Chapter Text
Prologue
Thoughts swirled through her mind with all the force of the most chaotic tornado, a sharp contrast to the clinical stillness around her. Clean white walls, neat rows of potion vials on the table to her left, the precisely made bed in front of her – everything clashed with the mess of parchment and paper strewn across her lap and the navy armchair pulled close beside her. Hermione looked up at the large, deathly pale man lying in the bed and wondered how everything had come to this.
The defence for his trial should have been her focus, but she couldn’t stop the words of Ron’s accusation reverberating around her skull. “You whored yourself out?” he had yelled, loud enough to disturb the ghoul in the attic and bring Mrs Weasley thundering up the stairs.
Tears pricked behind her eyes. She inhaled sharply, willing them back. Hermione had always had “big feelings,” as her mother liked to call them - inconveniently large ones, at times. She could still feel the disappointment and disgust in Ron’s tone. The thing was, Hermione thought, that when it all boiled down to it, essentially that was what she had done. She had traded herself for something infinitely more valuable. A chance, however slight, to ensure the safety and survival of her best friend, Harry Potter.
Her eyes flicked back to the man in the bed. Hermione scoffed in disbelief. She had bound herself to him. A man with an acidic tongue who had ridiculed and belittled her since she was eleven years old. A man who had made her feel as though her deepest insecurities were all she was. It still felt surreal. She couldn’t have expected Ron’s reaction to be any different, not really. She had tied herself to that man in mind, body, and law, creating a magic so strong they could feel each other’s emotions and locate each other’s presence. Magic so strong it could never be undone.
Looking back, would she change things? Would she have made a different choice?
No. She wouldn’t. Hermione knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she wouldn’t have. Without this decision - without him - they would never have survived.
Deathly pale. Frail. There was no other way to describe him as he lay in that bed, as still as a statue, the only sign of life the slow rise and fall of his chest. Her mind drifted back to the day it all began.
When Professor Dumbledore had summoned her to his office that day, the man she would bind herself to - though she hadn’t known it then - had been just as still. But in a very different way.
He was tall and imposing, posture rigid and uncompromising at Dumbledore’s right shoulder, his face set in its familiar sneer, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. Professor Dumbledore broke the silence. “Do sit down, Severus. I believe you are making Miss Granger uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable?” Snape scoffed, the sound sharp and disdainful. “She should be uncomfortable. You should be uncomfortable. We should all be uncomfortable.”
Now, she realised that the smile Dumbledore had directed toward her that day wasn’t reassurance at all, but weariness. He had been tired. Fading. She could see it clearly now.
“Yes, I understand this is not an ideal situation for us to be in, Severus,” Dumbledore said gently, “but the least we can do is be comfortable enough to have an honest conversation about it.”
At those words, a tight knot of tension had began to build in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. She clenched her hands in her lap. Dumbledore inclined his head toward the vacant armchair beside her, and Snape sat. Albeit reluctantly.
Her fingers twisted anxiously, her mind raced through every memory she could grasp, trying to work out what on earth she had done to be summoned before the Headmaster. Snape always managed to find some fault with her, but nothing came to mind that she had actually done wrong. No rules broken. Nothing that warranted this.
Professor Dumbledore clearing his throat snapped her out of her spiralling thoughts. Hermione could not recall the exact words he said next, only the wave of dread that threatened to overwhelm her. Her hands grew clammy, her breath quickened, and the room tilted around her before a potion vial was suddenly shoved under her nose.
“Drink, Miss Granger,” Professor Snape demanded, before turning sharply back to Dumbledore. “How can you possibly think she is mature enough to take on a bond such as this when she can’t even have a conversation about it without having a blasted panic attack.”
As the calming draught worked its way through her system, Hermione finally found her voice.
“Just because I’m not a cold‑hearted bastard and actually had a human reaction to being asked to give up the rest of my life to protect my best friend, you think I’m immature? We can’t all be made of stone, Severus.”
She smirked at the memory of the shock that had flickered across his face - the moment he realised the class swot actually had a backbone.
“What?” she had added, her tone turning sharp. “I think I should be able to address you by your given name. You will be my husband, after all.”
The shock vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cold, familiar sneer. He stepped toward her, towering over her, and she felt the fury radiating from him even though his voice remained perfectly controlled.
“And as your husband,” he said, each word precise and icy, “if you think I will allow you to speak to me like that again… you are sorely mistaken.”
