. “I do hope you’re finding this… enlightening.”

Hermione said nothing, only glared at him, trying to summon courage she wasn’t sure she still had.

A tall Ministry agent, grim and silent, sat next to her, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. He carried himself with the mechanical precision of someone who had been trained to obey without question—and to act without hesitation. His wand rested casually across his lap, though Hermione’s imagination filled in the possibilities, each one worse than the last.

Lucius’s smirk deepened as he noticed her expression. “Ah, fear. Such a fascinating thing. It’s delicious, really, watching someone who once thought themselves in control learn the truth.”

Hermione’s pulse hammered in her ears. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “You’re not going to get away with this,” she said, voice steady despite the tremor she couldn’t hide.

“Get away with this?” Lucius chuckled, shaking his head slowly. “My dear, I’ve already won. The Ministry acknowledges no union on the record. And you… are simply along for the ride.”

The carriage jolted violently, and Hermione gripped the bench as her stomach lurched. She caught a flash of the dark, winding road outside, lined with twisted trees and the faint shimmer of frost. Somewhere far behind them, she knew Snape must be reeling, and the thought sent both warmth and a pang of desperation through her. 

In a rough and fast movement, Lucius took Hermione’s hand forcefully and started to mutter a spell. She tried to pull away but he was too strong and she had no way to defend herself. Swiftly, the metal bracelet that Snape put on her broke open. She didn’t think he knew that was controlling her magic. He probably thought she was a weak muggleborn with no real magical ability. 

The agent next to her cleared his throat, voice low. “Approaching Malfoy Manor. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Lucius rose slightly, stretching with an elegance that made him seem larger than the narrow confines of the carriage. “And soon, my dear,” he said, leaning toward her just enough to let the threat linger, “you will meet my family. You’ll find that some lessons are best learned in… permanent settings.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. Her mind raced—not with thoughts of surrender, but with escape, with survival, with a way to keep herself alive and somehow, somehow, warn Snape. But each possibility twisted against itself, blocked by chains, by Ministry law, by Lucius’s presence.

Outside, the winter air whipped past the carriage, sharp and biting. Hermione pressed herself into the corner, wishing she could vanish, wishing she could run, wishing she could stop the nightmare that seemed to have no end.

And yet, beneath the fear, a spark remained. A spark of defiance. Even in chains, even in Lucius’s hands, she would not break. Not entirely.

Lucius noticed her look, tilting his head, a faint scorn crossing his features. “Oh, you will break, eventually. All of you do.”

Hermione closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, forcing herself to think beyond the walls, the chains, the cruelty. She would survive this. Somehow.

And somewhere, out there, she hoped, Severus would come for her.

The carriage rattled on, shadows stretching long as the towering spires of Malfoy Manor finally appeared through the mist—a looming fortress that promised no mercy.

—

The gates of Malfoy Manor loomed before the carriage, black iron twisting like skeletal fingers against the pale winter sky. Hermione’s stomach knotted as the wheels crunched over the frost-lined drive. She could see the towering stone walls, the pointed turrets, and the flickering torchlight reflecting off the windows. Somewhere inside, shadows moved—watchful, silent, and threatening.

Lucius lounged beside her, his expression one of cruel anticipation. “Ah, home,” he said, voice smooth as silk, yet laced with venom. “Familiar, isn’t it? Cold. Unyielding. Perfect for… adjustment.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to the agent beside her, and she saw no sympathy there, only obedience. Her heart sank, but she straightened her shoulders, unwilling to give Lucius the satisfaction of seeing her break.

The carriage came to a halt, and the doors were thrown open. Two aurors dragged her roughly to her feet, chains clinking against each other. She stumbled slightly, but Lucius’s hand stayed back, letting her struggle, letting her know she was at his mercy.

Inside, the manor was a cold, cavernous labyrinth. Shadows stretched long across the polished floors, and the smell of wax and something faintly metallic lingered in the air. Hermione’s gaze swept over the walls, taking in the opulent cruelty of the place: portraits that seemed to watch her every move, sharp angles and icy corridors, and the faint glint of wands tucked into belts and sleeves.

Lucius’s voice cut through the tension. “Before you meet the rest of the family, my dear, there is some… unfortunate news.” He paused, allowing the words to hang, heavy and cruel. “Your friend, Narcissa… she is dead. I’m sure you’ll find it… shocking.”

Hermione froze, her chest tightening. “Dead?” she whispered, barely able to form the word. “How?”

Lucius tilted his head, eyes glinting with malice. “Does it matter? She is gone. And now, you are mine to hold. You’ll find the manor… enlightening. Lessons are easier when the heart is alone, don’t you agree?”

The words made Hermione shiver, but more than fear, a surge of fury began to bloom. Lucius might have her body, but he would not have her spirit.

They led her through a corridor of cold stone and shadows, the torches flickering in the drafty hallways. At the end of a particularly narrow passage, a heavy, iron-barred door came into view. Through the small slit in its center, Hermione saw movement: a familiar figure, sitting slumped, head bowed.

“Draco…” she breathed, rushing forward, only to be yanked back by the agent.

Lucius laughed softly. “Ah, the prodigal son, locked away for his own… protection. We cannot have him interfering, now, can we? He will remain in his quarters until the trial. Discipline is… necessary.”

Hermione’s eyes found Draco’s behind the bars, and she saw the exhaustion and fear mirrored there, the same helplessness that gnawed at her chest. He looked up, eyes widening with recognition and desperation, but the door remained firmly closed.

“Why?” Hermione demanded, her voice trembling with anger. “Why him? Why are you keeping him locked?”

Lucius’s smirk deepened. “Because, my dear, control is everything. If the boy were free, he might do… something rash. And that would be… inconvenient.” His tone was silk and poison. “Everything here is inconvenient if you do not submit. You will learn, eventually.”

Hermione pressed herself against the cold bars, meeting Draco’s gaze. “We will get out,” she whispered, her voice firm, though her hands shook. “You will see. We’ll get out.”

Lucius’s laughter echoed down the corridor. “Hope,” he said, voice soft but cruel, “is a dangerous thing. Remember that.”

Lucius did not accompany her all the way. With a flick of his hand and a cold smirk, he directed the agent to push her into a small, austere room. The bed was narrow, the walls bare stone, the single torch flickering weakly. A heavy door with a small barred window separated her from the corridor—and from the sound of another, familiar presence.

Hermione froze as she caught the faintest echo: a soft, exasperated sigh that carried the unmistakable timbre of Draco Malfoy.

“Draco?” she whispered, pressing her palm to the bars in the door, her heart leaping.

“Over here,” came the hoarse reply, and she saw his face through the small window of the iron-barred door opposite hers. He looked pale and tired, but his eyes—sharp, guarded—locked onto hers immediately.

Lucius had arranged them side by side, not by accident. Hermione felt the weight of his calculation pressing down: he wanted them aware of each other, close enough to feel, but powerless to intervene.

“I… I’m sorry,” Draco said first, voice low, almost ashamed. “I tried… I tried to help Harry during the war. I thought I was doing the right thing. But my father—he saw it as betrayal. He… he dragged me back here, said it was for my own good. I’m sorry you had to see me like this.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. “You were trying to help. That’s… brave, Draco. And you didn’t deserve this.” She could see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders slumped, even behind the bars.

He shook his head. “I thought I was protecting people. You, Harry… myself. But it didn’t matter. My father… he has his ways. He doesn’t forgive easily. He doesn’t forget anything. And now…” He trailed off, eyes flicking toward the heavy door separating them, “…he has his own reasons for keeping you here. You’re… safe. At least in that sense.”

Hermione frowned. “Safe? You mean… Lucius won’t… hurt me?”

Draco hesitated, then shook his head firmly. “No. He wouldn’t dare touch a Muggleborn. He wouldn’t risk it. But… that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you. He has a reason for keeping you here. I don’t know why yet… but it’s not about .. you know, procreation with you.”

Hermione absorbed the words, letting a small measure of relief wash over her. Safe—but still trapped, still under Lucius’s control. She pressed her forehead against the door. “Then… I just have to survive until someone—” Her voice faltered. “…until someone comes for me.”

Draco nodded, meeting her gaze. “Exactly. And we’ll figure it out. I can’t… I can’t do much from here, but you… you’ll find a way. You always do.”

There was a quiet pause, the only sound the faint drip of water from somewhere in the stone walls. Hermione could see the tension in Draco’s face, the frustration of a boy who had tried to act, failed, and now watched from a cage.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said softly. “That at least… you survived your father’s wrath.”

Draco allowed a brief, bitter laugh. “Survived? Hardly. I’m here, aren’t I? But yes… I suppose I am still breathing. That counts for something.”

Hermione leaned closer to the bars, her fingers brushing against the cold iron. “Then we keep breathing. And then… we get out.”

Draco’s eyes darkened, fierce with unspoken determination. “Yes. We’ll find a way.”

Outside their rooms, the corridors were silent, but Hermione could feel Lucius’s presence in every shadow, his control a constant, invisible weight. But in that small, barred space, between her and Draco, there was the faintest spark of hope—a connection, fragile but real, that neither chains nor fear could fully extinguish.

—

Morning light seeped weakly through the slit in Hermione’s window, pale and cold against the stone walls. She stirred, disoriented, and then the first sound hit her: a scream so raw, so jagged with pain, it made her stomach drop.

“Draco!” she gasped, scrambling to her feet. She pressed her hands to the iron bars, leaning forward as far as she could. His voice—shrieks of agony—shook the walls and rattled her heart.

He was being tortured.

Through the narrow window of his room, she could see him thrashing against his restraints, body wracked with spasms. “No! Stop! Please!” he shouted, voice hoarse and desperate.

Hermione’s hands clawed at the cold iron. “I’ll get you! I’ll stop it! Wait!” Her voice cracked with panic. But the bars were unyielding. She could do nothing.

A faint, dark hum filled the air, and she saw it then: a small, sinister device, almost mechanical, glowing faintly in the corner of Draco’s room. Its dark magic radiated outward, binding him in torment. Every morning at the same time, it awakened him, forcing him to endure its cruel power. A chilling certainty settled over her: this would not be the last time.

Before she could react further, Lucius appeared from the shadows. His pale face was composed, almost serene, yet his eyes glinted with that same calculating malice.

“Good morning,” he said smoothly, voice as calm as if he were greeting a guest for tea. “I see my morning routine is already… effective.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched. Lucius’s gaze flicked to her, and a shiver ran down her spine. He took a slow, deliberate step toward Draco, who now hung limply in the restraints, trembling with the aftershocks of pain.

Hermione’s fists tightened on the bars.

Lucius reached down and gripped Draco’s shoulder, lifting him effortlessly. “Come along, my boy,” he murmured, voice silk and steel intertwined. Draco struggled, weak and exhausted, but could not break free.

As Lucius carried him past Hermione’s room, he paused just long enough to lean slightly toward her, the faintest curve of a seductive smile touching his lips. “Soon,” he said softly, his voice a whisper meant for her alone, “it will be your turn.”

Hermione’s stomach turned over. Her throat tightened. She staggered back from the bars, pressing against the cold stone wall. Her mind raced, heart hammering. The cruelty, the control, the deliberate psychological torment—it was all designed to break her, to make her despair before he even touched her.

Through the faint echo of Draco’s strained cries, she swore silently, teeth clenched, fists trembling. She would survive this. She had to. And when the time came, she would not let him touch her.

But in that moment, watching Draco disappear down the corridor, she felt the first, searing taste of fear for herself. The warning was clear. And she understood it fully.

Lucius’s smile lingered in her mind long after he was gone. “Soon, it will be your turn.”

—

The day stretched long and oppressive, the chill of the stone walls pressing in from every side. Hermione pressed herself against her narrow bed, ears straining. Even through the walls, she could hear Draco—the desperate, ragged gasps, the sharp cries that made her stomach twist. Every thump of his struggles made her heart lurch.

Then, after what felt like hours, the door to her cell creaked open. Lucius stepped inside, Draco in tow. The boy’s hair was disheveled, clothes torn, and his face pale, his lips trembling. Panic lingered in his wide, haunted eyes.

Lucius gave a soft, cold laugh. “I thought it best to leave you two in closer proximity. You’ll need to… get used to each other.” He lingered just long enough for Hermione to catch the subtle edge beneath his words—a threat masked as practicality. “It’s all for… natural harmony,” he added smoothly, then swept from the room, leaving the cell door open but firmly shut behind him.

