Witch Hunt

16

Half seven o'clock found Hermione in the same armchair she had occupied the night before. Her cold fingers, chilled by the freezing dungeons, were curled around a large cup of tea. Her carefully styled hair was already a tumbled mess of wild curls, her lips swollen and red, her cheeks blazing as she stared at her future husband over the rim of her steaming cup.

She had not taken two steps into his chambers when he had swooped down on her, dressed in little more than his robe. He had stolen away her breath, kissing her senseless, continuing where he had left off the night before in his exploration of her. His fingers danced across her skin, grabbing, touching, squeezing, teasing her until she could no longer stand. Then, he sat her in  his lap and stroked and brushed and pulled sigh upon sigh from her parted lips. He had chased fire through her blood, his clever fingers knowing exactly where to go. She flushed harder as she remembered she had bloody whimpered beneath his touch. Called out his name as though he had torn it from her throat.

Thirty minutes later, he had called for a breakfast tray and sat across from her in all his prim and proper dress. He smirked and she was tempted to kiss the smugness off his face. To get him as hot and bothered as she was. She would have her moment, eventually. It wasn't fair that he was the image of tall, dark perfection while her button-down was entirely wrinkled, her long skirt creased beyond saving, and -Merlin save her- her hair.

Sensing her uneasiness, he idly wiggled his fingers at her, her clothes appearing once again well-ironed, her hair expertly pinned back to reveal her slender neck. The witch gasped, sliding a hand along the material of her skirt. "More wandless magic?"

Snape shrugged, sitting back in his chair and bringing his cup to his lips. "Again, more of a parlour trick,"

Hermione did not attempt to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "You are brilliant, Severus. Accept it," she said matter-of-factly. "My wizard, brilliant and powerful."

The Potions' Master raised a coal-black brow, his gaze sliding along her body slowly. Hermione had the uncanny feeling that he was undressing her with his stare. "Your wizard, madam?"

She was fairly certain she was purple now with all the blushing she'd been doing, her face hot. "You will be," she reminded sharply. "Soon."

He dipped his head in response, his ever-present smirk growing into what could only be a dark sort of smile. He was up to no good, she could just feel it. "Indeed, Hermione. A few more days and we will be eternally bound to one another. Does it not worry you? It was not too long ago you were hiding from me."

The curly-haired witch swallowed thickly. "Really, I'm very sorry. I was afraid. I didn't know what to do..." She trailed off, certain that mentioning her friends' involvement in her decision would not go over well. "Besides, we have a lifetime to get to know each other. There's no need to rush into anything."

His eyes narrowed on her and she shifted in her chair, feeling like she was 12 again and under his scrutiny as he tried to get her to admit she had stolen from him. "Quite." He replied curtly, disappearing behind his cup of tea.

Once they had finished with breakfast, he stood, hands clasped behind his back. He began pacing before her slowly, snatching the Ministerial invitation off the mantel. He was uneasy, unsure of how she would respond. Was Kate right in her hypothesis? Even after their natural affinity for one another? The ease with which they had begun to interact, as though they had been close for years and not a matter of days.

Only one way to find out.

He handed her the letter, allowing her to read it through once. He nearly swore as he saw the colour drain from her face. Damned Katherine. She was right.

Again.

The Head of Slytherin cleared his throat. "It appears, Miss Granger, that we are being asked to attend the ball in honour of the Battle of Hogwarts. Together."

She nodded slowly, her eyes still on the parchment in her hands. The use of her last name stabbed at her. He was defending himself against her response. He was expecting her to run again. To hurt him. "Yes, it would appear so," her voice wavered and he was struck by the sudden and strange urge to wrap his arms around her. To hold her close. Was it more of the compatibility magic on the law? This... compulsion to be affectionate with the young woman?

Not ten minutes earlier, she was claiming him as her own. And now, now she was a girl again, forced to marry her most hated teacher. The awful, dour, mean and murderous Potions' Master. The Deatheater who had killed their beloved Headmaster. She stood then, her eyes watering, her fingers pressed to her lips. "I'm sorry, Severus... I... It's so public. I'm not ready," she mumbled, her breathing uneven. "I can't."

And the next moment she had stepped through the floo, back to Grimmauld Place.