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Chapter Text

The hum of a cleaning drone whirring across the floor, slicing through the silence, drew Hermione’s attention from the tablet in her hand. She was late to brunch—just one of many social events on her timetable during her stay in Joy. The little town was more resort than municipality, and this was meant to be the best time of her life.

To be eighteen and Pure: beautiful, brilliant. A perfect life. An engineered life.

She was somewhat famous, too, the daughter of a well-known media personality.

This retreat was no true holiday, but an academy with a curriculum in the pursuit of pleasure—of which she often struggled.

Hermione Granger, of The Pure—more officially classed in the First Order—was a misfit in a world of perfection. Smiling didn’t come easily to her, as it did to everyone else of her caste. Often wondering why she couldn’t exist as they did, Hermione kept her musings to herself. Her thoughts were those of an outcast, if only in principle.

Just smile, she told herself. Smile and be happy.

The little robot vacuum, old and noisy, reminded her that time was moving—and so should she. Looking out the large picture window onto the resort’s false green lawns, Hermione spotted a few associates from college. Their class numbered fewer than two hundred pupils of The Pure. Her clique was small: only two other girls, Alira Artinez and Zaira Kensing. Beyond the glass, the lawns shimmered in synthetic green—too perfect, too still, like a painting no one dared touch.

Alira, who was chatting with a few young men, turned and glanced directly into Hermione’s room. She waved with a beckoning motion, causing Hermione to groan inwardly. There was no hiding now. Alira would seek her out if she didn’t join the poorly veiled quasai-mating ritual they were all invited to attend.

After a few moments preening in the large mirror—which scanned her face, projecting flaws in soft, pastel font: Asymmetry detected—Her assistive tech chirped approval. She was suitable for the outside world. Hermione could not leave until one errant eyebrow hair was brushed down into compliance.

On the way down to the town square, Hermione saw no one who knew her. Retreat staff—members of the Second Order, called The Common—kept their heads down. Since age eleven, Hermione had found it unnerving to have another human being pretend not to see you. That was meant to show respect? It certainly showed obedience. Was there a difference?

When she spotted Alira, now close enough to see her shining smile, Hermione turned her thoughts off. The other young woman, crystal-eyed and black-haired, wore similar clothes: a mid-thigh skirt and sleeveless top. The two men, vaguely familiar to Hermione as neighbors in the towers, were strangers in every other sense. The sexes did not meet formally until now—at this yearly retreat for the eligible. Of course, social functions existed, but Hermione rarely attended. It was simply too exhausting.

Her father found her behavior worrying most days. Her mother did not care.

“This is her. Hermione Granger,” Alira introduced.

The shorter of the two men, with a chiseled jaw and shocking white-blonde hair, said, “Hello. I’m Lucius Malfoy.”

“And I’m Antonin,” said the taller one, softer all around. “Dolohov. You’re Leda’s daughter, correct? The Leda Granger?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered plainly. “Why?”

“You look nothing like her,” he replied easily.

“She doesn’t look like herself,” Hermione muttered, then smiled again. “I look like my father, Judge Hermes Granger. Right, Alira?”

“Yes,” her friend agreed. “Lucius and Ant want to walk us over to the boardwalk where they’re having brunch. Isn’t that nice?”

“Lovely,” said Hermione, eyeing the one called Malfoy. How fortuitous to meet him on the first day. This ridiculous retreat was technically optional, though peer pressure could erase all free will. Hermione was more than glad to age alone. Being alone was all she wanted. She’d live with her servants and machines and never have to hide again in her own home. She was Pure and would be until she died. They might assign her a child to raise, but a nanny would raise it—just as she had been reared.

With a dazzling smile, Hermione followed Alira’s flirtatious lead and took Lucius’s hand in her own, as Alira did with Antonin. A man like Lucius—or one of his closest friends—would do. Hermione was here for one reason: to marry into a family more powerful than hers and dismantle everything from the top down.

She was here to unravel a world stitched together by abuse and aesthetics. In Amoria, sex appeal, sex drive, and the art of seduction were as valuable as oxygen. Hermione would have to become an expert—quickly. Among The Pure, reputation was everything. She couldn’t afford to be seen as awkward, especially in the romantic arena. One misstep, and she’d make a fool of herself, slamming shut the door on any chance of an advantageous match.

He would do just fine. But first, Hermione needed a tutor—a Social Integration Specialist. She would hire one as soon as she got back to her room. They were complimentary after all. She’d schedule one after covering up that stupid mirror.

Chapter Text

The food tasted like nothing, but everyone else devoured it like it meant something.

Hermione lingered in the corner of the gift shop, a willing wallflower. Tucked between a towering fake fern and the chill of glass, she sipped something bubbly and biting.