“Now, now,” Dumbledore intervened gently. “This behaviour is hardly conducive to achieving this solution, is it? There are certain requirements of the bond that require amicability, after all. Let’s all have a cup of tea.”
Tea, Hermione thought fondly. That had always been the Headmaster’s solution. A shame it had done nothing that day to quell the anxiety twisting inside her, even with the calming draught settling her nerves.
Dumbledore continued, explaining the particular need for that certain level of amicability required for the bond to take hold. It was, quite honestly, the most mortifying conversation of her life.
She tried to challenge him. Suggested alternatives, other paths, other possibilities. But every option was dismissed with quiet explanations of risk and consequence. Eventually, Snape became thoroughly exasperated and snapped that despite her belief that she was “living and breathing library,” he and the Headmaster possessed significantly more magical knowledge - and lived experience of war - than she did.
Perhaps she should have tried harder, Hermione thought. Then she wouldn’t have had to endure the deeply embarrassing experience of assuring a man old enough to be her grandfather that yes, she understood relations between two consenting adults, and yes, she appreciated him leaving the finer details of the bond requirements, outside the incantation, for Professor Snape to explain in private when the time came.
And didn’t that time come quickly. Very quickly. Dumbledore and Snape had decided that it would in fact be the next evening.
She could admit now it was ideal, in a way. Harry and Ron had had Quidditch practice, so they didn’t miss her, and if she had stayed much later that first night the boys would have been concerned. Dumbledore and Snape had insisted she needed to sleep on it, time to think, to ensure her consent was genuine and she felt no pressure.
That was almost funny, really.
Hermione had understood the intention, she truly did - but how could she possibly not have felt pressured? She had been consenting, wholeheartedly, but it was like standing between a rock and a hard place. She had already made her choice. The only choice she could live with.
All the extra day accomplished was giving her time to overthink. To imagine every awkward moment, every inevitable misstep, every way this could go wrong. By the time she arrived at Professor Snape’s office the next evening, she was a bundle of nerves.
It was quite ironic really, Hermione thought looking back on it, that something so profoundly life‑changing and consequential could be so mechanically simple. It was absurd.
Although nothing about it had felt simple to her then, clasping hands with her husband‑to‑be, trying to stop the tears threatening to well up, while he had stood there with that ever‑frustrating look of disdain on his face. Hermione knew he felt things - deeply, even. She’d seen cracks in his Occlumency façade despite his mastery of it. But it was frustrating nonetheless that he had appeared on the outside to have no concern for the events that were unfolding, while she was drowning in heart‑breaking devastation for the loss of choices she would never get to make.
“Miss Granger, are you ready?” Professor Dumbledore had asked kindly.
Hermione remembered that moment, when she squared her shoulders resolutely and nodded. She had made this choice, and that was what mattered. She had chosen to do everything in her power to protect her best friend and just hope that it would save not only him but the Wizarding World.
The Headmaster recited a melodic Latin incantation while he drew circles around her and Professor Snape’s clasped hands. Under normal circumstances, Hermione would have been desperate to understand the translation. However, the reality was that at the time there hadn’t been any space in her mind for even the slightest bit of inquisitiveness. It took all she had to hold herself together. To her, the incantation had dragged on endlessly, but the moment Dumbledore took his leave arrived far too quickly.
This was when it got awkward - really awkward.
Hermione shifted in her chair and cringed just from the memory of it. Although, in hindsight it was quite laughable actually. The fact that a fully grown man in the modern world could use such archaic language, to describe what Professor Dumbledore had previously referred to as ‘the finer points’ of the bonding, was just ridiculous.
Once she and Severus - because she could hardly refer to her now husband as anything but his given name - were suitably situated in his private rooms he proceeded to explain that they were “both required to reach their pinnacle during the act”. Not before. Not after. Meaning that for Hermione to overcome the discomfort she may feel having never experienced “the act” before there would need to be a “suitable amount of build-up”.
Oh, and there definitely was build up, she felt flush just thinking about it! And a pinnacle too. A very good one in fact. A very good pinnacle. Hermione snorted. How could she have known that a man known for being a warm as the Artic could make her feel as though she were on fire.
She was incredibly grateful really that he hadn’t made it anymore difficult that it needed to be, he certainly could have if he wanted to. It wasn’t as if he had wanted to be there anymore than she did. Hermione knew that, and the knowledge had only sharpened her anxieties.