Hermione’s gaze locked on Draco. Slowly, understanding settled in her chest, a cold knot tightening with horror. She realized instantly what Lucius was doing. He would not touch her—he dared not—but Draco… he was being tortured to force him into compliance. To make him… to make them… “for procreation.”

Draco’s gaze met hers, panic flashing across his face. “Hermione… I—I know,” he said, voice shaking. “He’s… he’s doing this to make me… to force me… to force us. It’s sick. I… I’m sorry you have to—”

“No,” Hermione cut in, voice firm despite the fear clenching her chest. “It’s not your fault. You’re surviving. That’s all that matters.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, swallowing hard, struggling to regain some composure. “I… I won’t let him do that to you,” he said, jaw tight. “I swear. I’ll endure whatever he wants, but… you—I won’t touch you. Not ever.”

Hermione’s chest tightened, relief mingling with fear. She took his hand and guided him to her bed. They both sat down and she took him in her amrs. It broke her heart when he flitched at the contact, but she understood why. Years without warmth.  “I know,” she whispered. “I just… I needed to hear it. We’ll survive this, Draco. Together.”

He nodded, the faintest tremor of hope flickering in his eyes, though the panic lingered, raw and unrelenting. “Together,” he echoed. “I won’t let him break us. Not completely. And… I promise, Hermione… I won’t hurt you .”

Silence fell between them, the distant echoes of the manor and Lucius’s departure hanging heavy in the cold stone.

Chapter Text

Severus thought about this long. Going to Malfoy Manor now wasn’t smart. Injuring him or killing him would only send Hermione somewhere else. No, now he knew where she was. He needed to do things the right way. That’s what she would have wanted.

The corridors of the Ministry stretched endlessly before Severus, pale torchlight flickering over the cold stone walls. His cloak whipped behind him, but he hardly noticed; his mind was a maelstrom of fury and strategy. Every step brought him closer to the council that had condemned Hermione, closer to the bureaucrats who had sanctioned her seizure, closer to the law he had long respected but now wanted to shred.

He arrived at the Ministry’s Department of Magical Enforcement, bypassing guards with sharp, precise spells that immobilized without harming. His wand flicked subtly, his presence a shadow that even seasoned aurors did not dare confront.

The doors to the chamber opened with a reluctant creak, and Severus strode in, eyes cold and unreadable, his mind calculating the exact angle to attack their reasoning. A row of Ministry officials sat behind polished desks, faces carefully neutral, though a flicker of unease passed over a few.

“Severus Snape,” the lead official said, voice clipped, formal. “We were expecting you. The decree regarding Hermione Granger is final. Any appeal—”

“Is illegitimate,” Severus interrupted sharply, voice cutting through the air like steel. “You have acted on a legal technicality to abduct an innocent woman. You have no authority to assign her to Malfoy. I demand the immediate reversal of your decision.”

A murmur ran through the chamber. The officials exchanged uneasy glances, unused to such unbridled force from one of their own.

“Technicality,” one official repeated, lips tight. “The law is clear. There is no magical record of her union with you. She—”

“She is not a commodity!” Severus snapped, stepping forward, wand at the ready though he did not yet raise it. “Do you understand what you have done? You have torn her from her home, from safety, from everyone who could protect her—and placed her into the hands of a man who delights in cruelty!”

Silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable. Severus’s presence filled the chamber; the air seemed to hum with his restrained rage. His gaze swept the room, landing on the lead official. “I am prepared to contest this through every legal channel, every magical avenue, and, if necessary, by force. You will return her to me immediately, or you will answer to consequences far beyond your petty bureaucracies.”

A note of hesitation entered the official’s voice. “Severus… such an approach—”

“Is the only one you understand,” Severus said coldly. “You do not frighten me with your laws. You do not frighten me with your authority. Hermione Granger is under my protection, by right, by law, and by every principle of decency. I bought her at the auction, she is MINE. You will rectify this. Now.”

The room held its collective breath. Then, with a reluctant nod, the lead official spoke, voice tight: “We… will review the case. Immediate action—”

Severus’s jaw tightened. “Do not delay. She is suffering, and every second you waste increases her torment. Mark my words: if she is harmed under your judgment, you will answer to me personally.”

With that, Severus spun on his heel and exited, cloak sweeping behind him. The corridors of the Ministry felt narrower now, weighed with urgency. Every step took him closer to Hermione. Every heartbeat reminded him of her screaming, of the cruelty she endured, of Lucius Malfoy’s calculated malice.

He would not fail. He could not.

—

Hermione pressed her back against the wall, arms hugging herself, listening to the echo of Draco’s quiet breathing across the room. The day had been long, full of silent terror and restrained panic, and the memory of the morning’s torture still lingered like a shadow.

A sudden knock at the heavy door announced Lucius’s arrival. His pale figure stepped inside, eyes glinting with that cold, measured cruelty he wielded like a weapon.

“Your evening’s… accommodation,” he said, voice silk and steel, “has been arranged. A bath. Together.”

Hermione blinked, startled, but Draco’s eyes widened even more. He straightened, jaw tight, and shifted slightly away from her, a silent signal of respect and caution.

They were led through winding corridors to the manor’s master bathroom. It was enormous, with a high vaulted ceiling, marble floors, and a claw-footed tub that gleamed under the torchlight. The warmth of the water steamed in the chill of the room, promising comfort, but the presence of Lucius and the conditions of their bath made it a different kind of torment.

Hermione carefully lowered herself into the water, letting out a quiet sigh. The heat seeped into her muscles, loosening some of the tension, though her nerves remained taut. Draco sat on the opposite side of the tub, his gaze deliberately fixed on the far wall, as if the mere act of looking away could protect both of them.

“It’s… manageable,” he murmured softly, almost to himself. “Just… keep calm. Don’t… let him see you panic.”

Hermione nodded, gripping the edge of the tub. The silence between them was thick, filled with unspoken fear and a fragile, tenuous solidarity. She dared not let her mind wander to what Lucius might do next—she had learned too well that fear fed his cruelty.

And then the door opened again. Lucius stepped inside, walking slowly, deliberately, his pale eyes scanning them both. Draco tensed immediately, his posture rigid.

“You seem… hesitant,” Lucius said smoothly, his gaze lingering. “Perhaps you need some… encouragement.” He flicked a subtle glance at Draco. “Stay. In. The water. With her.”

Draco stiffened, but did not resist. His jaw tightened, and his hands gripped the edge of the tub, knuckles white. Hermione’s stomach dropped, the weight of Lucius’s control pressing down on them like the walls of the manor itself.

They did not touch. Not for a moment. Draco kept his eyes deliberately averted, his respect for her boundaries clear in every measured movement. Lucius, however, lingered, letting the silence stretch, letting them feel the implied threat behind his words and presence.

Hermione’s pulse hammered, her skin tingling from more than just the heat of the water. Lucius’s eyes swept over them, his smile cold and calculating. “Such discipline,” he murmured. “I do admire it. But remember… this is only practice. Soon… it will be your turn, my dear.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched. Draco’s jaw tightened beside her, his own panic restrained, his shoulders stiff, but he did not flinch or glance at Lucius. His restraint was a silent promise to her: he would endure whatever Lucius demanded, but he would not allow her to be touched or broken.

Steam still curled lazily over the bath, the only movement in a room gone too still. The marble walls seemed to listen, holding their breath along with them. Hermione and Draco sat in opposite corners of the water, both pale and silent, the air thick with unspoken defiance.

Lucius lingered near the door, poised, patient, and predatory. His gaze swept between them, as if measuring the tension, weighing how long it would take before one of them broke.

“How touching,” he said at last, his voice a slow drawl that made Hermione’s stomach tighten. “So noble. So stubborn. Yet still so… predictable.”

Draco didn’t move. His back was rigid, his jaw locked, every line of him screaming defiance even as his breathing quickened. Hermione’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. She knew Lucius too well now—he enjoyed control more than pain, but he was never above proving his point.

Lucius stepped closer to the tub, his polished boots glinting in the light. “You disappoint me, son. I offer you a simple request—obedience—and you hide behind chivalry. You always did have your mother’s weakness.”

Draco’s gaze flicked up for the first time, gray eyes sharp and cold. “You wouldn’t understand weakness if it stood in front of you,” he said quietly.

A dangerous silence followed. Hermione felt it like static in the air.

Lucius smiled. It was almost kind. “Defiance has a price, Draco.”

The words alone were enough to send a chill through the room. The air grew thick, oppressive—something unseen and awful pressing in. Draco’s breath hitched; he fought against it, silent and trembling.

Hermione couldn’t look away. Her hands gripped the side of the tub until her knuckles burned white. “Stop it,” she said sharply, her voice cracking through the stillness. “Please. He’s done nothing wrong.”

Lucius’s gaze flicked to her, mild and cruelly amused. “He’s failed to follow instruction,” he murmured. “You both have.”

Hermione’s mind raced. She knew what Lucius wanted—it was written in every word he didn’t say. He wanted submission, proof of obedience, a performance of control dressed as compliance.

Draco’s head hung low now, his breathing uneven but steady. He shook his head slightly, silently pleading with her not to give in.

But Hermione couldn’t stand it—the suffocating power in Lucius’s voice, the way Draco trembled under it, the wrongness of it all. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs.

“Enough,” she whispered.

Lucius arched an eyebrow. “Ah. A change of heart?”

She turned toward Draco, her hand shaking slightly in the water. He looked up, eyes wide, understanding instantly what she meant to do. He shook his head again, desperate.

“I can’t watch him hurt you,” she said softly.

Her voice broke. The water rippled between them. The choice hung there—hers alone.

What happened next was quiet, deliberate, and defiant in its own way—not surrender, but mercy. Not compliance, but protection.

She moved from her corner of the tub to sit next to him. He let out a scream, the Crucio curse was a vicious thing, the longer you were under it, the less humanity you had. 

She knew he wanted a show so she would give him just enough so he would let go for now. She straddled Draco and put her arms around him. She tried to be gentle, he was in enough pain as it is.

“Stop” Draco begged her. “Don’t do it, please”

But she didn’t listen to him. She leaned down and kissed him, passionately. To her surprise, it wasn’t that bad. She tried to remember the good thing he did for them. The sacrifice. Months of torture. The least she could do is to relieve some of the pain. He was gentle and he barely responded to the kiss. However, the second her lips were on his she felt his tension melt. Lucius must have stopped the spell.   

Lucius’s laughter was soft, almost satisfied. “See?” he murmured. “Even the righteous will yield when they care enough. Please keep on going”

She left his lips to linger on his neck, leaving a gentle trail of kisses there. 

Draco tried to ignore the growing desire in him but he was failing miserably. He felt so ashamed of the bulge that was growing between his legs. He muttered just for her to hear "I'm so sorry I can’t control it”

“Don’t be, you deserve every bit of it” she answered.

And she pushed herself down against his growing erection. He couldn’t help the moan that echoed against the luxurious and pretentious bathroom walls. To Lucius it looked like they were shagging. The water moving was creating a blurr. They were only touching, he was not inside of her. 

“Perfection” he sneered delighted

She started moving herself back and forth against him. He was now fulling hard. His length against her wet fold felt so good. For a moment she forgot that Lucius was there. Her face against his neck she let out a soft moan. 

“Granger stop I won’t … I can’t …” 

She silenced him with a heated kiss. Her back and forth grew faster and her own desires were reaching a peak and he could see that. The sight of her about to orgasm on him made him lose it. She screamed her release and he followed her mere seconds later, his hard length pulsing against her entrance. 

“That was easier than I thought,” Lucius said with a grind. 

He turned away, the echo of his footsteps fading as the door closed behind him.

The silence left behind was unbearable. Hermione sank against him trembling, her breath shuddering out. Draco was not moving, pale and shaken, eyes filled with something between gratitude and grief.

“You didn’t have to,” he whispered.

“I did,” she said, voice raw. “He would have broken you.”

Draco looked down at the water, his reflection fragmented by the ripples. “He already has,” he murmured.

Hermione closed her eyes, forcing back the tears. In the quiet aftermath, they both knew—this was only the beginning.

“We fooled him this time, Tonight we need to find other ways to make him believe we are doing it. We can stretch the inevitable until someone finds us”

“How? Granger no one is coming for me…”

“But someone is coming for me” she said, the tears still falling.

“Who? Everybody that could is either dead or.. Worst” he said tears falling out of him too.

“Severus Snape”

Chapter Text

The corridors back to their cell were colder than before. The air of Malfoy Manor always felt like it held its breath — but tonight, it was worse. Every echo of their footsteps seemed to chase them down the hall, mocking their silence.