Alira and the two men she arrived with were performing beautifully—curated laughter, practiced charm. The moment they neared more desirable company, they abandoned her without a glance. Usually, Hermione would be thankful. But she had a mission to complete. She had to try to be like them.

Across the room, she spotted Zaira strutting—confident, curated, and newly enhanced. The last time Hermione saw her—just after her eighteenth—Zaira had received another enhancement: a fuller chest and a surgically softened nose. Hermione had always thought her beautiful as she was, but the Kensings had promised to fix her ears. They stuck out a little too much, according to most. The mirror in her house must have whispered cruelty every morning.

The Pure were meant to be perfect from conception. Each particle of their being, the instructions coded in their DNA, created the best humanity could offer. But there was only so much they could do about random mutations and circumstances. Hermione was meant to inherit her mother’s blue eyes—magnificent, brilliant—but even that went wrong. So much had gone wrong in Hermione’s case, she believed.

More than anyone ever knew.

“Hi, Zaira!” Hermione called, expecting a smile. Instead, she received cool indifference. The face had changed through multiple enhancements, but Hermione was sure this was Zaira.

“How are you?”

Zaira crossed her arms and raised a questioning brow. “Why are you here, Hermione?”

“I was invited. Are you angry with me?”

“You’ll ruin everything.”

“How so?”

“With you and Narcissa Black in the room, how is anyone supposed to see the rest of us? I want to meet my match this year. Then everything will be perfect.”

Hermione shook her head in gentle disbelief but kept smiling. “What could I possibly have in common with her?”

Narcissa Black was the most famous member of the First Order. All of Amoria knew her. She’d starred in enough announcements and promotions to become the epitome of perfection. Baby Narcissa, all blonde and gray-eyed, proved that The Pure deserved to be served and worshipped. How could anyone put her and Hermione in the same league? Zaira did.

“Everyone knows you because of your parents. Your mother used to be like her. She still is, just older.”

“Again, what does that mean about me?”

“They’ll want to be with you to get to your parents. Your father is on the council. And your mother is the face of The Order. You have power.”

“No, I don’t. You know that. I barely know my parents.”

“They don’t know that,” Zaira said softly, glancing around as if uneasy. “I need to eat something. Look, just stay away. Give the rest of us a chance.”

“Are you going to talk to Narcissa Black too?” Hermione’s question came just as the young woman in question walked past the open doorway with a trail of men behind her. Lucius Malfoy wasn’t behind her. He stood beside her.

“Would you?”

Hermione considered it. “No.” Lucius was a good target for her plan, but Zaira was right. Narcissa’s participation in this year’s retreat was a hindrance.

“Zaira, I promise I’ll try to stay out of your way. You have to do the same.”

“I’m not a threat to you.”

To Hermione, Zaira was a living doll—reshaped every few months, chasing perfection like it was survival. All Hermione had done was get her teeth fixed. She used a little skin cream to even out her complexion. That wasn’t to say she was attractive by any means. She simply didn’t find the value in enhancement after enhancement. She regretted it now. How could she have known she’d be plotting to destroy their world on her fifteenth birthday? She’d asked for a trip to the mountains instead.

“Look at me,” Hermione posed, “and look at you.”

“Exactly.”

Zaira left her standing in the center of the room, confused and irritated. That was enough social interaction for today. Hermione turned on her heel and left the event—giving Zaira a chance.

Back at the hotel, Hermione decided not to waste the day. Marching up to a kiosk near the elevator, she tapped in her room information. A menu appeared: room service, laundry, appointments at the beauty bar down the hall. She could even hire a Social Integration Specialist—someone trained to teach intimacy like it was etiquette. With a few swipes and a fingerprint authorization, Hermione had an appointment that afternoon with her specialist:

Mr. Snape.

Alone in her room, Hermione found a fragile peace, though an undercurrent of anxiety followed her like a shadow. As promised, she grabbed a blanket from the shelf and draped it over the judgmental reflective glass. The mirror mocked her as she did so, flashing a message: Hair unacceptable. Another flaw in her creation.

She’d heard it plenty of times before—at home, from both her mirror and her mother. It used to hurt. Now, it made her smile.

A few hours passed. She played puzzle games on her tablet and read a few chapters of a fantasy novel, where a young boy was swept into a world of magic and danger. The story was comforting—fictional stakes, fictional pain.

A soft bell chimed, pulling her back into reality.

You have a visitor, the room’s virtual assistant announced, displaying the image of a man in a black resort uniform. A member of the Second Order. He kept his head bowed, but his nameplate was visible on his chest.

Rising, Hermione crossed the floor, choosing to open the pocket door manually rather than using the voice command. A light touch to the green sensor triggered the double doors to part, revealing the employee.

