"Severus," Hermione said, very carefully, "I'm afraid.... I'm terribly sorry. I thought you understood the matter quite clearly."

"You needn't speak to me as if I'm an idiot," he shot back, blocking the door: while he still had a smile on his face, he looked more dangerous and forboding than ever, and Hermione had to stifle a shiver. "I understand what you intended quite well. The problem is, you don't appear to have taken my wishes into consideration in the least."

"I most certainly.... How in bloody hell could you mistake what I meant? How can you misinterpret 'marriage in name only'?"

"I haven't. Your terms do not preclude consummation, as opposed to a false marriage," he said calmly. "No cohabitation and no financial support certainly do not preclude sexual relations, I'm afraid. I am perfectly agreeable to those points -- in fact, I have no desire to live with you, and no intention of supporting you financially. I merely insist that my interpretation of marriage in name only is correct and yours is not."

"That's a rather sticky semantic distinction!"

"But an important one. Particularly," he said as he pulled his wand free of his sleeve and placed it on a side-table, "in a business transaction, which, I think you'll agree, is what this amounts to."

"You lied to me," Hermione accused him. "You knew full well that I didn't mean that, and yet you agreed. And you said rooms for us. How did you expect me to --"

"Sitting-room, bedroom, ensuite bath," he said, smirked, and -- most alarming -- began to undo his coat-cuffs. "Rooms, plural. I never said they were separate suites."

"You knew that a... a physical relationship wasn't what I meant," she shot back desperately.

"I'm well aware of that, my dear." He glanced up from his cuffs and added, "You really should parse your language more carefully."

"You're taking advantage of the situation, damn it --"

"And you weren't of me?"

"I didn't intend to. I thought you agreed to the terms as I meant them. And I thought you had a sense of honour," Hermione blurted out -- and only realised how great a miscalculation that last bit was when the blood rushed to Snape's cheeks.

"You stand there, Miss -- Madam Snape -- having proposed and nearly completed plans to deceive the Ministry and defy the ICW, and dare throw honour in my face?"

"Look, I've admitted that I'm sorry. I hadn't thought it through in that sense, and it's not the same --"

"Yes, it is, precisely," Snape said viciously, so angered that he jerked at his right cuff, and two buttons popped off and went flying. "Bloody Gryffindors, assuming that the end justifies the means -- particularly when their own well-being and betterment are at stake. Slytherins are at least honest about their ambitions. And this Slytherin," he added as he began on the buttons of the coat-collar, "intends to make an honest woman of you in more ways than one."

She sank down onto the pouff in front of the fire, searching frantically for some argument to stop him,

"Did you really think that after all I've done that I would pass up a chance like this?" he continued as he worked the long line of buttons free. "After I've put myself beyond the best society of my own kind? It's what you were counting on, after all, wasn't it? 'The greasy, nasty git of a Potions Master -- no-one could possibly want him, could they?'" he chanted, mocking her. "'No-one could possibly bear to touch him, therefore he be happy to accept crumbs from the Gryffindor table....' Well, Madam Snape, I'm not. That was your chief error, assuming that I'd willingly chosen to forego the potential benefits of a liaison. If you want the protection of that ring, my name, and my blood, you'll have to do -- your -- duty."

Buttons finally sorted, he flung the coat off, threw it over the chair next to Hermione, extracted his watch and chain and placed them next to his wand, and started on his waistcoat.

"Duty?!" Hermione blurted, instantly distracted from his actions. "My God, how can you speak of sex as a duty?"

"Because it is," Snape said. "The duty of a husband is to protect and to provide, and the duty of a wife is to obey and submit. Simply because you've chosen to dispense with some of the provisions due you does not mean I'm obliged to accept anything less."

"That's absolutely medieval --"

"It should be abundantly clear to you by now, Hermione, that my society has rather more conservative views than yours on several significant matters, and in choosing to live in this world, my world, you've accepted them absolutely. Or was all that whinging about your 'commitment' to it not a half-hour ago mere tosh?" he said, untying and unwinding his neck-cloth. "My world does not, I'm afraid, have a very enlightened view of marriage, unlike its general attitude toward witches. What is that quaint Muggle term.... Feminist?" he said thoughtfully, stilling the implacable movement of his hands. "Charming idea." He shrugged and continued with the neck-cloth. "Of course, it reflects rather badly on Muggles that such a movement should need to exist. We don't claim that women have lesser standing as human beings, or that they shouldn't be treated as equals -- merely that if one chooses a particular path, as you have, one should be prepared to meet the traditional expectations and requirements --"

It's now or never, Hermione thought, and took the only effective option she thought available: he was distracted in mid-rant, his hands tangled in the long length of silk, and his wand two feet away on the table.