What if he found her lacking? She understood, logically, that such thoughts were irrelevant - they were fulfilling a duty, nothing else. But society had long taught women to measure themselves by desirability. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. And Hermione, for all her rationality, still wanted to be wanted.
Hermione sighed. Severus certainly had made her feel desired. In the way he firmly grasped her close, kneaded her curves and worshipped her most sensitive parts. He had stoked an all-consuming heat inside of her that filled her mind with nothing but the desperation of needing more. More of his skin against hers. More of his touch. More of the passion he was poured into her. Only when he had worked her into such a state that she was desperately begging for release did Severus relent. He filled her completely. Despite the discomfort at it being her first time, it wasn’t long before she tumbled over the cliff – crying out in ecstasy.
Hermione jolted upright. Startled by the mass of papers in her lap cascading to floor. Jesus Christ! What was wrong with her! She thought. This was not the time or place to be day dreaming about the best orgasm of her life.
Her husband – the man who had sacrificed his entire adult life to stop Voldemort – lay before her, fighting for his very existence. And it was her responsibility to ensure that when he finally woke, he would have the freedom to live the life he had earned.
***
The Healers had been firm in their reassurance that, given Severus was in a magically induced healing coma, he would not wake without it being planned and carefully managed. They had eventually convinced Hermione that she would be contacted immediately in the incredibly unlikely event that his circumstances were to change. Unfortunately, no one could talk her out of her self‑imposed obligation to remain on hand, but they had reached a compromise. Hermione became a semi‑permanent resident of St Mungo’s tea shop.
Whilst St Mungo’s shared some traits with the Muggle hospitals she was more accustomed to, one difference remained stark: no electricity. For that reason, Hermione had claimed the sole table, directly beneath the window, that actually benefited from natural light rather than just the dim glow of the candles. Over the days she had grown used to the whispers and stares that came with being a war hero out in public - so much so that it had become increasingly easy to filter out her surroundings and lose herself in her work.
Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. It was no wonder her focus kept slipping. Hermione chewed on the end of her pen, deep in thought, before rubbing the bridge of her nose in a futile attempt to chase away the headache that had settled there days ago. Ink smudged across her nose from her stained fingers, but she barely noticed. With her back to the door and her focus absolute, she didn’t register that the entire room had come to a standstill.
Harry slid into the chair opposite her. The tightening of Hermione’s posture was her only sign of acknowledgement. He shifted awkwardly.
“How are you, Hermione?” he asked tentatively.
“I think I’ve got a strong opening and closing statement. I’m nearly done structuring the arguments for the charges. I mean, they’re not defences, more explanations. It’s not as if we’re denying them, no one’s denying them, it’s explaining the circumstances, the necessity…” she rambled, trailing off only when Harry gently placed his hand on top of hers. Hermione looked up and immediately pulled her hand away when she saw his eyes were full of pity. She didn’t want his pity.
Harry sighed in resignation. “I asked how you were.”
“I’m fine,” she said dismissively, picking her pen back up.
“No, you’re not. You’re clearly not.” The whispers around them began to rise as Harry’s tone sharpened. “Look, Hermione, we need to talk...but can we do this somewhere else?” he asked, casting a sheepish glance around the room as he rubbed the back of his neck.
Hermione sighed, the sound thin with exhaustion. She knew she couldn’t put this off much longer. Avoiding it wouldn’t make it disappear. “There’s a small garden down the street we can walk to. We could grab a coffee on the way, I could really use something stronger than tea,” she said as she pushed herself to her feet. “Let me just tell them where I am. I’ll meet you out front.”
It was hard for Hermione to remember the last time silence with Harry had been anything but companionable. They hadn’t uttered a word on the way, speaking only to order their coffee - an unspoken agreement neither of them challenged.
Hermione could feel the tension humming between them, as they sat side by side on an old wooden bench amongst the wildflowers of the city garden. She leaned back, closing her eyes and tilting her face toward the warmth of the summer sun, like a plant seeking out the light. It was as if her body were craving the vitamin D she’d been denying it. Beside her, Harry shifted with a restless energy.
“Look—”
“I think—”
They both started at once.
Harry pressed on. “Please, Hermione, let me get this out. I need to say this. I know I should be thinking about what you need - I am, I have been - and I’ll tell you about that after. But I need to say this first…” He trailed off.
Hermione arched an expectant eyebrow, taking a slow sip of her coffee as she waited him out.