He was taller than she expected. Media portrayals—and Hermione’s own assumptions—had conditioned her to expect Second Order men to be short, plain, and forgettable. But Mr. Snape surprised her.

His eyes remained downcast in respect, waiting for her to speak.

“H-Hello,” she stammered, clearing her throat. “Mr. Snape?”

“Yes,” he replied plainly. “May I enter?”

“Yes. Please come in.”

He stepped inside but stayed near the wall, waiting for her next directive. Emotionless. Hermione should have been used to it—members of the lower orders were trained to be silent, invisible unless summoned. But it felt unnatural now, considering what they were meant to do together.

“Should we sit down?” she asked, gesturing toward the small sitting area by the large window. Mr. Snape nodded faintly and followed her lead, settling across from her on the settee.

“Where do we begin? I’m not sure exactly what this—” She paused, collecting herself. “My name is Hermione.”

“It is,” he said simply. “How may I help you?”

“I need you to teach me how to… be good at…”

“Charm? Grace? Seduction?”

“Sex.”

Without flinching, he pulled a small device from his pocket and extracted a pen from a hidden compartment.

“I’ll need to perform an intake. The questions may be invasive. The more honest your answers, the better I can tailor the curriculum. I will collect and store this data for our sessions. Afterward, it will be destroyed. Do you consent?”

He was professional, clinical. Hermione appreciated that. Straightforwardness calmed her more than false smiles.

“I do consent.”

“Let’s proceed. State your full name and lineage.”

“Hermione Jean Granger, daughter of Hermes and Helen Granger, of the First Order. My ancestors were among the original ten families.”

“I only need your parents for emergency contact.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to perform for me,” he said. “I mean nothing to you outside these four walls.”

“That’s… wretched,” she murmured, without thinking.

His pen paused. “It’s true. Where do you live?”

“In the East Tower, City of Grace.”

“How old are you, and when is your birthday?”

“Eighteen. September nineteenth.”

“And your assignment?”

“Uh—Surrogacy Eligibility Analyst.”

“So you’re a doctor of medicine?”

“Psychology,” she corrected. “I’m not licensed to prescribe anything.”

“A shame.”

Hermione laughed before she could stop herself. He smiled—for the first time—and she immediately lost confidence. Was he mocking her? Others had. She was too high in the First Order to be spending time with birth-givers and breeders. Her career choice was a sore subject. Her father called it a phase, something she’d outgrow before moving on to cleaner occupations.

“Did I do something wrong? You smiled and now…”

“You may continue your questions, Mr. Snape.”

“Have you ever had intercourse? If so, when was the last time?”

“Never.”

“Never?” He paused.

“No. Not ever.”

“What are your goals while you’re here in Joy?”

“My goals? Find a partner, I guess.”

“No. I mean, what do you want to work on with me?”

“I don’t know—everything.”

“I can do that.” With quiet finality, he tucked the pen and tablet back into his pocket. “Before we proceed, I have one more question. You may not want to answer it, but I suggest you do.”

“What?”

He beckoned her closer, until his lips hovered just beside her ear.

“How long have you been immune to it?”

The world shrank around her. Dread surged in her chest. If he knew—who else knew?

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Breathe,” he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. It slid down her arm and into her hand. “You do know. It’s why you’re panicking—why you were embarrassed about your assignment. It was written all over your face. Panic. Shame. You covered your mirror. Why?”

Hermione glanced at the draped glass and cursed under her breath. What now? If he told, would anyone believe him? They wouldn’t need to. They’d hold her down, take her blood, and confirm how impure she was.

Imperio did nothing for her. That’s what they called it behind closed doors. Imperio.

“You don’t spend hours in front of the mirror, obsessed with your beauty. You don’t eat and drink to satisfy an unquenchable thirst. What do you do, Hermione? Tell me. It’ll be our secret.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You’re a brilliant woman. Think for a moment. I’m obviously immune too.”

The last line was barely a whisper, smartly placed—right by her ear. The room was alive, always listening. Even that damn mirror.

“Obviously, I’m not brilliant.”

“But you are. More brilliant than they’ll ever give you credit for. So… how long?”

“My entire life,” Hermione admitted, her voice barely audible, as if the words had been waiting for someone safe.

Chapter Text

Her answer triggered something in him, causing a surge of panic in his chest. Mr. Snape suddenly stood, his expression flickering with something close to panic. Or was it... energy?

“Come outside on the balcony. We’ll talk out there.”

Without hesitation, Hermione followed him through the glass doors, deeply intrigued. He gestured for her to join him at a table shaded by a large umbrella. She watched as he adjusted the covering, tilting it at a strange angle.