The guard shoved the door open and let them inside. The iron latch clanged shut behind them, locking the warmth of the candlelight out with a single metallic snap.

They were clean now — physically, at least. Hermione’s curls hung damp around her shoulders, her skin still flushed from the heat of the bath. Draco looked drawn and pale, a fine tremor running through his hands as he rubbed them together absently, staring at the floor.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward — it was too heavy for that. It was the kind of silence that pressed on the lungs.

Hermione sat down on the narrow cot, the coarse blanket rough against her palms. She couldn’t stop seeing the look on Draco’s face — that quiet, stubborn refusal as Lucius’s voice filled the room. The way he hadn’t moved, hadn’t yielded, even when it was unbearable to watch.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Draco said suddenly, voice low.

Hermione looked up. He was standing by the far wall, arms crossed tight across his chest, jaw set. His voice shook, not with anger, but something closer to disbelief. “You shouldn’t have stopped him — not for me. Not like that.”

Hermione drew a slow breath. “He would’ve kept going.”

“I could’ve handled it.”

“No, you couldn’t have.” Her voice came out sharper than she meant it to, and she softened it almost immediately. “You were shaking, Draco.”

He turned away, shoulders rising and falling once. “You think I don’t know that?”

Hermione watched him quietly. “I couldn’t just sit there.”

His jaw clenched. For a moment, the room was silent again except for the low hum of the torches in the hall outside.

Finally, he spoke — softer, bitter around the edges. “He does it because he wants to break us. To make us think no one’s coming. To make us believe this place decides what we are.” He paused, looking back at her, eyes shadowed. “You can’t give him that.”

Hermione met his gaze steadily. “I haven’t,” she said.

Draco frowned slightly. “Then why—”

“Because he’s wrong.” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look away. “Someone is coming.”

He blinked, confusion flickering briefly across his features. “Hermione…”

“Severus will come for us,” she said quietly. “He’ll find a way. He always does.”

The name hung in the air between them, heavy and dangerous.

Draco exhaled slowly, the fight bleeding out of his shoulders. “You really believe that.”

“I do,” she said simply.

He gave a hollow laugh — not cruel, just tired. “You’ve always been better at hope than I have.”

Hermione offered a faint, sad smile. “That’s because I’ve had to be.”

Draco turned away again, pacing once before sinking down to sit on the opposite side of the cell. He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “If he’s coming… he’d better hurry,” he said finally, voice quiet, almost a whisper.

Hermione looked at him, her chest tight. “He will.”

Outside, somewhere far beyond the manor’s wards, a storm was rolling in. She could almost feel it — the tension in the air, the charge building in the silence. And in her heart, she clung to that storm as proof: something was moving.

Someone was coming.

—

Lucius’s laughter still echoed faintly in her head.

Hermione finally spoke, her voice quiet, cautious. “He’ll come back.”

Draco didn’t ask who she meant. “He always does,” he said bitterly.

She hesitated, then took a breath. “Next time… he’ll expect to see proof.”

Draco’s gaze flicked up sharply. “Proof.”

Hermione nodded once, throat tightening. “That we’ve—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. The word itself stuck in her mouth like poison.

Draco went still. The silence between them grew heavy again, but different this time — taut with dread, understanding, and shame neither of them deserved.

He spoke first, voice low and raw. “You think he’ll ask?”

“I think,” Hermione said carefully, “he’ll find a way to know.”

Draco leaned back against the wall, exhaling shakily. “He’s watching the wards. He’s using something. He always knows when someone lies to him.”

Hermione nodded. “Then we can’t lie. Not completely. We have to make him believe it — make it look real without…” She trailed off, unable to say more.

Draco’s eyes darkened. “Without letting him win.”

“Yes.”

He stood suddenly, pacing the length of the small room. “He’ll check the magic signatures. He has wards tuned to sense residue — he always did. If we can manipulate that, make it look like there was… something—”

Hermione’s mind leapt to the solution almost instantly. “A charm,” she said. “Something that leaves a trace of shared contact — magical resonance. Not… that kind, but enough to convince the wards.”

Draco turned toward her, startled by her clarity. “You could do that?”

“I can try,” she said. “If I had a wand.”

Draco looked down at his hands. “He keeps mine locked in his study.”

Hermione’s heart sank.

For a long moment, they were both silent again, the sound of the wind outside a soft whisper against the thick walls.

Finally, Draco spoke again, softer now. “We’ll have to act. He’ll read us — our body language, our magic. If he thinks for a moment that we’re pretending—”

Hermione nodded, cutting him off. “Then we can’t let him.”

Their eyes met. Something unspoken passed between them — not attraction, not even trust, but a grim understanding that survival would demand everything they had.

“I’ll find a way,” Hermione said quietly. “To make him believe it. Without giving him what he wants.”

Draco looked at her for a long time, then nodded. “You sound like him,” he said, a trace of grim humor in his voice.

“Who?”

“Snape,” he murmured. “You both talk about deception like it’s an art.”

Hermione managed the faintest ghost of a smile. “Maybe it is.”

They didn’t sleep that night. They sat on opposite sides of the room, whispering plans in the dark — how to cast without a wand, how to mislead a monster, how to survive until Severus found them.

And though neither said it aloud, both knew the truth pulsing under every word:
If Lucius believed their lie, they might live.
If he didn’t — there would be no second chance.

—

Morning came in muted light. The air in the cell was heavy and cool, still carrying the faint scent of damp stone. Hermione sat cross-legged on the narrow cot, her pulse steady only because she forced it to be. Draco stood beside the door, every line of him composed — but she could see the strain around his mouth, the white of his knuckles where he gripped his sleeve.

The lock scraped.

Lucius entered as if he owned the air itself, his presence chilling the room a degree colder. Behind him trailed two masked attendants, silent and faceless. He didn’t speak right away; he simply let his eyes wander — to the untouched tray of food, the rumpled blanket, the faint steam that still clung to the stones from the night before.

“Well,” he said at last, his voice smooth as glass. “A restful night, I trust?”

Neither answered.

Lucius smiled faintly. “No doubt you’ve… come to an understanding.”

Draco’s shoulders tensed. Hermione’s breath hitched before she forced herself to meet Lucius’s gaze. “You told us to comply,” she said evenly. “We did.”

Lucius’s eyes gleamed. “So certain. Yet certainty can be so easily… tested.”

He drew his wand with deliberate grace, tracing an idle pattern in the air. The faintest shimmer — almost invisible — spread through the room like heat distortion. Hermione felt it brush over her skin, cold and searching. A resonance charm. Her mind raced.

He’s checking the wards. Checking for magical overlap.

Draco didn’t move. He watched the spell unfold with the wary stillness of someone who had lived too long with danger.

Lucius circled them once, his steps echoing softly. “You know,” he murmured, “magic leaves impressions. The smallest spark of contact between two… bound by circumstance can reveal much.”

He stopped in front of Hermione. She could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the dark satisfaction that came from making people squirm. “Tell me,” he said, voice soft. “Do you still find him… intolerable?”

Hermione’s heart hammered. She forced her voice calm. “I find him alive. That’s enough.”

Lucius’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes flicked to Draco. “And you, my son — did she prove… accommodating to her new reality?”

Draco lifted his chin. “We followed your orders.”

“Ah. So dutiful.” Lucius’s voice was a purr, but the air around them crackled faintly — his spell deepening, probing for contradiction. The shimmer brightened for an instant, then faded.

Hermione could feel the faint thrum of magic still lingering from the charm she’d woven in secret hours ago — a thin residue of resonance she’d coaxed into existence using the meager ambient energy of the manor. It was working. The air didn’t react, the wards didn’t flare.

Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “How… convincing.”

He raised his wand once more, whispered a single diagnostic word, and watched as faint lines of light coiled briefly in the air between them — traces of shared magical signature. Subtle, but there. Hermione held her breath.

Then Lucius lowered his wand.

“Well,” he said softly, “it appears my trust in bloodlines is not entirely misplaced.”

Draco didn’t flinch, though Hermione saw his jaw tighten.

Lucius stepped closer, lowering his voice until only they could hear. “Do not mistake this for freedom. You will remain here until the Ministry confirms your… compliance.” He leaned in slightly, his smile thin and sharp. “And should that confirmation fail… I will know.”

He turned toward the door, gesturing to the guards. “Leave them. Let them… rest.”

The door closed. The lock clicked.

For a long moment, neither Hermione nor Draco moved. Then Draco let out a slow, shuddering breath, every ounce of tension draining from his body.

“He believed it,” he whispered.

Hermione’s hands shook. “For now.”

Draco sank down beside her, still trembling from adrenaline. “That wandless charm of yours—”

“—won’t last long,” she finished. “A few hours at most.”

The fear was still there, coiled tight in her chest, but beneath it burned something stronger: resolve.

They had fooled Lucius Malfoy once.

They would do it again.
And when the chance came, they’d make sure it was the last time he ever underestimated them.

Chapter Text

Snape worked day and night for the past days to forge a plan. He would use their connection, and their attraction for each other to prove their binding.

The Ministry’s lower chambers smelled of parchment and cold stone — places where decisions were made in whispers and sealed with wax rather than truth. Severus stood alone in the center of the hearing room, his black robes still dusted with ash from the night’s travel. He hadn’t slept in two days.

Across from him sat three senior officials, quills poised above scrolls. The lead clerk, a sharp-faced witch with iron-gray hair, adjusted her glasses. “Professor Snape, you understand the implications of this appeal,” she said. “By law, the Marriage Preservation Decree is binding. The Ministry is not in the business of rescinding sanctioned transfers.”

Severus’s eyes flashed. “You sanctioned a kidnapping.”

A murmur rippled along the bench. The clerk cleared her throat. “The decision was made based on a lack of magical union signature.”

“The spell you rely on is two decades out of date,” Severus said coldly. “It does not account for magical dampening fields — particularly those caused by experimental shielding potions.”

He flicked his wand, and a thin wisp of silver mist coalesced above the chamber table: a suspended image of the charm’s flawed resonance pattern, annotated in elegant, furious script.

“You can see the disruption,” he said. “The signature was there. Your wards failed to register it.”

Another official, a balding wizard in green robes, squinted at the projection. “If that’s true—”

“It is,” Severus said, cutting him off. “Hermione Granger was wrongfully seized under false magical pretense. Her transfer to Lucius Malfoy constitutes a violation of Article Seven of the Protection Edict.”

The clerk frowned. “You’re suggesting the decree itself was mishandled—”

“I’m suggesting,” Severus interrupted again, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet, “that you correct your mistake before I take it before the Wizengamot. Or the press.”

The words hung in the air like a curse.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The officials exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, the gray-haired clerk exhaled. “You will understand,” she said slowly, “that this decision will require oversight. You may retrieve her — but the Ministry will send an escort to ensure compliance.”

Severus’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I expected nothing less.”

Within the hour, the authorization parchment was signed. The seal of the Ministry burned gold against the black wax — official, absolute, and binding.

Severus folded it neatly and slipped it into his pocket, his mind already ten steps ahead.

He left the chamber without a word.

By the time the escort team had gathered their cloaks, he was already gone — a streak of shadow through the Atrium, his stride purposeful, the air around him charged with the quiet hum of a man who had finally been given permission to do what he’d already decided to do anyway.

—

Outside the Ministry, the afternoon sky was low and gray. A storm was rolling in, thunder rumbling faintly over the rooftops.

Severus drew his cloak tighter and Disapparated with a crack.

When he reappeared, the air was colder. The iron gates of Malfoy Manor loomed before him, twisting like black ribs against the horizon.

He could feel the wards crawling over his skin, ancient and hungry. The kind of magic that whispered warnings before it struck. He didn’t care.

He withdrew the sealed parchment and flicked his wand once. The gates groaned open under the force of Ministry authority, shuddering in protest.

For the first time in days, Severus allowed himself a single breath of relief — shallow, sharp, and fleeting.

He had her path back.
Now he only needed to reach her.

—

The wards of Malfoy Manor shuddered under the force of Severus’s entry.
He hadn’t bothered with subtlety.

The heavy oak doors slammed open at his arrival, echoing through the marble halls. The air was thick with cold and incense — the scent of Lucius’s arrogance. A pair of house-elves scattered at the sound of his boots striking the floor.

“Lucius!” Severus’s voice cut through the corridors like a whip. “You’ve interfered with Ministry law. I’m going to end you DO YOU HEAR ME. Where is she?”