She fumbled and drew her wand from herjacket -- and Snape promptly halted, threw up a hand, and hissed "Expelliarmus!"

She'd managed to close her gaping jaw by the time he'd neatly laid her wand on the table next to his.

"I shouldn't try to Summon it if I were you," he said casually. "I can counter you quite efficiently, as you see."

"Don't you dare come near me," Hermione threatened. (It was useless, and she knew it -- an empty threat was as good an admission of defeat as outright surrender -- but by God, she wasn't going to give up without a fight.)

"I dare and I will, Hermione, and what's more, you'll learn to tolerate if not like it," he said, tossing the neck-cloth over to join the frock-coat, "or I walk out that door and obtain an annulment. Grounds for annulments and divorce become a matter of public record. That might tend to quash your chances of trying this with anyone else."

"You realise, don't you," she said fiercely, "that this is tantamount to ra--"

He moved quite fast -- so fast that she started, lost her balance, and fell to the floor, sprawling ungracefully at his feet -- and before she could squirm away he'd clamped one hard, callused hand over her mouth, and gripped her by the nape of the neck with the other.

"Don't you -- Don't you ever say that, you spoiled, stupid girl," he hissed, face red, nearly spitting in his rage: she'd only ever seen him this distraught that awful night at the Shrieking Shack. "Don't you ever dare accuse me of rape. There are many things I've been guilty of, but that is not among them. How you have the breathtaking gall to speak of something of which you have no knowledge.... Do you know, Hermione, how many of your schoolmates were inflicted with it? Do you?" he demanded, giving her a shake. "How many of my schoolmates and my own bloody students I had to watch undergo it, unable to lift a finger to help them? Do you realise how you demean their suffering, minimise it, when you attempt to label this situation -- to which you arrived by your own carelessness and mendacity and selfishness -- as anything at all like theirs?"

No, she hadn't. She'd had no idea at all. She'd been sheltered and protected, especially after that horrid hexing incident in Autumn Term, and hadn't been allowed to participate in the last battle or any of the skirmishes that had preceded it. And she had never been able to find information on the methods used by the Death Eaters, despite considerable illicit research: her Ministry clearance did not extend to access to the confidential files and testimony of those who had survived torture.

Snape was waiting: she managed a shaky nod, the tears standing in her eyes, and he abruptly released her and strode across the room to the window and ignored her humiliated sniffles.

"I have no intention of forcing you. You have a choice," he said when he was breathing more normally, and without even bothering to look at her. "Here are my terms. We will consummate this marriage, tonight. In fact, we will continue sexual relations when time permits and at my pleasure. If or when either of us are in jeopardy of exposure due to lack of pregnancy, we will attempt it." He turned to watch her, voice far more steady now. "Should things come to that pass you might try to flee the country, you know, as you're not likely to be one of the watched. I shouldn't object. I would consider it ample grounds for divorce."

"Why, if I disgust you so much?" Hermione managed through a hiccough as she stared at the floor. "And why bring a child into it?"

"Because, thanks largely to the texts you lent me, I've decided that it's better to pollute the line with strong traits than weak." He smiled unpleasantly. "How did you put it? 'Good, solid science,' yes. I've no desire to father idiots, and while I would prefer a Pureblood, you are unquestionable intelligent, reasonably attractive.... Careless of others' feelings, true, and far too trusting and inexperienced, but I'm aware that was largely Dumbledore's doing -- he always coddled your lot, and when he couldn't protect Potter any longer he turned his efforts to you. Frankly, I'm more concerned with any potential damned Gryffindor tendencies than anything else at the moment."

"And I suppose I'm to be responsible for any children, am I? On my own?"

"How does anyone else deal with them, singly or together?" he retorted. "A nanny is always an option -- I'm perfectly capable of providing a salary for one. I'm well aware that many females have some odd biological imperative to care for their children, and if you should choose to I wouldn't care how you raised it, as long as it's raised as a Wizard -- and assuming it is. You may even poison the child's mind against me for all I care, as long as it bears the Snape name. On the other hand, I've no objections to raising it myself if you can't be bothered. The Deputy Head is entitled to larger quarters if he or she has a family."

He'd moved across the room during that last and was looming over her again, and bent to grasp her by the arms and pull her to her feet, ignoring her flinch at his touch. He'd shed his waistcoat and loosened his shirt while she wasn't watching him: she could see his naked chest through the gap in the shirt-front, a thin layer of skin over bones, and caught his scent -- potions vapour in his hair, strong soap and overheated, slightly sweaty male skin with a faint, unfamiliar tangy undertone to it that, she was horrified to realise, wasn't at all unpleasant. She'd always assumed his physical condition might match his outward appearance, given the greasy hair and nasty teeth -- but then she'd assumed a lot about him, much of it wrong.