“What are you doing?”

“Blocking the camera,” he whispered, nodding toward a small lens in the upper right corner of the balcony. “Lip reading. The wind will help with the microphones. Just speak in a whisper.”

Understanding, Hermione let him sit beside her, the skin of her thigh brushing the fabric of his trousers.

“When did you know you weren’t like everyone else?”

Hermione shook her head gently, unsure. “I felt it more than I knew it. But I knew for sure when—” Flashbacks surged through her mind. Another day, not unlike this one. A day of discovery. “I can’t tell you. I just... can’t.”

“I won’t push you. I knew when I was ten. A boy in my class named Ivan lost his father. I mourned him. He was a neighbor—I knew him. I thought about it for months. Ivan just smiled. My mother made me tea to help. It never helped.”

“I like tea,” she said, “but it never worked on me either. Why?”

“It’s in the food. The water. The air.”

“It?”

“Imperio,” he said. “It’s a chemical. It keeps everyone…”

“Happy?”

He shrugged. “The Pure metabolize it differently. Something in your genetic makeup—their genetic makeup.”

The correction was subtle, but she caught it. “What do you mean by that? How do you know so much? How can I trust you?”

“If you reported me, we’d both be Gathered. I trust you won’t. I apprenticed with a chemist for years. He was immune too.”

“Why are we immune? What happened to our genes?”

She hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but he had answers she’d been chasing since puberty. Why me?

“Children of The Pure shouldn’t have this immunity. You’re monitored from conception. How did you slip through? The Common need more of it to feel the same serenity. It keeps us desperate to serve. We don’t hunger for food—we hunger to feel good.”

“I know what happened. I just didn’t know how deeply it affected me. It’s getting harder to hide. I thought I’d live alone until it was time to be Gathered.”

“What changed your mind?”

“My mother,” she swallowed. “She changed my mind. I need your help.”

“To do what?”

“Marry one of the Blacks. Or even Malfoy. I need to get close to them.”

“You’re a Granger. You don’t need me.”

“Help me,” she said again, her desperation raw. “Everything here is about pleasure. When the moment comes, I have to be ready—perfect. They need to believe they can’t live without me. It’s the only way.”

“I still don’t understand,” Snape said. “What’s the purpose? You’ll be closer to the most dangerous people. You’re risking your life. For what?”

“Why do you do this? Working here puts you under direct observation. You must have high-level clearance. You chose this job. One mistake and…”

“It’s not a terrible position,” he said. “I needed to observe you all. I had to know if The Pure had anyone like me. My work is too personal to hide.”

“I couldn’t hide either.”

“I’ve been searching for years. I wouldn’t give up. If I could find just one person, I could... maybe convince them to change things.”

“You don’t have to convince me. Someone already did.”

“Who?”

Four Months Earlier

Hermione’s footsteps echoed down the corridor as she walked toward her office. The day was nearly over—approaching 15:00, according to the large panel at the end of the hallway. At eighteen, she was just beginning her career, having completed her education alongside her cohort. Children of The Pure learned at an accelerated rate, finishing secondary education by age ten—eleven, if born late in the calendar year. Eight years later, Hermione was now in her second year as a Surrogacy Eligibility Analyst, specializing in mental and psychological stability.

Surrogacy was a vital occupation in Amoria, though viewed as a last resort. To the First and Second Orders, it was akin to prostitution. The Third—the Kept—held no opinions. Most couldn’t form coherent thoughts, engineered to work, not think. The use of the body as employment sustained the stigma. Still, women applied. The credits—called Galleons—earned for a viable child could support a family of five for over a year.

The problem was: everyone knew. Reputation, even among The Common, was everything. Surrogates were desperate young women. The state ensured they stayed that way. The Minister of Human Services insisted all surrogates were voluntary. “They are not evil,” he’d said. “Creating the next generation of leaders is an honorable pursuit.” His words were nothing but pleasantries.

Pregnancy—and everything it entailed—was taboo for The First Order. Motherhood altered the body and mind in unpredictable ways. Visible pregnancy was censored in their media. Women in The Second Order were low-born and expected to behave like animals. The Pure would not.

To Hermione, their logic was baffling. If society needed surrogates to produce its finest citizens, shouldn’t it celebrate those willing to bear that burden? In the past year alone, three women had suffered serious injury while carrying a Pure child. Two were reorganized into The Third Order. The third was Gathered—unable to work, unable to contribute. Hermione struggled to move past that one. Her name had been Lavender, and she had the eyes Hermione should have had—a soft blue. During surgery to remove the child, her heart stopped. When revived, she failed to respond to stimuli. Hermione quietly wondered if the child’s birthmark—and the subsequent Gathering of him—had influenced the medical team’s efforts. Perhaps they’d reasoned: if she failed once, she would fail again. She had failed. Hermione still thought about her.