No answer — just the faint hum of warding spells trembling under the power of his intrusion. He was already climbing the grand staircase when Lucius appeared at the top landing, smirking, wand loosely in hand.

“My dear Severus,” he drawled. “You could have simply knocked.”

“I have authorization from the Ministry,” Severus said, his tone dark and clipped. He produced the sealed parchment, the gold insignia gleaming faintly. “You will release her now.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked to the document — and then to the closed double doors behind him. “I see,” he said softly. “Though you might be… too late. Don’t be distressed by the state you’ll find her in.”

That smirk — that calculated cruelty — was the last restraint Severus possessed snapping. He moved forward, wand rising. “Move aside.”

Lucius spread his hands mockingly, stepping away from the doors. “By all means. She’s right where she belongs.”

Severus didn’t wait. He pushed through.

Inside, the air was thick, heavy with tension and forced pretense. Hermione and Draco sat on the edge of the vast four-poster bed, wearing nothing but their underwear, their flushed faces told the story they’d been made to perform. 

Hermione froze when she saw who had entered. Her breath hitched. “Severus—”

Lucius followed him in, voice like velvet dipped in poison. “You see, they’ve been quite… cooperative. It would be such a shame to interrupt their progress.”

Severus turned sharply, his expression pure venom. “If you say another word, Lucius, I’ll silence you permanently.”

His wand was raised now, and for the first time, Lucius hesitated.

“Leave,” Severus ordered.

Lucius smirked but backed away, perhaps sensing something in the professor’s eyes that even he wouldn’t test. “Very well. Take your bride, Severus. I hope you enjoy… what’s left.”

Lucius had victory written all over his face

He shut the door behind him.

—

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Draco stood, guilt etched deep in his pale features. “I swear, sir — we didn’t—”

“I know what you didn’t do,” Severus snapped. His tone was sharp, but beneath it was a tremor — not of anger, but of barely contained emotion.

Hermione moved instinctively between them. “Don’t,” she said, voice low but steady. “Don’t take this out on him. He’s been protecting me.”

“Protecting—” Severus stopped himself. He looked at her then — really looked — and the exhaustion, the anger drained from him just a little. She was thinner, eyes shadowed, but she was standing. Whole. Fierce.

He exhaled slowly. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Hermione hesitated, glancing toward Draco. “Then he’s coming too.”

Severus turned to her, disbelief flashing across his face. “Absolutely not.”

“He’ll be killed if we leave him here,” she said. “You know what Lucius does to him.”

Draco looked away, defeated , saying nothing.

Severus’s jaw clenched. Logic screamed against it — one extra liability, one more risk — but Hermione’s hand brushed his sleeve, and that was enough.

“Fine,” he said at last, each word carved from stone. “Stay close. Both of you.”

He swept toward the door, wand raised, the air rippling around him with protective wards.

Behind them, the Manor seemed to come alive — the hum of dark enchantments awakening, footsteps echoing down distant corridors.

They were almost at the front hall when a spell detonated against the wall beside them, sending shards of marble flying. Lucius’s voice bellowed from above.

“TRAITOR!”

Severus turned just enough to throw a shield charm over the two behind him. “Run!”

And with that, the three of them burst through the threshold — the Manor roaring behind them as they Disapparated from the storm.

—

The cottage shuddered with the force of their arrival.
For a moment, the three of them stood in the narrow sitting room, the smell of smoke and damp air clinging to their clothes. Then Severus rounded on Hermione.

“What in Merlin’s name did I walk into back there?” His voice was a lash — low, sharp, vibrating with a fury that wasn’t quite controlled. “In his bed—under his gaze*—”

Hermione flinched. “You think that was our choice?”

“I think,” he said, stalking closer, “that I risked my standing and my life to retrieve you, only to find you—”

“Enough.”
Draco’s voice cut through, ragged but firm.

Both turned toward him. His face was pale, jaw clenched, but his eyes — hollowed by days of fear — met Severus’s without flinching.

“I told her no,” he said quietly. “Every time Lucius forced us together, I refused. He punished me for it. She tried to stop him — that’s all you saw.”

Severus didn’t answer. His breath came shallow, his hand tightening around his wand though the anger behind it wasn’t aimed at them anymore.

Hermione stepped closer to Draco, her eyes bright with restrained fury. “You want to know the truth? He’s been tortured for years, Severus. Every morning. Every night. You didn’t see that.”

Before he could reply, she caught Draco’s arm, lifting the edge of his torn shirt.

The air in the room seemed to vanish. Faint scars laced across his ribs and shoulders — pale against his skin, the marks of spells long healed but never forgotten.

Draco looked away, his voice breaking. “Lucius said it would teach me loyalty.”

Hermione let the fabric fall back, her hand shaking. “So don’t you dare blame him for trying to protect me. Or me for trying to protect him.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in.

Severus’s jaw slackened — just slightly. The fury drained out of his eyes, leaving behind something far more complicated. He looked at Draco, then at Hermione, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“I didn’t know.”

Hermione’s reply was soft but firm. “Now you do.”

For a long time, none of them moved. The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters.

Finally, Severus turned away, rubbing a hand across his face, exhaustion and guilt settling deep into his features. “You’re both safe now,” he said at last. “That’s what matters.”

Draco sank onto the old sofa, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Hermione stood beside him, her expression caught between relief and heartbreak.

And though the fire hadn’t yet been lit, the room felt unbearably warm — with anger, with grief, with the kind of understanding that could only come after surviving something together.

–

Later that night, Severus sat alone in his room, the small desk before him lit by the dull flame of a single candle. The Ministry parchment lay open across the wood — blank except for his name written neatly at the top. His quill hovered over it, unmoving.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of what he’d walked into at Malfoy Manor — Hermione’s frightened defiance, Draco’s hollow stare, Lucius’s smirk.

Merlin help him, he should have done something sooner.

He’d known the signs — the distance in Draco’s letters after the war, the way his replies had grown shorter, more careful. He’d told himself it was grief, survivor’s guilt, anything but what it truly was.
Because to name it would mean facing how much he’d failed him.

The quill finally touched the parchment. The first words were mechanical — Petition for Protective Restraining Order, Ministry Decree 107. The rest came slower, weighed down by emotion he refused to name aloud.

Subject: Lucius Malfoy.
Grounds: Prolonged coercion, unlawful captivity, psychological and magical abuse inflicted upon Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, violation of Ministry-sanctioned decree.
Requested protection for: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, and Severus Snape.

His handwriting was rigid, precise. Every loop of ink felt like a confession.

When he was finished, he sealed it with his wand, pressing his signet into the wax — black over parchment. The seal cracked slightly at the edge, as though even the wax hesitated under the weight of what it represented.

He set the document aside and leaned back in his chair. The candle flickered, throwing uneven light across his face.

Severus felt something close to shame twist deep in his chest. Not the kind that stemmed from the war, or from choices long past — but from the simple, brutal realization that he had abandoned a child who had once looked to him for guidance.

He’d spent so long guarding himself from caring that he hadn’t noticed how far Draco had fallen under Lucius’s thumb.

And now — the boy, the woman he loved, all of them bore scars that his silence had allowed to deepen.

He pressed a hand over his eyes, drawing a slow, steady breath. “Never again,” he murmured into the quiet.

When the quill stirred once more, he added a final note to the parchment.

Immediate request for safe housing relocation: Ministry oversight recommended. Temporary custody to remain with Severus Snape until further notice.

The moment the ink dried, he stood, folded the parchment, and sent it off with a charm that shimmered faintly in the candlelight — a streak of silver that vanished through the rain-laced window.

When it was gone, the silence returned, heavier than before.

Severus sank into the chair once more, staring at the place where the letter had disappeared. His reflection in the glass looked older than it had that morning — lined with guilt, with purpose.

But this time, at least, he was doing something.

Something right.

Chapter Text

Morning came gray and muted.
The rain had stopped, but the air outside the cottage was thick with fog. Inside, the scent of damp wood and steeping tea hung heavy — Hermione at the stove, Draco half-asleep at the table, both moving through the uneasy rhythm of people not yet sure they were safe.

A knock at the door shattered the fragile calm.

Severus was already on his feet before the second knock came, his wand in hand. He moved to the entryway, cloak trailing behind him.

When he opened the door, two Ministry officers stood on the threshold, cloaked in regulation gray. Between them hovered a small, sealed case bearing the golden insignia of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“Professor Snape?” the taller of the two asked.

Severus gave a single curt nod. “You’ve come quickly.”

“We received your petition last night,” the officer said, offering him the case. “The Ministry reviewed it under emergency provisions. You’re to open this personally — official correspondence only.”

Severus took it without a word, closing the door behind him as the officers Disapparated with a pop.

Hermione turned from the stove, brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“The response,” Severus said, setting the case on the table. The latch clicked open with a metallic snap, releasing a scroll and a faint glow of magic — the seal of approval, unmistakable and rare.

Draco sat up straighter.

Severus unrolled it, eyes scanning every line with deliberate precision. His jaw tightened, then eased.

“It’s approved,” he said finally, voice low but certain. “Effective immediately. Lucius Malfoy is prohibited from coming within five miles of any of us. His assets are frozen pending investigation. A formal inquiry begins at dusk.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath. “That’s… that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Severus said, though there was no victory in his tone — only exhaustion. “For now.”

He passed the parchment to her, and she scanned it quickly, eyes widening at the precision of the order. “You asked for protection for all three of us,” she said softly.

“I did.”

Draco’s voice was barely a whisper. “You didn’t have to include me.”

“Yes, I did.” Severus’s reply was quiet, but final. “I should have long ago.”

Draco looked down, his hands trembling slightly, fingers worrying at the edge of his sleeve.

Hermione set the parchment aside and crossed her arms, studying Severus carefully. “So… what happens now?”

He hesitated before answering. “Now we wait for the Ministry’s confirmation of enforcement. They’ll place surveillance wards around the property. No one will be able to Apparate in without authorization.”

“And Lucius?” Draco asked.

Severus’s gaze hardened. “He’ll find another way to reach for control. He always does. But this time—” his voice dropped to something cold and deliberate, “—he’ll have to come through me first.”

The words hung there, solid and immovable as stone.

Hermione reached for Draco’s hand beneath the table, a small, silent gesture of comfort.

The kettle began to whistle softly. For the first time in days, none of them flinched at the sound.

Outside, the fog began to lift.

—

The cottage was too small for peace.
Every floorboard creaked, every gust of wind made the shutters rattle, and the faint hum of protective wards reminded them with each breath that safety here was something borrowed, not earned. Snape gave each Hermione and Draco a replacement wand. He trusted they would use it for good.

Still, it was quiet. For now, that was enough.

Hermione had transfigured one of the spare rooms into a makeshift library — books stacked in uneven piles, parchment spread over a narrow table. It gave her something to do, something to anchor her thoughts to.

Draco sat by the window, sunlight just starting to reach his face, his pale hair damp from washing. He looked younger in the light, though the shadows under his eyes told a story age couldn’t touch.

Severus stood at the hearth, cloak removed, sleeves rolled to the elbow as he poured water into the cauldron. The domesticity of it was almost absurd — the feared Potions Master making tea like an ordinary man.

Hermione broke the silence first.
“You don’t have to look after us like this,” she said, though her voice carried a hint of gratitude.

“I do,” Severus said simply, without turning. “It’s the condition of the protective order.”

She smiled faintly. “You and your paperwork.”

Draco snorted, but it was a quiet, tired laugh — one that ended too quickly. “I never thought I’d live to see my father on the wrong end of a Ministry seal.”

Severus glanced toward him. “Don’t mistake temporary restraint for justice. Lucius will test the boundaries.”

Hermione looked up from her parchment. “And when he does?”

“Then,” Severus said, setting the teapot down with deliberate care, “he’ll find that I’ve learned from his methods. Only mine are legal.”

That earned him a look from Hermione — half disapproval, half admiration.

The tea filled the room with warmth. For a few moments, the three of them just sat — not as savior and students, or victims and protector, but simply as people who had survived the same darkness and were still learning how to breathe again.

Draco finally broke the quiet. “I don’t know what to do now,” he said softly. “Without him pulling every string. It’s like… I’ve forgotten who I was before all this.”

Hermione set her cup down, her tone gentler than before. “Then we’ll find out together. You don’t owe anyone the version of yourself that survived him.”

Severus’s gaze softened just slightly. “Nor do you, Miss Granger.”