"Foolish woman," he said softly, "you know, better than anyone, that they will eventually require compulsory examinations for childless couples. They'll be able to see whether you're sexually active or not. Do you really want to be exposed that way? What will that do to your credibility and standing in the Ministry? I won't have you on my hands if they chuck you out, not if I'm not allowed what I want -- now. It's a simple business transaction, really. It's just that the currency is your body." His eyelids half-closed, but she could still read a challenge in the dark glitter of his eyes. "So is it yes or no?"

She fought with actually having to say it.

She knew he wasn't bluffing: he had her dead to rights -- on everything. And much as she wanted to tell him to go to hell -- calmly and reasonably, considering that she had tried to dupe him and she didn't want him further enraged with her -- she couldn't manage to spit out 'I'm sorry, but I just can't.' Some sense of self-preservation wouldn't let her do it, and her conscience -- which had been woefully absent for the past three months -- appeared to have re-awakened with a vengeance.

I could give it all up, she thought wildly. Turn in my resignation and my wand and walk away. Mum and Dad'll put me up, help me until I get back on my feet....

Admit defeat, in other words. Leave in the middle of a crisis, and run home -- which wasn't really home, hadn't been since First Year -- and admit failure. Live with her parents' pity and an unspoken but tangible 'I told you so,' from both of them.... Never be able to use her magic again.

Snape seemed to sense her internal struggle, and despite his earlier rage with her he carefully wiped her cheeks dry, took another step in to her, and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"It needn't be horrid. You might even enjoy it. I am not by nature a brutal man in my sexual inclinations. Persuasive power is far more an aphrodisiac for me than force," he admitted, and pulled back far enough to give her a faint, crooked smirk, "and you've already provided ample stimulation on that score."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against the whisper of his fingertips on her cheek and tried not to shiver: he noted that, and laughed.

That decided her. He damned well wouldn't be able to hold this over her head; she wouldn't allow him to destroy her career and force her to give up Magic, especially as it was entirely her fault for giving him the means to do it.

She opened her eyes and stared fiercely into his.

"Yes. All right. Let's just... get it over with."

He stared back -- he looked a bit surprised, or she might have thought that, if she didn't know better -- reached into his trouser-pocket, and pulled out a vial: a contraceptive potion, she recognised from the colour. She took the vial from him, uncorked it, and drank.

"Good," he said softly. "I shouldn't have enjoyed ruining you, but I would have done."

"I rather doubt you wouldn't have loved it," she said, and resolved never to forget his words. She'd be damned if she ever underestimated him again.

He took the emptied vial from her and tossed it into the grate, turned her toward the bedroom, and with a firm, warm hand at the small of her back, guided her in.

*****

Snape was wrong. It was horrid.

Not that he was cruel, not physically, at least: he kept his word about not being brutal, though Hermione almost wished he hadn't. It was sheer torture, standing there in the light -- for he'd insisted on lighting the candle -- while he first pulled back the coverlet and sheets, and then turned and stripped her of her clothing, bit by bit: wordlessly chivvied her out of her shoes first; pulled her jacket from her shoulders; unclasped her necklace and unbuttoned her blouse when her fingers fumbled the job.

She was surprised he didn't snap at her clumsiness, but then he seemed to be enjoying her ineptitude. And, in fact, he seemed to be approaching the activity with a certain reverence: not business-like at all, and not speaking, but merely acting and re-acting, his eyes never leaving her body as each bit was unclothed and revealed.

Then he backed her over to the bed, pushed her down onto the cool, crisp sheets, and began to explore with his hands and eyes -- first a clinical examination of neck, collarbones, shoulders, and arms, his hard eyes following the path of his lightly-haired hands -- and then his touch became lighter, callused fingers a mere ghosting over her skin. He bent and pressed his lips to her skin and followed the same routes, actually tasting, sending a shiver through her: and while Hermione herself couldn't tell whether the shiver was from was terror or pleasure, it seemed to please him. She supposed he didn't particularly care which it was, as long as he could tell he was affecting her in one way or the other. The age-old question of tyrants, she thought -- whether it's better to be feared or loved.... She assumed that, like Machiavelli, Snape was willing to compromise on the side of fear.

What a pity that she hadn't considered that before.

He rose from the bed and pulled the waistband of her skirt down about her hips and over her legs, carelessly tossing it away, and then her tights followed; and then he pulled his braces from his shoulders, removed his shirt, and lowered himself on her, intent on exploring her neck with his lips.