As she considered her next appointment, Hermione stepped into the waiting room and called the next case number. “AA28405. Please follow me.”

A young lady, cloaked in shadow, stood beside an older woman.

“C-Can my mother c-come with me?”

“Yes, she can,” Hermione replied without looking up. She checked her watch again, wishing the day would end swiftly and peacefully. Once she sensed they were close, she turned and marched back to her office with purpose.

Footsteps rushed to catch up. Soon, they were inside.

“Have a seat,” Hermione instructed, heading to her desk and logging into the system. Without glancing at them, she recited the case number and details.

“AA28405, Kalista King, aged 18. Is that correct?”

As the system loaded, Hermione tapped the glass surface with agitation. Some days it was slower than others.

Kalista hadn’t answered. Hermione looked up—and froze.

An identical face stared back at her. A blemish above Kalista’s left eyebrow was the only difference. The older woman beside her bore a startling resemblance as well.

“It’s you,” the woman gasped. “Hermione?”

Hermione stood abruptly, putting distance between herself and her doppelgänger. She felt the cool touch of the windowpane behind her. The two remained where they were. Kalista looked stunned—unaware of what her mother knew.

“Who are you?” Hermione demanded. “Why do you look like that?”

“I don’t know!” Kalista cried. “I swear. Please don’t be upset. We’ll leave.”

“No!” Hermione panicked. “Stay. No one else can see you. Who saw you come upstairs?”

“A few people,” the mother said. “They paid us no attention. Calm down.”

“How can you tell me to calm down? Who are you? Why do you look like me?” Hermione’s voice cracked. “Both of you look like me.”

The older woman exhaled. “She’s your sister. You’re twins.”

Hermione shook her head. “No twins. One is always Gathered. There can only be one.”

The woman stepped forward. “That’s true—unless the father is the Minister of Compliance and loves both his children.”

“Love? My father doesn’t love anyone. Not even himself.”

Kalista kept staring, as if trying to decode the genetic puzzle between them. Hermione found it odd—then realized she was doing the same. Twins didn’t exist in their world. But here they were. Kalista’s chin was slightly pointier, her skin dotted with freckles. Hermione had them, too, once. She’d had them bleached away. Imperfect. But they looked beautiful on her… sister. She had a sister?

“We’re sisters?” Kalista murmured, echoing Hermione’s thoughts. “Mother never said anything.”

“I couldn’t,” their mother said. “No one was supposed to know.”

“Father knows,” Hermione said. “He did this? Wait—how are you, my mother? Were you a surrogate too?”

“I was your father’s attendant.”

“His attendant?” Hermione asked sharply. “At home or the ministry?”

“The ministry,” she said simply. “We met there. Within a year, I had to leave my post and pretend to be a surrogate. He hid me away. If they’d found out, none of us would be here. He broke the rules. We all would’ve suffered. He took you. I kept Kalista. You were never supposed to meet.”

“Why did he keep me?” Hermione asked, aware of her privilege.

Their mother turned Kalista around and lifted her heavy curls to expose a patch of pigmented skin marking her shoulder.

“She’s had that since birth. You were perfect. You could survive in that world. No one in the Second Order would care about something like this.”

“I’m not Pure?”

Her mother’s expression softened. “You were made in love, not in a laboratory. You both were.”

Chapter Text

Mr. Snape was watching her with concern as Hermione drifted back from the depths of memory. Thoughts of her real mother—who gave her life’s blood—and of a sister she’d only just found gave her something to fight for. From the moment Helen embraced her, since Kalista kissed her on both cheeks, Hermione had stopped living for herself. Once content to be alone forever, she was now desperate to keep her family close and safe from the dangers of this society.

Kalista and Helen had slipped out of the office near closing time to avoid detection. Had anyone approached Kalista, mistaking her for Hermione, it would have spelled disaster for all of them. Even for Leda Granger, who Hermione suspected was innocent in the entire charade.

“You went somewhere else just now,” Mr. Snape said. “Far, far away.”

“I went to Harmony. In my head. My office. You asked who convinced me to act. Her name is Kalista.”

“Perfection,” he said.

“What?”

“Kalista—it means perfection.”

“Does it?” she asked, surprised.

“An old Greek name. Like yours. Hermes—quick-witted and intelligent. Who is she?”

“My sister.”

“Older or younger?”

“She’s... my twin.”

His expression shifted, startled. It was warranted. He seemed to know things about her world that she didn’t—an observer with access to truths she’d only begun to uncover.