She met his eyes, and for the first time since he’d found her at the Manor, there wasn’t accusation or fear between them — only weary understanding.

The silence that followed was almost comfortable.

Outside, the fog had thinned completely, giving way to weak sunlight that crept across the worn wooden floor. The wards hummed softly, steady and strong.

It wasn’t freedom, not yet. But it was a start.

Chapter Text

The cottage had always been cramped, but Severus spent the entire afternoon weaving space out of shadows and intent.

Hermione watched quietly from the doorway as he worked — warding runes carved into the air with a flick of his wand, quiet muttering under his breath, transfiguration slipping smoothly into conjuration. She knew better than to interrupt. This was not a potion, not a spell, not even a duty.

This was atonement.

By evening, Severus stepped back, breath shallow but steady. “It’s done,” he said.

Draco looked uncertain as Severus opened the new door, the wood still smelling of magic and fresh varnish. He stepped inside slowly, like he expected a trap.

Then he stopped.

The room was soft and warm — nothing lavish, nothing grand. But unmistakably familiar.

A Slytherin-green wool blanket folded neatly at the end of a narrow four-poster bed. Quidditch posters on the wall — faded but steady, the same ones he’d had in his sixth year. A bookshelf lined with titles he’d once read under the covers at Hogwarts. A writing desk with an ink set in perfect alignment.

A life he’d forgotten he’d owned.

Draco’s breath caught. “This is—”

“Yours,” Severus finished. His voice was low, not unkind, but careful. “As you were before he sought to make you into something else. You are welcome to stay for as long as you want. Forever if needed”

Draco touched the bookshelf with trembling fingers, tracing the spine of a novel he hadn’t thought about in years. “I don’t… I don’t remember who I was then.”

“That is precisely why I created this,” Severus said.

Draco turned to him, eyes wet with a shame he tried and failed to hide. “Why now? After all this time?”

Severus closed the door behind them, sealing the room into a quiet world of its own. Hermione forgotten for now. This was about the two of them.

“I should have done it earlier,” he said, and Draco blinked, startled by the admission. “I should have intervened years ago. When the signs first appeared.”

“You didn’t know,” Draco murmured.

“I suspected.” Severus’s gaze went dark. “I told myself you were proud, that you would ask if you needed help. I forgot that children rarely ask when fear has been beaten into them.”

Draco swallowed hard. “You weren’t supposed to be responsible for me.”

“But I was,” Severus said. “Not by law, but by choice.”

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders stiff. “I thought you hated me.”

Severus blinked — a small, sharp movement, as if struck.

“Hate you?” he repeated. “No, Draco. I was… afraid for you. And afraid that if I interfered, Lucius would tighten his grip. That you’d pay the price.”

Draco’s voice cracked. “I paid it anyway.”

The words hung there, soft and devastating.

Severus sat beside him — not close, but close enough.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I will spend the rest of my life ensuring you never pay it again.”

Draco pressed a hand to his face, trying to hide the emotion spilling through the cracks in his composure. “Hermione said something similar.”

“Then she was right.”

Draco let out a shuddered breath. “I don’t know who I am without him telling me what to be.”

Severus’s tone gentled in a way Draco had never heard outside the classroom. “That is the point of this room. Not to hold you to your past, but to remind you that you had a self before him. A self that can be rebuilt.”

Draco lifted his gaze. “And you think I can become that person again?”

“No.” Severus paused. “I think you can become someone better. Someone who chose survival, kindness, and loyalty over control and cruelty.”

Draco let out a small, broken laugh. “Those don’t sound like the traits of a Malfoy.”

“They sound,” Severus corrected softly, “like the traits of the boy who defied his father to protect a terrified girl in a gilded prison.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy, but healing.

Draco rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Thank you… for this.”

Severus inclined his head. “You are welcome.”

And for the first time since they’d escaped the Manor, Draco lay down on a bed that didn’t hurt him, in a room that didn’t watch him, with a mentor who didn’t lie to him.

—

Severus had retreated to his study hours ago, quill scratching steadily against parchment. Draco’s new room—his sanctuary—glowed faintly under a single lamp, its warm light spilling into the hallway.

Hermione stood outside the door, her hand hovering just short of the wood.

She didn’t want to intrude.
But she remembered the look on Draco’s face from earlier, how the weight of years had settled on him the moment Severus left the room.

She knocked softly. “Draco? It’s me.”

A pause.
Then: “You can come in.”

She pushed the door open.

Draco sat cross-legged on the bed, the green blanket pulled loosely around his shoulders. His hair was still damp from the bath, but his eyes looked clearer than she’d seen in days. The room felt warmer now that he occupied it—like the space was inhaling its first breath with him.

“You should be sleeping,” Hermione said gently, closing the door behind her.

“So should you,” he replied, but without any real bite. “I—can’t. Not yet.”

She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, leaving space between them. “Still thinking about earlier?”

He let out a small, humorless laugh. “I keep expecting him to walk in. To tell me to stand straighter, to lower my voice, to—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “This room feels too good to be real.”

Hermione looked at him, really looked at him.

Not the boy from Hogwarts.
Not the fragile shell from the Manor.
Just Draco—trying to remember how to exist without fear dictating every breath.

“You deserve this,” she said softly. “A safe place. A room that’s yours.”

He swallowed hard. “It feels strange to have something that’s mine.”

Hermione hesitated, then reached over and gently touched his wrist. Her voice was steady, grounded.

“You’re allowed to have good things, Draco.”

His eyes glistened, but he didn’t pull away.

“I keep thinking,” he said quietly, “that I should be stronger than this. That after everything, I shouldn’t fall apart over a few posters and a blanket.”

“It’s not the room,” Hermione said. “It’s what it means.”

He nodded, throat working. “I spent years pretending I didn’t care what he thought. But the truth is—everything I did was to avoid his anger. Every step, every word.”

“You’re free of him now.”

He gave a bitter smile. “I don’t feel free.”

Hermione’s grip on his wrist tightened gently. “That will come. Healing isn’t instant.”

He looked away, eyes shadowed. “Snape feels guilty.”

“He cares,” Hermione replied softly. “That’s why he built this room. Why he included you in the protective order. You’re not alone anymore.”

Draco exhaled shakily. “I don’t know how to be anything except alone.”

Hermione shifted closer—not touching, just near enough to be felt. “Then let us teach you. Severus and I… we’re here. For you.”

For a moment, Draco didn’t speak. His breathing steadied, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“You’re… not afraid of me?” he asked quietly. “After everything my family did?”

“No,” Hermione said firmly. “Not you. Never you.”

A single tear escaped before he could stop it. He wiped it away quickly, embarrassed.

Hermione smiled softly. “You don’t have to hide tears with me, Draco. Not anymore.”

He looked at her for a long moment, something fragile and grateful flickering across his face.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She stood, giving his hand one last reassuring squeeze. “Get some rest. You’re safe here.”

Draco lay back slowly, pulling the green blanket to his chin. His voice was small, worn thin by years of fear.

“Will you… check in again tomorrow?”

Hermione nodded. “Of course. Goodnight, Draco.”

As she reached the door, he added, barely audible:

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

She closed the door gently behind her.

And for the first time in a very, very long while, Draco fell asleep in a room that didn’t hurt him.

—

Hermione was sleeping deeply for the first time in weeks. It was the most peaceful she felt in a while. Knowing she had 2 men in her life that would protect her no matter what. That they wouldn’t hurt her and that she would do the same for them.

A soft creak broke the quiet.

Hermione sat up immediately. The door eased open, just barely, and Draco slipped inside like a shadow—barefoot, hair loose, shirt clinging to him where he’d been sweating through another nightmare.

He hesitated in the doorway.

“Can I…?” he whispered.

Hermione nodded and scooted aside. He closed the door quietly behind him.

When he sat at the foot of her bed, he looked small. Not physically—he’d grown tall and lean—but emotionally, he looked nineteen and impossibly, heartbreakingly tired.

“I had a nightmare and then I couldn’t fall back asleep,” he said hoarsely.

Her voice softened. “Nightmares?”

“I don’t think they’ll ever stop.” He rubbed the inside of his wrists, a nervous habit she’d learned to recognize. “But that’s not… that’s not why I came.”

Hermione waited.

He finally raised his eyes to hers. They were pale and unguarded in the moonlight.

“Hermione… about everything that happened. At the manor.” His throat bobbed. “In the bath. In the bed. Pretending to be—”

“You don’t have to say it,” she whispered.

“But I want to.” He drew a shaky breath. “I need you to know… I don’t blame you. For anything. You did what you had to do to keep us alive.” He swallowed. “To keep me alive.”

She shook her head, eyes stinging. “Draco, you suffered because of me—”

“Because of him,” Draco cut in softly. “Never you.”

Silence stretched, heavy but fragile.

Draco’s eyes dropped to his hands. “When Lucius made us… when he ordered us to kiss—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I promised you I wouldn’t touch you. And I meant it. For your sake. But part of me feels like I still failed.”

“You didn’t,” she said instantly. “I made the choice. Not you.”

He looked up, desperate. “But did it hurt you?”

She shook her head once. “It was awful. But not because of you.”

He exhaled shakily, shoulders loosening just a fraction.

Then, after a moment of courage gathering:

“Hermione… can I ask you something a little… personal?”

She nodded cautiously.

“How do you feel about him?” Draco asked quietly. “Snape.”

Hermione blinked, shocked by the directness.

Draco added quickly, “Not to judge you. I just… I don’t know where I stand with you here. You told me he would come for us—and he did. You trust him. But he—Merlin, he looked like he was going to hex me into the floor.”

“He was scared,” Hermione murmured. “And angry. And he didn’t understand what he was seeing.” She drew her knees close. “Severus is… complicated. He has feelings he won’t admit, responsibilities he thinks he shouldn’t want, guilt he thinks he deserves.”

Draco snorted softly. “Sounds like both of us.”

Hermione smiled sadly.

“But do you…” His voice dropped to nearly nothing. “Do you care for him?”

Hermione breathed out, slow. “Yes.”
Then, quieter: “In ways I didn’t expect.”

Draco looked away, not upset—just processing.

“I’m glad,” he eventually said. “He’ll protect you. Better than I ever could right now.”

“Draco—”

“No.” He lifted a hand, gently stopping her. “I’m not being self-pitying. Just honest.”

Silence again—heavy but not suffocating this time.

Finally, Draco looked at her, vulnerable and curious.

“And what about the law?” he asked. “The procreation decree.” His voice trembled. “How are you… managing that? With him? With me? With everything?”

Hermione’s breath caught. The truth was: she wasn’t. Not really.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m still terrified. I don’t want to lose my autonomy again. I don’t want anyone forced into anything. And I don’t want what happened with us used against either of us.”

Draco nodded, absorbing every word.

“Whatever happens,” he said softly, “I’ll support you. With the decree. With Snape. With whatever comes next. I’m not letting my father decide the rest of my life.”

Hermione reached out and touched his hand—light, brief, but grounding.

Draco’s shoulders relaxed.

“Thank you,” she said.

He gave a small, tired smile. “Can I… stay a bit longer? Just until I can breathe normally again?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He didn’t lie down, didn’t get under the covers—just sat beside her, legs crossed at the edge of the bed, close enough to feel another human heartbeat in the quiet.

For the first time in weeks, neither of them felt alone.

She may have lived horror in that manor but she found something she never thought she would find again after Harry’s death. 

The love of a long lost brother.

—

The cottage was still dark when Severus woke.

It was instinct—some old wartime reflex, some shift in the air—but something told him he wasn’t alone in being awake. He rose, wrapped his robe around himself, and stepped silently into the hallway.

One door was ajar.

Draco’s.

Severus frowned.

For a moment, fear stabbed at him—Lucius? An intruder? Another Ministry agent?

He crossed the hall on near-silent feet and opened the door wider.

Empty.

A strange, sharp ache bloomed beneath his sternum. He turned toward Hermione’s room, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving.

He expected… he didn’t know what he expected.

Not this.

Hermione and Draco were curled together on her small bed, tangled in blankets like two drowning souls who had clung to each other and survived the night only by refusing to let go.

Hermione’s hand was curled lightly around Draco’s sleeve.

Draco’s forehead rested against her shoulder, breath shallow but steady.

They weren’t lovers.

They weren’t pretending.

They were… anchoring one another.

Severus stood in the doorway for a long, still moment—long enough for guilt and tenderness and something like grief to ripple through him.

He had failed Draco for years. He had let Hermione suffer for days. And yet here they were, connected not by romance or obligation, but by trauma, exhaustion, and the simple, human need not to be alone.