She barely noticed when he wormed his hands beneath her back to undo her brassiere -- he'd begun inflicting a love-bite on the side of her neck, and she was quite effectively distracted, her senses on overload from his mosuth and breath on her skin, the brush of his hair the weight and heat of him against her; and she only realised he'd managed the clasp when he pushed himself off her and tossed her bra to the floor with everything else.

"Don't --" she gasped, and flung an arm across her exposed breasts.

"Get used to it," he said, grasped her wrist, and pulled her arm aside, pinning it to the bed. "You needn't touch me if you can't bear to, but by the gods you're not going to ruin my total enjoyment."

And he lowered his head to her breasts and nuzzled them, breathing in the perfume that she'd unthinkingly dabbed between them that morning, and finally feathered kisses over them before taking a nipple into his mouth and suckling it. Her knees jerked reflexively and she gasped; he chuckled at that -- a rusty, not entirely unpleasant sound.

"I told you, you foolish girl," he murmured, and glanced at her face before bending to the other breast. "There's no need to deny whatever pleasure you can take, as well."

Hermione turned her burning face away, unable to watch him as he repeated the kissing and suckling on her other breast; he finally released her arm so he could fondle the breast he'd left, his calluses rough against the flesh he'd worked into an exquisite sensitivity.

She tried -- not very successfully -- to relax.

In one sense, yes, he was right -- she might have sent him on his way, ordered him out, taken the consequences; but she hadn't. There was no reason, then, that she shouldn't do this willingly. She'd been stupid, but he'd given her the chance to refuse the terms.

Perhaps that approach was the key. Not that she thought she could dissuade him: she knew better than that. (No-one could go through seven years' tutelage with this man and think that he'd change his mind.) But she might be able to mitigate his victory somewhat -- control the fear and panic, stay calm, let him do as he wished, and remain as unmoved as possible. She even managed it for the next few minutes as he worked his way past her breasts and down her torso, until she felt his fingers hook under the waistband of her knickers.

She stiffened involuntarily, and he paused.

"They have to come off sometime, you know," he reminded her, voice dry, his faint beard-stubble rasping the skin of her belly as he spoke.

"I know," she said.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, forehead still pressed against her ribs, his hair splaying across her skin and concealing his face from her.

But it was a test, and she knew it. She recognised that soft, calculating tone: he was not being solicitous. ('Are you quite certain, Miss Granger, that you wish to add agrimony to this potion?' -- questioning to mislead and test her even if the choice had been correct, just to throw her off.) If she accepted the offer to halt, even for a while, he would, in all likelihood, retrieve his clothing, dress, thank her for wasting his precious time, and leave for the Registrar's Office to get his annulment.

Hermione took a deep breath and strove for a light tone. "I think not. Best finish what you've started, don't you think?"

He went very quiet for a split second, and then chuckled and looked up along her body, into her eyes.

"There it is."

"What?" she shot back irritably.

"Gryffindor bravado. I wondered when it would rear its ugly head."

She felt the blood rush to her face, and to cover her embarrassment she hissed, "Get on with it."

He laughed outright, and she got a rare glimpse of his crooked, yellowing teeth.

Thank God he hasn't kissed me properly yet.

And then he rose, one knee on the bed and one foot on the floor, wriggled her knickers down and over her ankles, stood, and reached for the buttons of his fly, eyes never leaving her face, challenging her to look away.

She didn't: she kept her eyes on his face, refusing to assess his body as he muttered a charm to unbutton his boots and then toed them off. Then his trousers and braces dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them, and began to unbutton the faintly ridiculous, old-fashioned white linen pants he wore beneath.

"You expected grey, perhaps?" he asked, and it took her a moment to connect the non-sequitur with the incident Harry had -- eventually -- told her and Ron about, the one he'd seen in Snape's Pensieve.

"I've never concerned myself with the state of your underthings, past or present," she shot back, and he grimaced.

"I knew the idiot boy wouldn't be able to keep his damned mouth shut," he muttered. "I suppose the entire Gryffindor Common Room enjoyed that. They did the first time."

"If so, they didn't hear it from the three of us," she said truthfully, and then added, "I thought it was horrid of them, actually. Potter and Black, I mean. And Harry wasn't an idiot."

Snape's eyebrows shot up, and he snorted derisively as he stepped out of the pants and kicked them aside; and then he crawled onto the bed and up her body, halted, and stared down at her a moment.

"Sit up," he muttered, and sat back on his heels.

"What --"

"Sit -- up," he commanded in clipped, precise diction -- the voice that told you you were on thin ice.