After clearing his throat and taking a deep breath, Harry began. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry that we – I - left you to deal with all this,” he said, waving his arm around, “on your own. I should have been there for you. After everything you sacrificed for me, I should have been here, with you. I know that.” He swallowed hard. “I thought it was best if we all had a bit of time to cool off, to think things through. But seeing what that’s done to you… seeing you struggle like this… I know I was wrong.”
The desperation in his voice was unmistakable. Tears silently cascaded down his cheeks, matching Hermione’s. “I just hope you’ll let me be there for you now. Let me help you get through this - help him get through this.”
Hermione buried her face in her hands, she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Before she knew it, she was sobbing in earnest. Harry pulled her close, holding her as though he could shield her from everything she’d been carrying. She cried into his jumper until her body simply had nothing left to give. The warmth of his arms and the steady motion of his hand through her hair grounded her in a way she hadn’t realised she needed. For the first time in days, she didn’t feel alone. It was good to have him here.
How long they remained like that, Hermione didn’t know. But this time the silence was comforting. When her breathing finally steadied, Hermione found herself watching the birds skittering through the flowerbeds. The quiet was… unexpectedly cathartic. A thought occurred to her.
She sat back, sniffed, and took a fortifying sip of her now rather cold coffee. “You said that we all needed a bit of a break from each other…” she started hesitantly. “I can’t imagine you got much of one from Ron…?” she questioned. The idea that they had both had each other, been at the Burrow together whilst she had been left alone without any support, still didn’t sit well with her.
“Oh. Well… I haven’t seen him since, actually… Molly was furious about it - the way he spoke to you, what he said…” Harry went on to explain. “You know she never had much tolerance for Ron’s shit, and, well… she’s got next to no patience these days. Understandably…” He trailed off, clearly not wanting to talk about the grief that had overcome the Weasley household. He was likely drowning in his own grief too, if the unconscious picking at his coffee lid was anything to go by. The repetitive flick of the plastic lid was grating, but Hermione held her tongue and instead cleared her throat in encouragement for him to continue.
Harry sighed heavily as he set his cup on the floor beside him. “Yeah. Well… yeah.” He sat back up. “I’ve been staying at Grimmauld Place. What he said - the way he spoke - honestly, I just had to get out of there before I did something I regretted. Molly laid into him and, well, I just slipped out. I’m not sure I intend not to go back to the Burrow but… it’s not great there, at Grimmauld, though it’s given me plenty to do and, well… it was good to have the space. Time to think…” He chewed his lip whilst he contemplated how to continue. “I don’t suppose you’ve… uh… been reading the Prophet?” he asked, turning towards her.
Confusion clouded Hermione’s expression, surprised at his abrupt change of subject. “It’s not really been my priority. I’m honestly surprised you’ve bothered,” she remarked with disbelief. The last thing she thought Harry would want to do was read a daily rehash of the Prophet lauding his most recent achievements. She said as much to him.
“I know, I know... It’s rubbish really. But it’s the only way to really know what’s going on with the arrests and trials and that, y’know… But anyway, it’s out. People know… about you and Snape, that is… We don’t know how. None of us said anything.” He hastened to reassure her.
Hermione let out an undignified snort, earning a glance from a passer-by walking their dog. She explained to Harry about her hysterical meltdown in the atrium of St Mungo’s when they refused to let her see Severus. Apparently being a ‘war hero’ didn’t get the rules waived, so she’d had to resort to the ‘wife’ card. She hadn’t been thinking rationally when she demanded to see her husband - loudly enough for the whole hospital to hear. Possibly the street too. By the time she finished recounting it, they were both laughing manically, with far more mirth than the story really deserved.
“Yeah, that’d do it,” Harry choked out, still laughing.
It was easier to laugh than confront the truth of it. Severus had no one else, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him facing that kind of isolation after all he’d sacrificed. She pushed the thought aside.
“So what are they saying?” Hermione asked. “I assume it’s not good.”
“No. Mostly it’s about how he must have… y’know… taken advantage of you…” he sighed, wincing at the last part.
Disgust twisted in her stomach, and she bristled at how easily people assumed the worst. “You know that isn’t true, Harry.”
“But I thought you and Snape...?” What he was trying to imply was clear, even though he couldn’t say it.
“Yes - but I was completely willing.” The words tumbled out of her mouth with an over-insistent eagerness to reassure Harry.