They needed each other in a way she would never need him.

And surprisingly—that didn’t feel like a threat. It felt… right.

He stepped closer and crouched beside the bed, watching them breathe, watching their fingers twitch in restless dreams.

He reached out and gently touched Hermione’s shoulder.

“Hermione,” he murmured, voice low, steady.

She startled awake instantly—eyes wide, hand flying to cover Draco protectively.

Draco woke a half second later, jerking upright with a choked sound of panic, looking around as though expecting pain.

Both froze when they realized who was standing beside them.

“Professor—” Draco stuttered.

“Severus—” Hermione whispered, mortified.

“We weren’t—” Draco started.

“It’s not what it looks like—” Hermione added.

Severus lifted a hand.

“Stop.”

They fell silent instantly.

He looked between them, at the panic in their faces, at the way they still sat shoulder-to-shoulder even in fright.

“You think I am angry,” he said quietly.

They said nothing—but their expressions spoke for them.

“I am not.”

Hermione blinked.

Draco frowned in confusion.

Severus exhaled slowly, deliberately unclenching his jaw. “You needed rest. Both of you. And… comfort.”

Draco swallowed. “But we didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just— I couldn’t—”

“I know,” Severus interrupted softly. “I understand.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise.

Severus stood, smoothing the front of his robe. “You are safe here. Both of you. I would never fault you for seeking what little peace you can have.”

Silence again—but gentler this time.

Draco looked down at his hands, overwhelmed.

Hermione’s eyes glistened.

Severus cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the emotions tightening his chest. “I will… start breakfast.”

He turned away before they could see the softness in his expression.

At the door, he paused only once, speaking without turning back:

“Take your time. You’ve both earned a morning without fear.”

And then he disappeared down the hallway, leaving them stunned in the warm imprint of his unexpected kindness.

—

The cottage’s kitchen was small enough that Severus could reach everything without taking more than two steps. Normally, he appreciated the efficiency.

This morning, it made him feel caged.

He set the pan on the stove, lit the flame with a muttered charm, and tried—tried—to focus on the simple rhythm of cooking. Crack eggs. Slice bread. Heat water for tea.

Anything but thinking.

But the image kept returning to him: Hermione with her hand curled protectively around Draco’s sleeve. Draco sleeping like someone who had finally stopped running.

There had been a tenderness there he had not expected.

A trust he did not think he deserved.

He stirred the eggs too sharply, nearly splashing them. He swore under his breath.

Focus.

But the wards hummed softly, and every time they brushed against his awareness, they carried with them the sleeping signatures of the two in the other room—warm, intertwined, clinging to each other after nights and years of fear.

His chest tightened. He had never—never—wanted to be the type of man who resented comfort being sought elsewhere.

But he also had not expected how much it would matter that they were safe.

He was halfway through buttering toast when he realized he was standing completely still, staring at nothing.

Ridiculous.

He shoved the plate aside, grabbed a second pan, and forced himself to move.

Footsteps sounded in the hall.

Light ones—Hermione.

Hesitant ones—Draco.

They entered together.

Hermione was dressed in a sweater far too big for her, Snape sweaters, hair slightly mussed from sleep. Draco followed, looking exhausted but calmer, wrapped in a borrowed Slytherin-green robe Severus had found in a trunk.

They both stopped at the threshold as though unsure whether they were allowed inside.

Severus didn’t turn fully, but he nodded toward the table. “Sit.”

Hermione obeyed immediately, sliding into a chair. Draco followed more slowly, eyes flickering toward Severus as if bracing for reproach.

Severus plated the food with unnecessary precision, set three cups on the table, and finally sat across from them.

Silence settled—thick but strangely gentle.

Hermione was the first to speak. “The food smells wonderful.”

“It is adequate,” Severus murmured.

“It’s more than adequate,” Draco added softly, surprising them both.

Severus looked at him.

Draco dropped his gaze but didn’t retract the compliment.

Interesting.

They ate quietly at first. Hermione seemed to relax with every bite. Draco, for perhaps the first time since arriving, looked like he wasn’t forcing himself to swallow.

About halfway through, Hermione glanced at Severus. “About last night—”

“You owe me no explanation,” he said firmly.

Draco blinked. Hermione looked relieved but confused.

Severus continued, his voice steady despite the tug beneath his ribs. “You were frightened. Exhausted. It was natural to seek comfort where it was available.”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “It won’t happen again. Not without asking.”

“Draco,” Severus said, lowering his teacup, “you are not in trouble and you don’t need to ask”

The boy’s eyes flicked up, disbelieving.

Hermione reached over and touched Draco’s hand beneath the table—silent reassurance.

Severus saw it. He did not look away this time.

“You both survived horrors no one your age should endure,” he said quietly. “If you find solace in each other’s presence… I will not begrudge it.”

Hermione’s breath hitched—the smallest sound.

Draco looked stunned.

The sunlight shifted through the window, warming the edge of the table. Outside, birds had begun to gather in the hedges, cautiously exploring the quiet morning.

A new sound filled the room: the softest exhale of relief—from both of them.

For the first time, breakfast felt like a beginning rather than a reprieve.

Severus straightened, letting the moment settle. “When you finish, I’ll need you both in the sitting room. There are decisions to be made. Preparations. Protections to reinforce.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course.”

Draco lifted his chin. “We’ll be ready.”

Severus believed him.

He took one last sip of tea, feeling the warmth seep into him.

–

The sun had finally decided to grace the cottage with warmth, melting the last of the morning frost clinging to the herb beds. Hermione knelt in the dirt beside Draco, both of them wearing mismatched garden gloves Severus had found in an old drawer.

Hermione was coaxing a stubborn rosemary plant back to life.
Draco was pretending he knew how to prune lavender without butchering it.

“Left side,” Hermione whispered, smiling.
Draco adjusted his angle. “I knew that.”

“You didn’t.”
“You can’t prove it.”

She snorted softly, the sound warm in the crisp air.

For once, the garden did not feel like a cage. It felt like possibility. Fresh soil. Bright sky. A space big enough to breathe. Draco’s sarcasm back was a delight.

The wards shimmered faintly overhead, invisible but strong.

Inside the cottage, Severus was reading.

Or rather—his reading had stopped abruptly.

Because two Ministry owls had arrived at once, dropping letters with heavy seals before perching on the mantle as if waiting for judgment.

Severus broke the first seal with steady fingers.

He read the words once.
Twice.
A third time, slow and careful, ensuring he had not misinterpreted.

Then he opened the second letter.

His breath left him in a rush he didn’t hear.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, the letters trembling minutely between his fingers. Not in fear—no. In release. In something close to disbelief.

Then he pushed open the back door.

Hermione looked up instantly when she heard the hinges creak.
Draco straightened, concern flickering across his features.

Severus stepped into the sunlight, two letters held tightly in his hand.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked, rising to her feet.

He shook his head once. “No.”

They both froze.

Severus rarely said no to that question.

He descended the garden steps until he stood only a few feet from them.

His throat worked before he managed words.

“The Ministry has issued formal charges,” he said quietly.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Against who?”

“Lucius Malfoy.”

Draco’s breath cracked in his chest. His knees gave out, and he landed in the soil with a dull, ungraceful thud.

Hermione grabbed his shoulder instantly. “Draco?”

He stared at Severus, eyes wide—disbelieving, terrified to hope.

“For what charges?” Hermione whispered.

Severus’s voice was steady, but his eyes were softer than she’d ever seen. “Unlawful confinement. Abuse of a magical dependent. Violation of the Procreation Mandate. Unregistered use of unforgivable curses.”

Draco’s hand covered his mouth. A choked, broken sound slipped through his fingers—not quite a sob, but close enough.

Hermione sank down beside him, arms wrapping around his shoulders without hesitation.

“He’s—he’s arrested?” Draco asked, voice shaking.

Severus extended the second letter. Draco took it with trembling hands.

Hermione leaned closer, both of them reading as Draco mouthed the words silently:

“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy has been taken into Ministry custody pending trial. No bail permitted.”

Draco bowed his head, forehead pressing against the crumpled parchment as if it were the only thing holding him upright.

Hermione kissed the side of his head, whispering, “It’s over. Draco… it’s over.”

Severus stepped closer, slower, unsure—then placed a hand on Draco’s other shoulder. A rare gesture. A needed one.

“I told you,” Severus murmured, “you were not alone.”

Draco let out a sob—quiet, shuddering—then leaned into both of them, letting his body shake with years of fear draining out at once.

Hermione held him tight.
Severus steadied him with a firm hand.

For the first time since they’d come to the cottage, relief settled over them like warm sunlight, filling cracks they had forgotten were there.

Lucius was gone.

The threat had broken.

The garden felt brighter, safer.

And for a single breath, all three of them let themselves believe in peace.

—

The cellar was warm and fragrant, lit by floating candles that cast soft halos over shelves of ingredients. Steam curled from a cauldron, carrying the bitter-sweet scent of hellebore and thyme.

Severus worked in silence—precise, controlled, every movement sharp as a blade. Brewing always steadied him. Tonight, even brewing seemed to strain under the weight of whatever thoughts he wasn’t sharing.

Hermione descended the stairs quietly, though he still sensed her before she spoke.

“You didn’t tell us what the second letter said.”

His stirring slowed.

Of course she would notice.

He didn’t turn. “It wasn’t urgent.”

“Severus,” she said gently, stepping closer, “you wouldn’t have hidden it unless it was important.”

He exhaled slowly, set his spoon down, and finally met her eyes. She could see it instantly—the tension, the guilt, the dread.

“It concerns the Procreation Mandate,” he said.

Her stomach tightened.

He continued, carefully neutral, “The Ministry requires proof of conception by the end of your next cycle. If not, custody may be reassessed.”

“Reassessed,” she repeated. “Meaning… they could take me again?”

His jaw tightened. “Not while I breathe.”

She stepped closer, voice soft. “What does the letter demand?”

He hesitated only a moment before answering. “They expect us to… begin the process immediately. I have already started brewing a fertility elixir. It should increase the likelihood of conception without—”

He stopped.

“Without what, exactly?” she said

Hermione swallowed when she realized. “Without intimacy.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Using… my genetic material without needing to involve you physically. It is the most efficient and least intrusive method. I got inspired from the muggle IVF. I should have thought about it before. It has not yet been invented in our world but I'm confident I can make it work.”

Hermione stared at him, bewildered.

“Least intrusive?” she whispered. “Severus… do you really think that’s what I want?”

He blinked—slow, wary, almost confused. “I thought you would prefer it that way. After everything. After what you endured.”

“I did endure it,” she said, voice trembling but steady. “And I survived it. But this is different. You are different.”

He looked away, as if afraid of the hope her words might ignite. “Hermione… I am offering you safety. Not romance. Not obligation.”

“I’m not talking about obligation.” She reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve. “I’m talking about how I feel.”

His breath hitched—barely perceptible, but she felt it.

“Don’t,” he murmured. “Not if it’s only fear driving you.”

“It isn’t fear.” She stepped closer until he had no choice but to look at her. “When I was at the Manor, the thing that got me through was knowing you were coming. I kept telling Draco you would find a way. And you did.”

He swallowed, throat working.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“I care about you,” she said, stronger now. “Not because you rescued me. Not because the law says it has to be you. But because you’ve shown me kindness, and patience, and strength I never thought you had.”

He said nothing. He couldn’t.

Hermione’s hand slid from his sleeve to his wrist, grounding him.

“And if we have to bring a child into this world,” she continued softly, “I don’t want it to be cold. Clinical. Something done behind a curtain.”

He closed his eyes.

A moment of raw, unguarded silence stretched between them.

When he opened them again, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“Hermione… are you certain?”

“Yes.”

His breath trembled—not with fear, but with something dangerously close to hope.

He stepped closer, slowly, as though afraid she might vanish if he moved too fast.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly. “Truly?”

“You,” she whispered. “Not just as a protector. As a partner.”

His hand—hesitant, unsure—rose to touch her cheek.

“And if we do this,” he murmured, “it will be because you choose it. Not because the Ministry demands it.”

“I choose it,” she said, leaning into his touch.

The cauldron simmered quietly behind them.

Severus lowered his forehead to hers—an intimate, uncertain, impossibly tender gesture.

“I had thought myself incapable of deserving this,” he confessed.

“You deserve more than you know,” she whispered back.

And for the first time, Severus allowed himself to believe her.