“The Pure don’t keep twins. One identity, one genetic code per person. It messes up the numbers. She’s lucky to be alive.”

“I know. We all are,” Hermione said, swallowing. “My father took a huge risk. Helen—my mother—said he did it because he loved us both. He couldn’t let my sister be Gathered. Is that love? Keeping me from my true mother? It’s her blood that runs through me. Untouched. I met her, and it was so hard to let her go.”

“The woman who raised you—your father’s wife—does she know you weren’t born of her contribution?”

“She may suspect. She once mentioned that my father initiated the surrogacy process without her permission. He didn’t need it. Her contribution was taken when they married and preserved in a lab in Harmony. I... I’m a stranger to her. I’m not her reflection, so she’s indifferent. But I think if I had been born from her contribution, she might hate me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A younger version of herself roaming the world? It would kill her. Even now, she’s the most beautiful person in our home. Good thing Narcissa Black lives in the other tower. It would destroy her to be so close to her closest rival. Pathetic, really. Jealous of a child all these years. Mother pretends Narcissa’s beauty doesn’t bother her, but she eats something every time she sees her.”

“Imperio calms her down. It must be terrifying—watching yourself become obsolete before your time. Beauty fades quickly. Quicker than the mind.”

“Poor thing,” Hermione said sarcastically. “It is sad, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“We’re all suffering. Even the happiest of us. Who benefits from this system? From what I’ve seen, even the top families are unfortunate.”

“I think the ones who benefited are long gone. They’ve left behind heirs to unhappiness.”

“Hmmm. I have to make him happy.”

“Who? Who’s your primary target?”

“You know more than I do. Who should it be?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Regulus Black.”

“Is he here at the retreat? I knew Lucius would be.”

“Regulus is quieter. He doesn’t appreciate attention. Since his brother went missing—”

“What? What brother?”

“Sirius. He hasn’t been seen in public in years.”

“Do you think he’s...?”

Mr. Snape shook his head. “There’s something strange happening in that bloodline. What do you know about Bellatrix Black?”

“Narcissa’s sister. Cygnus’s oldest.”

“Correct. She was expected to head the council.”

“Was?”

He shifted and pulled a device from his pocket. A red light blinked as it vibrated.

“I have to leave now.”

“Tell me about her,” Hermione pleaded. “What happened?”

“From what I hear, she’s immune. And unraveling. Regulus is your best choice. Most people don’t know he’s being groomed for leadership.”

“How do you know this?”

He smirked but didn’t answer. Rising to leave, he said, “Make another appointment as soon as you can. Tomorrow, we begin.”

“Begin?”

“Your training.”

Following him, Hermione murmured, “Oh. I forgot how this all started. I’m a little dazed.”

“I have that effect on women.”

Of that, she had no doubt. He’d said it so easily, yet left her feeling warm inside. Leaning against the wall, Hermione watched as he pressed the button to open her room door.

“Don’t forget to request me again.”

“I didn’t request you before. I couldn’t.”

“This time, you’ll be able to. Select Severus Snape.”

“Severus,” she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. “Tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

Dinner that evening was another avoidable social event, but as Zaira had made clear, Hermione was considered one of the most attractive women in their year—thanks to her last name, not her face or personality. She would soon be missed by those hoping to join her family, which would lead to inquiries. Hermione didn’t need more attention than she already had. Poor Zaira would have to endure her presence tonight. Hermione had a mission.

The mirror on her wall wasn’t satisfied for nearly an hour, which irritated her deeply. Now that she knew who to blame for the texture of her hair, Hermione could smile regardless. She was no mistake of engineering, no failure of someone’s hopes. Her eyes were meant to be brown, her nose and cheeks sprinkled with freckles. When this was all over, she would throw out that skin cream—among other things. Kalista looked more like her true self than Hermione did. The thought unsettled her. She was her own ghost.

Once she was finally deemed suitable to be around other human beings, Hermione made her way to the event hall in the adjacent building. Her black, form-fitting dress was designed to accentuate the curves gifted to her by those who came before. The shape of her—the size of her breasts, the width of her hips—had concerned her since she was fifteen. Until recently, she’d felt insecure about her body, believing it didn’t match those around her. There had always been comments about her imperfections. Now, she was grateful for the natural differences. No enhancements necessary.

As she entered the event hall, Hermione could feel eyes on her, though it wasn’t clear from where. Alira approached quickly once they made eye contact, beautifully dressed in a red two-piece ensemble: a halter crop top exposing her midriff and a long, flowing skirt. The bright red contrasted beautifully with her skin. If anyone deserved to be the center of attention, Hermione thought, it was Alira.

Trailing behind her was a young man, smirking. Hermione put on her best smile but inwardly groaned. Patrick Parkinson made her... uneasy.