She did so, warily.

"Turn your head," he ordered, and when she did he reached around and fumbled for the pins that kept the thick knot of her hair imprisoned. "How many of the bloody things are here?"

"Five."

He worked his way around the knot, fingers probing and freeing the twists of her hair as his pulled the pins free; Hermione focussed on breathing properly, and tried -- and failed -- not to examine his body. It was very hard to ignore certain... portions of his anatomy now.

He was going just the tiniest bit thick about the middle: on another man it would have merely looked solid, but his chest was so thin that he couldn't pull it off. There was a scar that wrapped around his left side, just above his hip, white and stretched -- a very old and vicious one, then, perhaps from when he was very young and much more slender, something a mediwizard had never properly healed.

She couldn't ignore the way that his body hair grew more dense below his navel, either, as it traveled down to his genitals, or that he was most definitely aroused, his penis blood-flushed and, she imagined, painfully erect. She now realised he'd taken great pains not to let her feel that as he'd moved along her body in what must be another exercise of power, to prevent her knowing how much he'd been aroused. Not like poor fumbling Neville, in their one abortive attempt at a thorough snog and semi-shag, when Neville had desperately ground his groin against her hip and then ejaculated in his trousers before he'd even managed to fumble his way into her knickers.

Mustn't think of Neville, she thought, and suppressed an hysterical giggle. Poor Neville -- so embarrassed he couldn't look me in the face for the rest of term....

"You are not," Snape growled in her ear as he tugged out the final pin, "about to snivel like some terrified First-Year, I hope."

"No. I don't imagine that would stop you," she murmured. "Didn't stop you from doing the terrorising."

"Quite right. I take it you're amused at something, then." He tossed the handful of pins at the bedside table: several of them missed and clattered to the floor.

"Not about you."

"Good. You shouldn't be." He fluffed her hair out behind her back -- curious, that was, he seemed to be pleased with the heavy weight of it as it slithered through his fingers and the strands coiled about his finger-tips -- and then he commanded, "Lie down."

She did, reminding herself to breathe again, thinking that he wasn't going to draw this out much longer. But he did, still leaning back on his heels, gazing at her body from tip to toe, the fingers of one hand idly tickling the skin on the inside of her nearest ankle; and Hermione couldn't prevent another blush from staining her cheeks.

"Nothing to be ashamed of," he murmured. "It's what lovers do every day, isn't it?"

That sent her over the edge: she nearly lost her grip on her tenuous control of her anger and fear.

"As you so kindly informed me earlier," she said, voice hard, "this is no more than a business transaction. I hardly think 'what lovers do' applies in this case."

"True. However," he shot back as bent over her and nestled first one and then the other leg between hers, "as I also told you, there is no earthly reason to be unpleasant about it." He lowered his weight onto her body and stared down into her face, examining her mouth, cheeks, eyes, and then whispered, "Quite the reverse, in fact. If we're to be bound together for no reason other than expedience, we might as well make the best of it and enjoy something, wouldn't you agree?"

She stared into his dark eyes, and reminded herself that the statement was no more than Slytherin tactics at their most refined: seductive, promising pleasure, lulling her mind and body into complacency. He'd been using this particular tactic on her since he'd pulled her to her feet in the sitting-room and insinuated that she could, possibly, find the whole awful mess enjoyable --

-- and then she had no more time to arm herself against him, for his mouth was on hers, insistent, becoming more demanding as she reluctantly allowed him to explore.

His tongue was bitter with the spirit he'd had with dinner; his free hand moved down her body to caress first her breast, then waist, then hip. Then he shifted his weight and the hard, hot flesh of his penis onto her right hip as his hand slid downward, probing delicately at her sex to test her readiness.

And, to Hermione's shame, she was ready. No matter that her conscious mind didn't want this: her body had responded to him, and he enjoyed the accomplishment, chuckling so hard that he broke the kiss.

"Get on with it," she demanded, fighting panic again.

"I intend to," he murmured, breathing hard, and bent his head to her neck as he shifted again, and found her, and began to thrust -- and she gasped and bit back a whimper.

"Good gods," he muttered, and jerked his head up to stare at her. "That is surprising."

"How dare you imply --" she began to sputter once the insult hit its mark.

"Don't be stupid, woman," he shot back, voice rough. "It's gratifying, actually. At least I shall have had this -- I retract the crumbs statement. But there's nothing for it, I'm afraid...."

And he nuzzled her cheek, his hand pinning her hip to the bed before he thrust again, breaking into her, and groaned in her ear when she whimpered and jerked against him.

"Don't move, damn you," he hissed, and she instantly stilled, rigid against him. "Just stay quiet for a bit."

