Chapter Text
The knock on his office door came precisely three minutes after curfew.
Severus Snape did not look up from the parchment spread across his desk.
“Enter,” he drawled.
The door creaked open slowly, cautiously, as if the person on the other side expected danger. With Snape, that was generally wise.
Hermione Granger stepped inside clutching a roll of parchment so tightly the edges bent beneath her fingers. Her expression was composed in the way only the deeply anxious ever managed — too straight-backed, too careful.
Snape finally lifted his eyes.
For one suspended second, neither spoke.
Then—
“Well,” he said silkily, “if it isn’t the Ministry’s newest sacrifice.”
Her jaw tightened. “Professor McGonagall said we should discuss the… arrangements.”
“Did she?” Snape leaned back in his chair with visible distaste. “How thoughtful of her to volunteer my evening.”
The fire crackled low in the corner. Outside, rain battered the windows of Hogwarts with relentless force.
Hermione remained standing.
Snape let the silence stretch deliberately.
It was a talent of his — silence wielded like a blade. Most students rushed to fill it. Granger, irritatingly, did not.
Finally, he steepled his fingers.
“Sit down before your expression becomes any more martyr-like. I assure you, Miss Granger, no one is enjoying this.”
She sat stiffly across from him.
The parchment in her hands trembled slightly before she flattened it against her knees.
“The Ministry has approved the binding,” she said quietly. “It will take effect at the end of term.”
“As I was made painfully aware this morning.”
His voice dripped acid.
The Marriage Preservation Act had passed only months earlier, pushed through the Wizengamot under the guise of preserving magical stability and strengthening old alliances during increasingly uncertain times. Pure-blood families praised it openly. Others feared what it truly represented — control disguised as tradition.
And somehow, against every law of nature and reason, magic had deemed Hermione Granger his highest match.
The entire castle had been whispering about it for days.
Snape’s lip curled faintly.
“Tell me, Miss Granger… did your heroic friends attempt a rebellion on your behalf? Potter charging into the Ministry with righteous indignation? Weasley threatening violence with all the subtlety of a concussed troll?”
A flicker of irritation crossed her face.
“No.”
“How disappointing.”
“They know fighting it would make things worse.”
“An unusually intelligent conclusion from Mr. Potter.”
Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose. “You don’t have to be cruel about them.”
Snape’s dark eyes sharpened instantly.
“Cruelty implies enjoyment.”
His voice dropped lower, smoother.
“I can assure you, Miss Granger, I find this situation profoundly exhausting.”
Something in that made her look at him properly for the first time that evening.
Not at Professor Snape.
Not at the spy.
Not at the terrifying right hand of Voldemort who stalked the corridors in black robes while students scattered from his path.
At the man himself.
And Merlin help him, she looked sympathetic.
Snape’s expression turned glacial.
“Do not,” he said softly, “look at me like that.”
Her brows drew together. “Like what?”
“As though you pity me.”
“I don’t pity you.”
“No?”
“No.” She hesitated. “I think you’re angry.”
A humorless smile ghosted across his mouth.
“Ten points to Gryffindor for staggering insight.”
The rain intensified outside.
Hermione glanced toward the windows before speaking again.
“You could refuse.”
Snape gave a quiet, dangerous laugh.
“Could I?”
“The Ministry can’t force—”
“They can,” he interrupted coldly. “And they will.”
He rose from his chair in one fluid movement, robes spilling around him like ink. Hermione instinctively straightened.
Snape moved toward the fire, hands clasped behind his back.
“You, perhaps, still possess the luxury of ideals,” he said without looking at her. “Some of us understand precisely how governments operate when frightened.”
“You make it sound like imprisonment.”
He turned then.
Sharp profile lit gold by firelight. Dark eyes unreadable.
“What else would you call being legally chained to another person?”
Hermione swallowed.
Neither spoke for several moments.
Then, quieter—
“I didn’t ask for this either.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Brief. Nearly invisible.
But there.
Of course she had not.
She was eighteen years old, brilliant, stubborn, insufferably moral — and had likely imagined a future vastly different from being handed to Severus Snape by Ministry decree.
A strange exhaustion settled in his chest.
He looked away first.
“I am aware.”
The words sounded almost reluctant.
Hermione blinked, as though surprised he’d offered even that small concession.
Snape returned to his desk and sat once more.
Efficient. Controlled. Walls rebuilt instantly.
“There will be conditions,” he said.
Her spine stiffened again. “Conditions.”
“Yes. You will continue your education uninterrupted. Your… social attachments are your own concern provided they do not interfere with my work. You will not enter my private rooms uninvited. You will not touch my stores, my potion ingredients, or anything labeled dangerous.”
A pause.
“Which, in my quarters, is nearly everything.”
To his irritation, her mouth twitched faintly.
Snape noticed.
And disliked noticing.
“You may continue spending holidays wherever you wish,” he continued. “Public appearances will occur only when politically necessary.”
Hermione stared at him.
“That’s it?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Were you expecting poetry?”
“No,” she admitted carefully. “I just thought you’d be… harsher.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. Give it time.”
That earned the smallest huff of laughter from her before she could stop it.
The sound caught both of them off guard.
Snape looked deeply offended by its existence.
Hermione cleared her throat quickly. “Right.”
Another silence.
Less sharp this time.
At last, she rose from the chair.
“I should go.”
“Yes,” Snape said immediately. “An excellent idea.”
She moved toward the door before hesitating.
“Professor?”
His gaze lifted again.
“For what it’s worth…” She faltered slightly. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”
The candlelight flickered across his face, carving shadows beneath tired eyes.
“No,” Severus Snape said quietly. “It is not.”
For one strange moment, the bitterness vanished from his voice entirely.
Only weariness remained.
Hermione nodded once, then slipped from the office.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Snape sat motionless in the silence she left behind.
Then his gaze dropped to the Ministry decree still lying open on his desk.
MAGICALLY SANCTIONED UNION: SEVERUS SNAPE & HERMIONE GRANGER.
He stared at it with profound contempt.
And somewhere beneath the contempt —
far more dangerous —
was the unsettling realization that Granger had looked at him tonight without fear.
As though she believed there was still something human left in him.
Foolish girl.