Harry flushed and shifted awkwardly, and Hermione reddened as realised how that must have sounded. Harry nudged her with his shoulder.
“Oh, you were, were you?” he teased, despite the blush rising on his cheeks.
“You know exactly what I meant,” she said, giggling despite herself. “I meant I was fully informed of what I consented to.” Her voice steadied as she said it.
“In all seriousness,” she sighed, “I knew what I was doing. No one forced me, Harry, you don’t need to worry about that. I knew the consequences, that this was for life. We both did.” After pausing reflectively, she added, “Although thinking about it now, the way he spoke, I at least knew that meant forever. I don’t think Severus expected to survive the war.” She could hear it now, in every clipped word he’d spoken, the quiet resignation of a man who’d already accepted his fate.
Harry hummed in agreement. “Yeah… I get that.” His voice dropped, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. “So…” he hurried on, “what do you want to do now?”
“There’s nothing I can do. It’s done, Harry. I just need to focus on getting his name cleared, I can’t think beyond that.”
“But that’s what I mean…” He hesitated, as he contemplated his next words. “I spoke with Kingsley.”
Well, Hermione thought, wasn’t that a loaded statement if ever there was one. She braced herself in anticipation.
Harry told her that he and Kingsley had talked out all the possibilities, depending on what she wanted. But if Hermione really wanted to save Snape, Harry said, this was the only path left to them.
She felt his eyes on her, tense and uncertain, as though bracing for her reaction. Harry explained how the public didn’t trust Severus, how they didn’t believe in him. Not yet. But they did believe in her. Hermione Granger, the war hero, the girl who saved them all. If they could see how much she believed in him, then there was a chance they could change their minds. Not because of who Severus was, but because of who she was. Hermione couldn’t help but bristle at the unfairness of it, the injustice of Severus being judged through her was infuriating.
Harry said it quietly, the weight of it unmistakable. The public had to believe her, utterly and without question. She had to show them her and Severus were in love. Everyone wanted the Golden Girl to have her happy ending. She agreed with Harry that it was absurd to think that the story of a professor marrying his student out of love could save his reputation, but she could see the wartime fairytale had merit. The public needed a narrative they could cling to. If they trusted her devotion -her unwavering faith in Severus - then they would begin to trust him. And the Wizengamot was nothing if not swayed by public sentiment.
Harry’s voice softened, the truth settling between them. They all wanted to save Severus, and this was the only way. Hermione swallowed hard. She had already made her choice the moment she committed to clearing his name. There was no turning back. She would do whatever it took.
A shiver ran through her, though she wasn’t sure how much of it was the cold. “Okay, c’mon. I need to get back.”
“Wait. Um... there’s one more thing I need to say...” He hesitated, as though weighing whether he should say it at all.
Hermione sighed, too tired to pretend she didn’t know where this was heading. She stood, picking up their coffee cups to deposit in the bin on the way back, and turned to face him. “Well, go on then,” she prompted.
“I’m not defending him... I’ve told you I don’t agree with him. But...”
There it was. Of course Harry couldn’t leave it alone, not when it came to Ron. Hermione waited in silence, her patience stretched thin.
“You know why he’s so angry, don’t you?” Harry asked. Hermione didn’t respond. She knew. She understood. But understanding didn’t erase the way Ron had spoken to her. With distance, she could see how deeply she’d wounded him. When she had told them both about Severus she’d been speaking to her best friends. Her family. But Ron had heard something else entirely. He’d heard the woman he loved breaking his heart.
“Do you think the two of you can fix it? Your friendship, I mean...”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned.
Hermione felt a little lighter on the return walk. Harry’s presence helped more than she’d expected. He filled her in on some bits of news and the comings and goings of the Weasleys that she had missed.
As they neared the hospital, she spotted Ron standing outside the entrance. Her breath caught. She turned to Harry, her expression asking the question she didn’t need to voice. He held his hand up and shook his head, clearly indicating that this was nothing to do with him.
Harry hung back as Ron approached her. He stopped inches from her, his gaze sweeping over her face in silent assessment. Hermione flushed as his expression softened.
“You’ve got pen on your nose. Right there,” he said, reaching out to wipe away the smudge with his thumb.
Ron didn’t even get the chance to pull away before she launched herself into his arms. Hermione couldn’t tell if the sound in her throat was a laugh or a sob. What she did know, though, was that they could fix it. Their friendship, that is.