"Please, can't we just get it over --"

"No, we -- It is over in one sense, you fool, but there's no need to hurt you needlessly any longer if you'd simply relax."

She tried, she truly did: but the famed Gryffindor guts had apparently deserted her when she needed them most. She couldn't seem to get enough air -- her breaths were shallow and far too frequent -- and as he'd taken much of his weight on his left elbow, she couldn't really blame him. Snape remained still, slid his free hand up to the side of her face, stroked her hair away from her cheek, and quietly commanded, "Breathe, Hermione. Properly." She managed a deep, shaky breath and exhalation, and he said, "Again," and she did until her jitters had abated and her body had begun to adjust to his.

"Hold on if it helps," he muttered. "Dig your claws in, if you like, you won't hurt me. And if it doesn't help... that's too bloody bad."

He resumed thrusting, quite slowly and carefully, and then took his weight on both elbows and set to it more intently: his face taut with the strain of the effort, his hair stringing across his cheekbones and clinging damply to his forehead, fingers of one hand clenched in the fall of her hair across the pillow. She tried not to touch him -- tried to keep her fingers wrapped in the creases of the now-rumpled bedding -- but as his thrusts became more forceful, she had to give in and brace herself against his shoulders.

It was a curious experience, actually -- intellectually speaking -- now that the panic was nearly behind her. She was still intensely uncomfortable; her body's earlier arousal had subsided, all physical pleasure (unwanted or not) gone, and all she could feel was the bruising force of his hipbones digging into her pelvis and the pressure of his flesh repeatedly invading hers. But her mind had cleared, and she forced herself to watch his face as he worked over her, his pale cheeks flushed, eyelids tight-closed save for moments when he seemed to force himself to open them, checking her face briefly (For what? Pain? Enjoyment? Disgust?) before closing his eyes again and retreating back into the purely tactile senses.

He was, in a way, as vulnerable as she at this moment: and it was very odd to realise that this harsh, cruel man would actually be willing to abandon any self-control whatsoever, even for something as primal and basic as physical gratification. (But then again, he didn't have anything to hide, any longer. Unlike Hermione herself.)

Suddenly his breath hitched: his thrusts became more erratic, deeper, and he finally gasped, lowered his head and muffled a groan into the pillow, spasmed against her and thrust once more so deeply that, from the stab of pain deep in her belly, she was certain that he'd torn her somehow. She felt him shiver as he came, and then all his weight pinned her to the bed.

*****

"You might have said," he finally rasped in her ear.

"Wouldn't have made a bit of difference," Hermione said dully.

"It bloody well would," he said retorted. "Not the end result, no, but I might have prepared you better. I suppose you thought your pride was more important, you fool."

It was, as it happened.

Hermione waited until he dragged himself from her body, and then rolled to her side and made for the edge of the bed.

His arm shot out, and he pulled her back.

"What --"

"Stay here," he demanded.

"I need the loo."

"No," he said firmly, dragged her back to the middle of the bed, pulled her close to him, back-to-front, and wound his arm firmly about her waist.

"Yes, I bloody well do --"

"And I know why. You'll have the decency, just this once, to stay put until I manage to drop off -- it shan't be long -- and then you may go scrub yourself raw for all I care." He tucked his knees behind hers and added tiredly, and with a strange note of defeat, "You can spare me that much consideration. And to still be here in the morning, now that I think of it. In the bloody bed."

Hermione wasn't at all certain she could. Her nerves were frayed, and her conscience was screaming hysterically at the top of its metaphoric lungs; but he hadn't given her any choice, his arm firm about her waist, hand splayed across her ribcage. So she tried to remain calm, staring at the window across the room until his breathing slowed and the blunt fingers on her body unclenched and relaxed, and then she slipped away to the loo.

The thin little wedding-band on her finger flashed in the light as she wiped Snape's semen and a faint streak of blood from her thighs: and for a very long time she sat huddled on the toilet-seat, arms clasped about herself as bruises slowly blossomed on her hips and thighs.

The only immediate conclusion Hermione could come to was that she didn't particularly like the person she had apparently become: she was too unnerved at the moment to contemplate what the future would be like, now that she'd shackled herself to Snape -- the one man, it seemed, who could see not only himself for what he was, but her as well, far too clearly.

Finally too exhausted to sit upright, she stumbled back to the bedroom.

Snape was sprawled out across most of the bed, the covers still pushed down to the foot: he was deeply asleep, not quite snoring yet, open and vulnerable in his unconsciousness.