“Where were you? I couldn’t find you earlier,” Alira said. “Patrick asked about you.”

“I was with someone else,” Hermione replied, turning fully to Alira and addressing only her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Patrick cross his arms.

“You were?” Alira asked, conspiratorially.

Hermione kept up the cheerful tone, nearly giggling like a fool. “All afternoon.”

“Do you have plans for tonight?” Patrick interjected, stepping forward, closing the distance. His green eyes sparkled under the chandeliers, but there was nothing behind them. Soulnesses had a different look than mere apathy or drug-induced bliss. He was intense. Predatory. Hermione wondered, briefly, if he was immune—and this was how it presented in him.

He didn’t need access to a man like her father or the connections it would bring. A man like Patrick would enjoy sentencing citizens to Gathering—or worse.

“I do, actually. I only came to show my face.”

“Who is he?” Patrick’s tone sharpened. Alira inched closer to Hermione.

“Why?” she smiled, nearly taunting. His aggression was rising.

“I need to know who my competition is,” he shrugged, trying—and failing—to appear in control. If her theory was correct, Patrick would end up in front of a tribunal sooner rather than later. He couldn’t control himself, and they couldn’t control him either.

“There is no competition when you’ve already lost,” Hermione said coolly.

“We’ll see about that.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, turning to Alira with concern. Her friend smiled serenely.

“Hey, Patrick, want to get something to drink with me?” Alira offered, resting a hand on his bicep. The tension in the air eased only when he accepted.

Out from under his scrutiny, Hermione still felt watched. As before, she found a quiet space to hide in plain sight. The table closest to the kitchen doors was best. From there, she would bide her time. People came to greet her—old schoolmates and neighbors—but no more young men made obvious pleas for her attention.

Later, Alira returned to tell her that Patrick had shared her “happy news” with the others. With her earlier absence from brunch, the update on her status as taken was believable. She’d have to fix that. If Regulus—Severus’s suggestion—heard the news, he might not pursue her at all. Why make this an uphill battle? Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him yet.

“Wonderful,” she replied sarcastically.

“Okay, but who is it?” Alira asked excitedly. “It’s been one day and you already found your partner? Lucky.”

Hermione took a sip of the insipid beverage. “It’s a lie. I had a headache.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Patrick is odd, don’t you think?”

“In what way?”

Hermione knew Alira was genuinely interested in her success, but she couldn’t understand. Zaira had been a friend until she felt threatened by someone else’s beauty, intelligence, or opportunity. She’d even admitted to refusing to speak to Hermione between the ages of four and six because she was jealous of her status—the daughter of the Minister of Compliance. Around seven, she learned it was better to befriend those in higher positions than to make enemies. Hermione hadn’t recognized this as strategic development until they were eleven. By then, she knew it was better to pretend with Zaira.

Sweet Alira waited patiently, taking bites of her food.

“Have you noticed he’s... emotional?”

Alira tilted her head. “I don’t spend enough time with him to notice. He seems like all the others we went to school with. You saw him more than I did in your advanced courses. He finished in psychology, too. That’s what he said.”

That made sense. If he couldn’t figure out how people worked—on and off Imperio—he studied it. Just like she did.

It was time to change the subject.

“Anyway, who’s on your list so far?”

Alira gave her a list of potential suitors—seven in all. Most came from low-ranking families, a few Hermione knew from her work in the Ministry of Education. Alira described each one, happily detailing their benefits. As Hermione listened, the dinnerware was cleared away, and she felt a shift in the room.

Alira interrupted herself. “It’s starting,” she said with elation.

Hermione had known this was coming. She should have excused herself an hour ago. The retreat had truly begun. The chemicals in the food and drink were more potent now. It was obvious as guests began stripping and undressing one another. Hermione noticed the lounges and sofas scattered around the room—old classmates lay upon them, writhing and kissing. Beautiful bodies, sculpted to flawlessness, joined in pure lust. She simply watched, frozen in place. She couldn’t do it. Letting go like that—being touched—was too much. Her body wasn’t ready, and her mind refused.

Alira was gone before she realized it, and Hermione was alone in the midst of the orgy.

Panicked, she moved swiftly to a rear exit. Outside, the cool air hit her like a bucket of water. Acutely aware of the cameras, she feigned that same legendary headache for whoever was watching.

Fleeing the scene, she returned to her room and made an appointment with Mr. Snape for the next day—as early as possible. Her heartbeat pounded in her chest. She shook. This reaction, so emotional, couldn’t continue. Soon, she would have to take that all-important step toward what she wanted—what they all needed. She had to be the best. Earth-shattering. Life-changing. So that his head wouldn’t turn, even when he had ample opportunity, like tonight.