Chapter Text

The nearest village wasn’t much more than a cluster of crooked streets and mismatched stone cottages, but to the three of them—who’d been living in the quiet isolation of the cottage—it felt startlingly alive. Market stalls lined the square, the winter air smelled faintly of warm bread and woodsmoke, and the sun seemed soft instead of oppressive.

Hermione tugged her scarf close as they stepped onto the cobblestones. Draco walked with his hands in his pockets, pale hair glinting. Snape strode slightly ahead, muttering about seed varieties and soil acidity like it was the single most important conversation of his life.

They visited the herb shop first. Snape inspected packets of basil like he suspected them of treason. Hermione and Draco wandered off toward the fruiting vines display, exchanging looks as Snape lectured a confused clerk about mandrake-compatible soil.

Finally, when Snape cleared his throat and announced, “I have… another errand,” both of them froze.

Another errand? In a Muggle village?

Before Hermione could ask, he added stiffly, “You may get coffee. I’ll return shortly.”

His cloak swept dramatically as he turned the corner.

Draco watched him go. “…He’s up to something.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed instantly.

“Something secret.”

“Definitely.”

Then, both at once, they shrugged because Snape doing Mystery Adults Things was not new, and the smell of coffee drifting from the corner café was too inviting to resist.

They settled into a tiny table near the window, warm mugs between their hands, frost forming on the glass outside.

For a long moment, they simply breathed—no Ministry, no fear, no decree hanging above their heads. Just two people having coffee.

Draco exhaled softly. “I forgot what this felt like,” he murmured. “Being… outside. Doing nothing dangerous.”

Hermione smiled at him, a real one. “Me too.”

They sipped in silence for a bit before Hermione shifted, cheeks warming. “So… I have a question. And I swear if you make fun of me I will hex your eyebrows off.”

Draco perked up immediately. “Oh, this is going to be good. Go on.”

She glared at her mug. “It’s about Severus.”

“Well, of course it is,” he smiled.

She nudged his foot. “I’m serious, Draco.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, leaning in, elbows resting on the table. “What’s the problem?”

Her face turned even redder. “I want to… talk to him. About being intimate. Properly intimate. But I don’t know how to bring it up without sounding ridiculous.”

Draco paused, raised an eyebrow, and then—slowly, wickedly—grinned.

“Oh, that’s easy.”

Hermione stared at him, horrified. “Draco. Don’t you dare.”

“No, listen, it’s foolproof. You trap him in the shower.”

She nearly spit her coffee.

“WHAT?!”

Draco leaned back smugly. “He can’t run. He can’t hide behind a book. He can’t pretend he didn’t hear you. Showers are emotionally disarming! Water is very… connective.”

“Draco Malfoy, that is the stupidest advice I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s strategic.”

She rubbed her forehead. “You want me to ambush him naked.”

“It’s not an ambush. It’s an opportunity.”

Hermione groaned into her scarf, but Draco just beamed, clearly pleased with himself.

“And,” he added more softly, “if you’re going to do this—tell him how you feel. Don’t leave him guessing. You know how he gets.”

She nodded, and the seriousness of it sat between them for a moment.

Then Draco brightened again. “Also, I will be working in my room all evening. Loudly. With the door locked. So you’ll have the house.”

Hermione choked again. “Draco!”

“What? I’m helping.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

—

By the time Snape reappeared—holding a plain paper bag whose contents he refused to explain—Hermione and Draco were laughing over old school stories, the weight on their shoulders noticeably lighter.

Snape paused by their table, eyeing them suspiciously.

“You look… cheerful,” he said warily, as though joy itself might be contagious.

Hermione and Draco exchanged a secret, conspiratorial glance.

“Just coffee,” Draco said innocently.

“Mm-hm,” Snape replied, unconvinced. “Shall we return?”

Hermione stood, tucking her hand briefly into Snape’s elbow. He stiffened, then—barely—relaxed.

And for the walk back to the cottage, all three of them felt something they hadn’t felt in months.

Almost normal.

—

The cottage door banged shut behind them, snowflakes scattering across the wooden floor. Hermione and Draco were soaked through—dripping icicles from scarves and hair, snow clinging stubbornly to boots and cloaks.

Hermione shivered, stamping her feet. “I think half of the North Pole just fell into this cottage.”

Draco laughed, tugging off his gloves and shaking out snow from his hair. “Not half—all of it.” He paused, grinning slyly at her. “Anyway, I have something I need to work on in my room. Don’t bother me.”

Hermione frowned, but before she could respond, he leaned toward her and gave a cheeky wink. “Just… leave me to my genius.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing despite the cold. “You mean scheming again.”

Draco disappeared upstairs, leaving a faint trail of snow behind him. Hermione shook her head and followed Severus into the bathroom, where he had already stripped off his soaked coat and stepped under the shower, steam rising in lazy spirals.

Hermione paused at the doorway, dripping and smiling nervously. “I, uh… thought I’d join you,” she said, trying to sound casual.

Severus looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, the water running down his shoulders and chest. “You are frozen,” he said flatly.

“Yes, well, you are warm,” she replied with a grin, stepping carefully onto the mat and shivering as her wet boots hit the tile. “And… I need a little thawing.”

He groaned softly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, betraying a hint of amusement. “Thawing. Right. This is highly unorthodox.”

Hermione splashed water on her face, laughing at the shocked look he gave her. “Unorthodox? You’ve seen me do far worse than join you in the shower.”

Severus shook his head, pretending to be stern, but the steam and her grin made it impossible to maintain for long. “You are insufferable,” he muttered.

“And yet,” she teased, nudging him lightly with her shoulder, “here I am.”

He narrowed his eyes, but the sharp edge of his gaze softened. “Do not make a habit of this,” he said.

“Oh, come on,” Hermione replied, splashing him gently. “You have already let me thaw you out.”

Severus threw a hand up, laughing—or something dangerously close to it—before shaking his head and turning back to the water. Hermione laughed too, the sound echoing off the tiled walls, mixing with the hiss of the shower.

Outside, upstairs, a faint thump and a low chuckle could be heard. Draco had apparently decided this was the perfect time to disappear into his own world, leaving them alone to—somehow—make the most of a wet, snowy evening.

Hermione leaned closer, letting the warm steam wash over her. “You know,” she said, teasing lightly, “I think we might survive winter after all… as long as we keep the company good.”

Hermione lingered under the warm steam, letting it wash away the snow and cold. Her wet hair clung to her face as she glanced at Severus, who was busy with the water running over his shoulders, eyes fixed on the tiles as if the world beyond the shower didn’t exist.

She tiptoed closer, careful not to slip on the wet tiles, and cleared her throat softly.

“Professor,” she said, tilting her head innocently.

Severus didn’t look at her. “Yes?” His tone was clipped, but there was a faint edge of curiosity hiding under the gruffness.

Hermione stepped a little closer, letting the steam curl around her. “I… thought maybe you could use some… company?”

Severus froze mid-breath. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to glance at her. “Company?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to sound casual, though her heart was hammering. “You’ve been… so busy with everything. I thought… maybe I could help you relax.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, suspicion flickering across his face. “You do realize the water is scalding?”

She smiled, stepping a fraction closer. “I’m used to a little heat.”

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose. “Hermione—”

“Shh,” she interrupted, holding up a finger. She ducked under the spray, letting the water run over her shoulders as she deliberately brushed past him. “See? Not a problem.”

He flinched slightly but didn’t move her away.

Hermione grinned, dripping water onto the tiles. “You know, it’s really… inefficient to shower alone. Two people… much more productive.”

Severus’s jaw twitched. “Productive, hmm?”

“Yes!” she said, her grin widening. “I mean, think about it. You can teach me potion theory while we shower. Or… just… we can… warm up together.”

He finally let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and moan. It was primal. He was losing his control. Her plan was working: “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” she said, stepping closer until the water splashed across both of them, “here I am. For your convenience.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated—but there was a twitch at the corner of his lips, betraying his amusement. “This is madness,” he muttered.

“Or genius,” Hermione countered, ducking under the spray and bumping her shoulder lightly against his.

He shook his head, letting out a low laugh that turned into a cough. “You are entirely impossible.”

“And entirely here,” she said seductively. 

That’s when they both lost it. The restraint, the control. The law wasn’t dictating what they had to do anymore; they just wanted to do it organically. 

Hermione's breath caught as he pressed her against the cool tile wall, his hands roaming possessively over her wet skin, cupping her breasts with a firmness that made her gasp. "You've been tormenting me all evening, witch," he murmured, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her. She arched into him, her pussy aching with need as his thigh slipped between her legs, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through her core. His mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss, tongues entwining with a hunger that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing.

Hermione pushed him back slightly and whispered in his ear, "I want you to breed me." Severus' eyes widened in surprise but also desire. He quickly positioned himself at her entrance under the cascading water. With a deliberate thrust, he entered her completely, filling her. Hermione cried out; she felt an intense pressure and slight pain as he took what was hers to give only once - but it was quickly replaced by waves of pleasure so intense they left no room for anything else. The world outside faded away as they moved together in rhythm with each other's bodies and desires."

As they moved together in rhythm with each other's bodies and desires, the warm water cascaded over them like a living veil, heightening every sensation as Severus's thrusts grew more insistent, his hips driving deeper into Hermione with a raw, unyielding force. His cock, thick and throbbing, stretched her pussy with each powerful stroke, the slick heat of her arousal mingling with the shower's stream to create a symphony of wet, slapping sounds that echoed off the stone walls. Hermione's nails dug into his shoulders, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him on. His eyes, dark and stormy, bore into hers, a silent storm of possession and longing that made her heart race faster than the pleasure building in her core. "You're mine," he growled, his voice rough with need, and she felt the truth of it in the way his hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements with a dominance that thrilled her, awakening a wild abandon she'd long suppressed.

The steam thickened around them, turning the air heavy and intoxicating as Severus's pace quickened, his desire raging like a firestorm that consumed them both. He ravaged her with a ferocity that blurred the line between passion and possession, his cock plunging into her depths with unrelenting strokes that sent waves of ecstasy crashing through her body. Hermione moaned, her breasts pressed against his chest, nipples rubbing against the coarse hair there in a delicious friction that amplified the tension coiling in her belly. She could feel every inch of him, the veins along his shaft pulsing against her inner walls, the head of his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside that made stars burst behind her eyelids. Their breaths mingled in heated puffs, the taste of salt and desire on his lips as he kissed her fiercely, their tongues dancing in a rhythm that matched the frantic thrust of his hips. Emotion swelled between them, a tangled web of forbidden yearning and unspoken vows, her body arching to meet his as if to etch this moment into their very souls.

Then, with a final, primal surge, Severus's control shattered; he buried himself to the hilt inside Hermione. His cock throbbed wildly as he emptied himself inside her in rhythmic pulses that sent her tumbling over the edge with him. Her inner muscles clenched around him in greedy waves as she clung to him; their bodies shuddered in unison. The water washed over them carrying away any evidence of their union but leaving behind an emotional tether so profound it left Hermione trembling in Severus's arms. For a fleeting moment outside this world ceased to exist leaving only two souls entwined in shadows cast by their forbidden desires.

Outside, upstairs, Draco’s muffled chuckle floated down, as if he’d known all along that this little “trap” would work perfectly.

Hermione grinned to herself. Mission accomplished.

Chapter Text

Dear readers, It's with a heavy heart that I announce this sad news. I will stop writing for a while. I started to write to improve my english, to have fun with characters I grew up with and to add some spice to a story that was dear to me.

Tonight, I got this message on my story :

What I just read was a massive, flashing red flag for illegal content. I am not exaggerating when I say this should never have seen the light of day. I couldn't, in good conscience, click away without taking responsibility for reporting this dangerous publication. I utilized the official government portal for reporting cyber violations and attached all the necessary metadata and proof of the offending text. Now the ball is in their court, and I trust that the local and state police forces will coordinate effectively to remove this illicit material and find the person behind the upload.

I wish to apologize if I offended anyone. This is a work of fiction. I do not approve of any of it in real life. This is a fantasy. My story involves 2 adult character. I didn't think it would be an issue.

I guess there is no safespace for stories like this anymore.

I may eventually come back but at this time, the heart is not in it anymore.

Thank you all for the support and reading me. I am very grateful. 

Sorry for all the grammar mistake, i'm not proof reading

Chapter Text

The garden had opinions

Hermione decided this as she wrestled a stubborn clump of ivy away from the low stone wall, dirt smudged across her palms and the hem of her borrowed jumper. The soil was rich but overgrown, as if it hadn’t quite decided whether it wanted to be wild or loved.