After a brief consideration of defying him and sleeping in the sitting-room -- which she rejected after remembering his last words before dropping off, and a quick check of the armoire proved there were no extra blankets or pillows -- she blew out the candle, crawled in beside him, and pulled the covers over them both.

*****

Snape woke her early the next morning, again spooned behind her, his breath warm against her ear and an arm thrown over her hip: his fingers were lazily caressing her belly and moving downward.

"What --" she said groggily.

"Shhhhh," he whispered into her ear, voice raspy with sleep. "I'm well aware last night might have been more... fulfilling for you. I'm not often in a generous mood, and I suggest you let me indulge you."

And he did, disproving his reputation as the most impatient man at Hogwarts; despite considerable effort on her part to ignore what he was doing, he eventually worked her into such a state that she gave in and allowed him to stroke her to a respectable climax.

Hermione wasn't a prude, by any means: she was certainly adept at pleasuring herself, but she'd had no idea it could be so pleasant to allow someone else to do so, even someone she thought she detested.... Even when Snape then nudged a knee between her legs and took her from behind -- though he was restrained, seemingly careful not to bruise her further or cause her more discomfort than necessary.

"I told you," he mumbled into her hair when he was sated, and as her brain spiraled down from its temporary and unwelcome hormonal high. "I told you it needn't be unpleasant."

And then he abruptly rose, went to the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and finally re-entered nearly a half-hour later, already fully clothed: he'd managed somehow to Summon his clothing through a locked door without her noticing. (She badly wanted to know what charm he'd used. As far as she knew, there needed to be an unimpeded flightline between Summoner and Summoned, and the bloody door hadn't opened. She knew; she'd watched it every second he was in there.)

Hermione sat upright as he crossed to the mirror beside the armoire, wincing at the ache in her pelvis and legs. "Where are you --"

"Common Room meeting this afternoon," he said tersely, adjusting his collar in the mirror and checking his coat-cuffs. "And I have considerable marking to do. If you'd wanted a more leisurely honeymoon," he added with a hint of a sneer, "you might have considered proposing this before Autumn Term was underway."

Hermione gaped at him. "As I didn't expect --"

"Ah, yes. What is that Muggle saying? Hindsight is 50-50?" His eyes met her reflection in the mirror, and he smirked.

"20-20," she corrected him with a glare.

"In any case, you know where to find me if you need me. Or want me, though I think that highly unlikely, don't you?" he retorted coolly.

"How can you just take off as though nothing's happened, when -- "

"Because," he said, and crossed to the bed to take her chin in his hand, forcing her to look him in the eyes, "as you finally acknowledged last night, this is a business transaction. Our business is concluded for the time being, and there is no point in hanging about when more urgent matters require my attention."

She felt the barest whisper of something in her mind – some alien presence – and then realised, horrified, that he was using Legilimency on her again, this time without her consent: he was looking at her memory of that lazy encounter not an hour ago, and he was obviously pleased with what he saw, for he began to chuckle.

"Very gratifying," he said. "Do remember, should you ever be tempted to tell me that I disgust you, that you enjoyed that last time." He dropped her chin, and took an obvious and indecent amount of amusement from the sight of her, barely covered by the sheets and hair wildly flaming about her shoulders, before he added, "We should renew our acquaintance in future for the sake of the appearances, but I think it unlikely to happen until Yule Break or until the Ministry forces us to take more drastic action. So until then...."

He bent, placed a chaste kiss on the hinge of her jaw, and chuckled when she scrubbed at the spot with the heel of her hand; and then he turned to go.

"Your wand is on the side-table, out here," he threw over his shoulder, and then stopped in the doorway. "Oh, and --"

"What?" she hissed.

"-- tell me, Madam Snape, how many uses are there for Maidens' Blood?"

"Five," Hermione spat back automatically.

"Quite correct. A pity you didn't inform me beforehand -- I might have been able to salvage something quite useful from the whole fiasco. Good morning."

He disappeared from view, and she heard the snick of the sitting-room door as it closed behind him.

When Hermione checked out of the hotel she discovered that the bastard had had the decency to pay the bill; but she had to pay for the pretty little vase that she'd hurled at the wall and broken beyond hope of repair.

*****

Hermione's mood was not improved when she returned home and found an elaborately decorated scroll waiting for her: a document which noted that her marriage had been officially registered at the Ministry, and which expressed felicitations in particularly fulsome and sickly-sweet language. She nearly threw it in the rubbish-bin, and then automatically filed it away with her other official documents.

Getting mildly drunk seemed appropriate, accompanied with a thorough soak -- she felt absolutely filthy, and as she hadn't wanted to hang about to bathe at the hotel she was, and could still smell Snape on her skin: so she opened a bottle of wine and headed straight for the bathroom, and tried to think of absolutely nothing until she'd relaxed for a while.

It was his work for the Order, she supposed. She'd formed an unrealistic view of Snape, every bit as skewed as Ron's and Harry's had been, but in reverse. Yes, he'd decided to fight against Voldemort -- though no doubt for his own reasons, not from any altruistic motives -- and she'd made the prime error of assuming that meant that he was an inherently good if unpleasant person. That the sacrifices he'd made -- the torture she'd later found he'd gone through, the risks he'd taken -- meant he was honest and noble, somewhere deep below the nastiness and the verbal cruelty.

She'd taken advantage (or tried to) of the man precisely because she'd thought he wouldn't object too strongly, would be willing to settle, as it were. He was certainly right on that point: she was no better than the nastiest of Slytherins, willing to take what she could without regard for his feelings, ignoring that he deserved the same respect and courtesy that she expected as a human being, nice or not.

She couldn't deny that she had the potential to be cruel herself. She'd been blatantly duplicitous before, and intentionally harmed people.

There was that lovely incident in Fifth Year, though, when she'd put Umbridge in danger, and her only regret at the time had been that the centaurs hadn't actually killed the bloody woman. Come to think of it, she still didn't have a single regret about that.

She ran some more hot water into the bath, and wriggled further down to let the warmth sink into her neck, wincing slightly: she still hadn't worked out the aches in her muscles -- and elsewhere.

No, she couldn't lie to herself and think of it as rape, not physically -- and certainly not after that horrific lecture about her schoolmates, and his exposure of her naïveté and selfishness.

While Hermione wouldn't characterise Snape's actions as tender or solicitous, she had to admit that he'd tried to make the act itself physically pleasant for her. (Although she supposed he had an ulterior motive there, as well -- his own enjoyment, as he'd said: and if he meant to insist on sexual relations in future, it probably behooved him to make certain she couldn't object that he was cruel and sadistic, at least physically.) He might even hope that she'd be persuaded to enjoy him fucking her. She wouldn't put it past him, and imagined that would only heighten his enjoyment -- that he might be able to make her actually want him, or at least make her desire his attentions.

Well, she'd just have to make certain that she didn't.

But was that fair?

No, she had no right to think of herself as a victim. It was like the folktale a Native American shaman had once told her: if Scorpion requests a favour and stings you in the midst of it, you have only yourself to blame because you knew his nature. Or in Snape's case, she should have done.

And she might, after all, had said no and taken the consequences. But instead she'd ordered her priorities and consented, put her standing in the Ministry above her moral objections. (Some moral objections, she thought gloomily -- Do I have a right to worry about those, with the way I'd intended to deceive everyone?), and he'd given her every chance to change her mind -- in an entirely logical and unemotional Slytherin way, of course, not to mention a very blunt and outright cruel Snapeish fashion.

She'd never found anyone that moved her emotionally; never found anyone that seemed worth the sacrifice of her independence or worth giving herself to, once the novelty of intense snogging had been got through without actually losing her virginity. Snape certainly didn't seem to care about the emotional component; didn't care whether they lived apart (in fact, seemed to prefer that they did), didn't care, at this point, whether they ever had children or not: and should they ever be forced to, he seemed content to leave well enough alone, apart from some financial contribution in the event. He'd even given her the hypothetical choice of raising the child herself, or of turning the poor little bugger over to him. (She shuddered at the thought. She wasn't thrilled with the idea of children -- wasn't in the slightest maternal -- but she couldn't imagine turning a baby over to Snape, of all people.)

She couldn't quite help a twinge of regret about the cut-and-dried arrangement, though. He was getting off far too lightly. There was the matter of that Pureblood arrogance and prejudice, for one: she was apparently good enough to fuck but not good enough to live with, and only good enough to bear his children because she had some desirable genetic traits.

She snorted.

She finished her glass of wine, carefully set the glass and the rest of the bottle out of reach, and then -- finally -- consciously shut down the more rational portion of her brain and allowed herself to indulge in a good, long, messy cry, until the bath had gone quite cool and she barely had the energy to drag herself out of it. It was pointless to stay in: she would never be able to wash some stains away, after all, save with penitence and acceptance of the bargain she'd made. Perhaps not even then.

And then she got on with it. She returned to work Monday morning, tried to gracefully accept felicitations from her co-workers (and the occasional shock at her choice of spouse), and did her damndest to ignore the ring that circled her left-hand fourth finger and the thought that Snape might appear at any time to demand attention.

That was the easiest part. She didn't hear a single word from him for two months.

*****

CHAPTER 3 FOOTNOTES

LINK TO CHAPTER 4