“Careful,” Draco drawled from her left, leaning far too casually on his spade. “If you glare at it any harder, it might file a formal complaint.”

Hermione huffed a laugh and tugged again. “You’re welcome to help instead of narrate.”

“Oh, I am helping,” he said brightly. “Morale support. Very important.”

She shot him a look. Draco Malfoy—rescued, shaken, infuriatingly alive—was wearing rolled-up sleeves and an expression of deep, smug satisfaction that had absolutely nothing to do with gardening.

He glanced toward the house. The windows were open despite the chill, and the faint, unmistakable scent of brewing potions drifted out—bitter, herbal, grounding.

“So,” Draco said lightly. Too lightly. “You sleep well?”

Hermione froze.

“Draco.”

“What?” He grinned, all teeth and mischief. “It’s a reasonable question. Traumatic week. New living arrangements. Emotional upheaval.”

She resumed pulling ivy with unnecessary force. “Yes. I slept fine.”

“Mm.” He hummed. “Funny. You look… well-rested.”

Her ears burned.

Inside the house, a cauldron gave a low, contented glorp.

Draco’s grin widened. “And Severus,” he continued, “is brewing at seven in the morning. Which is either deeply alarming or deeply telling.”

“Or deeply none of your business,” Hermione shot back, though she couldn’t quite keep the smile from her voice.

He finally lifted the spade and stabbed it into the soil. “Oh, it’s absolutely my business. I live here now. Shared trauma creates shared curiosity.”

She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed cheerfully. “Alive, free, and impossible. It’s a whole new era.”

They worked in companionable silence for a few moments—Hermione coaxing order from chaos, Draco actually doing the heavy lifting when it mattered. The garden began to look less abandoned, more… hopeful.

“Did he look terrified?” Draco asked suddenly.

Hermione glanced at him. “Who?”

“Snape,” he said, a little softer. “This morning.”

She considered it. The quiet breakfast. The way Severus had handed her tea without meeting her eyes. The way his fingers had brushed hers—brief, reverent, real.

“No,” she said honestly. “Not terrified.”

Draco exhaled, something unspoken easing from his shoulders. “Good. I like him better when he’s brooding but functional.”

A pause.

“Also,” Draco added, “for the record—I heard nothing.”

Hermione groaned.

“Walls are thick,” he continued innocently. “Very respectable house. Excellent wards. Absolute silence.”

She glared.

“But,” he said, unable to resist, “the vibes were unmistakable.”

“Draco.”

“I mean, honestly,” he laughed, ducking as she tossed a clod of dirt at him. “After everything? I think it’s rather poetic. He bought you to save you. You saved me from my father. Now we’re all here, playing house and pruning hedges.”

Inside, the cauldron simmered steadily.

Hermione looked toward the open window, toward the man who had risked everything for control, then learned how to let it go.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Poetic.”

Draco smiled—not sharp this time, but real. “Come on, then. If we’re going to be a strange, emotionally complicated household, we might as well have decent tomatoes.”

—

Severus waited too long to speak.

Hermione noticed it first—the way he stood by the hearth long after the tea had cooled, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Draco noticed too, though he pretended not to, sprawled in his chair with a book he hadn’t turned a page of in several minutes.

“Whatever it is,” Draco said eventually, “you may as well say it. You’re brooding louder than usual.”

Severus shot him a glare that lacked its usual bite.

“I have made a decision,” he said instead.

Hermione set her cup down carefully. “All right.”

There it was again—that hesitation. Not fear. Something more dangerous.

Hope.

“I have placed an offer on a property in Diagon Alley,” Severus said. “A small shopfront. Structurally sound. Adequate space for a proper laboratory in the rear.”

The silence that followed was brief—but full.

Hermione’s face lit up first. “Severus—that’s wonderful.”

Draco straightened. “You’re opening an apothecary?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“That’s brilliant,” Draco said, grin breaking wide and genuine. “Of course you are. Diagon Alley won’t know what’s hit it.”

Severus exhaled, a tension leaving his shoulders that Hermione hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. “I had not intended to announce it until the purchase was finalized.”

“Too late,” Hermione said warmly. “We’re celebrating.”

Draco leaned forward. “And helping.”

Severus frowned. “That will not be necessary.”

“It wasn’t a request,” Draco said lightly.

Hermione nodded. “Shelving. Inventory. Wards. Research cataloguing. I can help with the ledgers.”

Draco added, “I’m excellent at moving heavy things and insulting inanimate objects into submission.”

Severus looked between them—these two improbable constants in his life—and allowed himself the smallest, rarest thing.

A smile, barely there.

“Very well,” he said. “But you will follow my instructions.”

Draco smirked. “Obviously. We value our lives.”

—

The shop was empty.

That was the first thing Hermione noticed when Severus unlocked the door and stepped aside to let them in. Empty—not abandoned, not ruined. Just… waiting.

Sunlight filtered through the front windows, catching dust motes in its wake. The floor was scuffed but solid. The walls bore faint impressions where shelves had once stood, ghosts of commerce past.

Draco whistled low. “It smells like potential. And mildew.”

Severus waved his wand, opening the back door to reveal the space beyond. “The laboratory will be here. Thick stone. Excellent ventilation.”

Hermione stepped inside, eyes already mapping where things would go. “We’ll need reinforced shelving along this wall. And a worktable here—central, so you can move around it.”

Draco kicked at a loose floorboard. “And wards. Strong ones. The ‘Lucius Malfoy Is Not Welcome’ variety.”

Severus’s mouth twitched. “Already planned.”

They spent the morning clearing debris, sleeves rolled, wands flashing. Draco levitated planks while Hermione scrubbed grime from the windows until light poured in clean and bright.

At some point, Severus removed his outer robes and joined them fully, hands steady as he repaired a cracked beam with meticulous care.

Hermione watched him work—really work—and felt something settle in her chest. This wasn’t retreat. It was rebuilding.

Draco flopped onto the floor when they finally paused. “You know,” he said, staring up at the ceiling, “most people start businesses because they want gold.”

Severus set his wand down. “And?”

“You’re doing this because you want control over your craft,” Draco said. “And because you’re tired of being used.”

Hermione glanced at Draco, surprised by the insight.

Severus said nothing—but he did not deny it.

By the time they locked up, the shop looked different. Still unfinished. Still rough. But undeniably theirs.

Hermione took one last look through the window. “It’s going to be incredible.”

Severus stood beside her. “It will be precise. Ethical. Quiet.”

Draco grinned. “Revolutionary.”

And for the first time, Diagon Alley felt like it had made room for them.

—

The house settled around them the way it always did after long days—wood sighing as it cooled, the fire crackling low and steady, the faint echo of Draco moving about upstairs before retreating to his room.

Hermione lay curled against Severus on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, his arm a solid line around her shoulders. The exhaustion was the good kind—the kind earned by honest work, scraped knuckles, and laughter that surprised them both.

The fire painted the room in amber and shadow.

Severus’s fingers moved absently through her hair, slow and thoughtful. Hermione listened to his breathing, even and deep, and felt that rare, fragile thing bloom again.

Safety.

“Severus?” she murmured.

“Hm.”

She hesitated just long enough to feel his attention sharpen. “The… procreation deadline. It’s coming up soon.”

His hand stilled.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She shifted slightly, enough to look up at him. “I didn’t want to ruin the evening. I just—after Lucius, after everything—I keep wondering what happens if—”

“I applied for an extension,” he said.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“Yes.” His jaw tightened faintly. “Immediately after the Ministry finished their inquiry. I cited their gross negligence in allowing Lucius Malfoy continued influence over the process. And the… consequences that followed.”

Hermione swallowed. “And?”

“And,” he said, exhaling, “we are awaiting their response.”

She rested her forehead against his chest, relief and anxiety tangling together. “Thank you. For thinking of it. For protecting us.”

His arm tightened. “I will always protect you.”

The words were still warm in the air when—

Thump.

Something struck the window with unmistakable impatience.

They both froze.

Another thump, followed by an indignant hoot.

Severus closed his eyes. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Hermione laughed softly as he stood, crossed the room, and opened the window. A Ministry owl swept in like it owned the place, feathers ruffled, eyes sharp, and dropped a thick parchment envelope directly onto the hearthrug.

It hooted once—self-satisfied—and departed without ceremony.

Severus picked up the letter, fingers suddenly very still.

Hermione rose and joined him, her hand slipping into his. “Severus…”

He broke the seal.

Silence stretched as he read. Once. Then again.

“Well?” she whispered.

His shoulders lowered. Slowly. As if a weight he’d been carrying for months had finally loosened its grip.

“They’ve granted an extension,” he said.

Her heart leapt. “How long?”

“One year.”

Hermione laughed—a breathless, disbelieving sound—and covered her mouth. “A year?”

“As formal reparations,” he continued dryly, “for their mishandling of Lucius Malfoy’s involvement, failure to safeguard you as a protected party, and… I quote— Heinous administrative misconduct.’”

She stared at him, then burst into relieved laughter, pressing her face into his chest. “We have time.”

“Yes,” he said softly, wrapping both arms around her. “We do.”

They returned to the sofa, the letter set aside and forgotten as Hermione curled back into his arms. The fire crackled on, steady and patient.

For once, the future didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like a promise. They had time to focus on the Apothecary. They had time to build their future.

—

Hermione arrived like warmth.

The bell above the door chimed, and the cold wind followed her in, sharp and biting, tugging at her hair and the hem of her coat. She kicked the door shut with practiced ease, cheeks pink from the weather, arms full.

“Coffee,” she announced, breathless and bright. “And scones. Because if I drink another cup brewed by Severus without food, I may perish.”

Draco looked up from where he was adjusting the front display and grinned. “You’re a saint. Or an enabler. Possibly both.”

The front of the shop was beginning to look intentional now—muted greens and soft charcoal tones, clean lines, nothing gaudy. Draco had an eye for it, surprisingly restrained, moving jars and signage until the space felt calm instead of cold.

Severus’s voice drifted from the back. “Do not touch anything labeled volatile.”

“I didn’t,” Draco called back. “I merely stood near it with ambition.”

Hermione laughed and set the coffee down on the counter, the smell briefly overpowering the apothecary’s usual bite of stone and herbs. She shrugged out of her coat and rolled up her sleeves.

“I’ll start transferring ingredients,” she said. “They’ll look better uniform.”

“Take the roots first,” Severus said. “They’ve been… unsettled.”

She moved to the back shelves, selecting new glass jars, carefully labeling each in her neat, precise script. Orris root. Mandrake shavings. Dried asphodel.

The scent rose as soon as she opened the first container—earthy, sharp, almost metallic.

Hermione paused.

Her stomach rolled.

She frowned, took a breath, and continued. She had dealt with worse smells. Much worse. But when she tipped the roots into the new jar, the scent hit again, stronger this time, curling unpleasantly in her throat.

“Oh—”

She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Bathroom,” she managed, already moving.

Her footsteps retreated fast, and the sound of the door shutting echoed a moment later.

Silence followed.

Draco slowly set down the paintbrush he’d been holding.

Severus emerged from the lab, wiping his hands on a cloth, brow furrowed. “She has never reacted to orris root before.”

Draco met his eyes.

“She also didn’t react to coffee this morning,” Draco said carefully. “She took one sip and handed it to me like it had personally offended her.”

Severus’s breath stilled.

“No,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Draco tilted his head. “You applied for an extension. Not a prevention.”

A long beat.

“I will not speculate,” Severus said stiffly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re speculating.”

“…Yes.”

They stood there, the weight of the possibility settling between them—fragile, terrifying, miraculous.

The bathroom door opened.

Hermione stepped back into the shop, pale but composed, washing her hands with a flick of her wand. “I’m fine. Just—bad reaction.”

Severus was at her side instantly. “Hermione.”

She looked up at him, and something in her expression—uncertainty, a flicker of fear—made his chest tighten.

“Would you like me,” he said carefully, gently, “to perform a diagnostic charm?”

Her eyes widened.

Draco very deliberately looked away.

“No,” Hermione said too quickly.

Severus softened his voice. “It would be painless. Private. Just to be sure.”

She stared at him for half a second longer—then turned and bolted for the door.

The bell chimed wildly as she disappeared into the cold wind.

Draco exhaled. “Well. That’s… telling.”

Severus stood frozen, heart pounding, staring at the door she’d fled through.

Yes.

Yes, it was.