There he was—still listed, still reachable. She should’ve locked it in the moment he left, before everything spiraled.

Severus. 9:00. Confirmed.

Chapter Text

“Have you ever been kissed?”

His question made her face redden. No less than two minutes in her room and he had her blushing. Hermione shook her head, suddenly diffident. She made this appointment. She had bigger plans than this. 

Sex?

Sex was nothing to blush about, right? No one else seemed to care. 

He had her sit on the edge of her bed as he took a seat on a nearby ottoman. Close but respectful. Severus was waiting for her answer.

“Never. I-I never wanted to. It’s not something I ever wanted to do—kissing.”

“What about now?”

His eyes were soft. The kindest eyes looked back at her and, for the first time, she could say, “I want to. I mean, I have to do it for the mission.”

“For the mission,” he repeated, matter-of-factually. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I want to kiss you.”

Why?

“Me? Why me?”

“Why not you?”

“I-I don’t know… I’m not…”

“Perfect? You don’t need to be. I think you’re beautiful just as you are.”

“We’re all beautiful apparently.”

“No. Your expressions—your eyes light up in a different way. How you haven’t been caught all this time is incredible. When I kiss you, I want you to know, it’s not for the mission and it’s not for this assignment. I just want to. So… Can I… kiss you?”

Quieter than expected, she told him, “Yes, but I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie?”

“A million reasons.”

“I have a million reasons to tell you the truth too.”

“You’re not going to say you love me, right? I heard them say that a lot last night, after dinner was over.”

“No. But, I’ll kiss you… if you let me.”

This was flirting, right? He was so good at it. She could believe him. It was nice to dream, she thought. 

“Not if I kiss you first.”  Hermione was the one to lean forward and press her lips to his. A peck. Just a peck. Her first kiss. He stilled and gently—silently—asked for the peck to grow into something she’d seen the night before, intense and head-spinning. 

Her heart beat faster with each passing moment of new, blooming intimacy. Eyes closed and fully invested, Hermione nearly whined when he pulled away and broke the kiss. Then, she panicked and buried her head in her hands. “No. No. No.”

“Breathe,” he said. “What’s happening in your head right now?”

“I-I can’t describe it. It’s like it’s too real. This feeling is too real.”

“Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. This is real—and it’s unfamiliar. You’ve been pretending to feel all your life. What’s going on? How do you feel right now?”

“Excited.”

“About?”

“About this. You. Me. I don’t know.”

He smiled and said quietly, “End of lesson one. For us, intimacy—even a kiss—makes us vulnerable. Kissing you makes me feel things they can’t replicate with their chemicals.”

“Like what?”

“Safe.”

“I make you feel safe?”

“I can tell you everything I’ve wanted to say for years.”

“We just met yesterday.”

“So have many of the others,” Severus said, shrugging. “Strange how sex is more widely accepted than knowing one another’s true feelings. It’s not like this for the Second Order.”

“I know. My cases at work include single women, some engaged, but most are married. Everything takes years to progress, from meeting to marriage. Most of us will be matched by the end of the month.”

“It’s not considered appropriate to be intimate without some sort of promise—some commitment. Women are harshly judged for doing so.”

“Kalista is facing a difficult time for being an unmarried surrogate. Others will assume she’s simply unwed.”

“Why does she need to seek that kind of employment? I thought your father knew of her.”

“He does. He did. Father hasn’t been well,” Hermione admitted. “Something’s happened. His memory has been faltering.”

“Is that so? How could something like that happen?”

“Because he’s supposed to be genetically invincible?”

“Yes. What happened?”

Hermione shook her head, unable to answer. “Mother—Leda—tells me nothing. I know they made up a lie that he had an accident and is recovering. Helen and Kalista said his Galleon deposits suddenly stopped about a year ago. That aligns well with his supposed accident. Helen had no options. She lost her only chance at decent work when she became pregnant. There’s a scar on her record—leaving her assignment without warning or permission. She never worked again, with my father supporting them they could live simply. And Kalista is listed as a bastard.”

“She can’t even get work as a domestic servant then. They’ll say she’s a thief.”

“A risk not worth taking.”

A quiet sadness overcame Hermione. She’d lived with every privilege, untouched by consequence—until now. Only recently had the fear of real punishment crept in, sharp and tangible.

If I get caught, she thought. Not when I get caught. That was the difference between the protected and the condemned.

 In Amoria, the Second Order’s punishments rarely exceeded a year and a day. Anything longer meant chemical transfer to the Third Order, permanent damage to the front lobe. No one leached from the state. Everyone worked. Theft of anything worth more than a few foodstuffs earned that sentence.

Hermione was facing much worse, depending on how you looked at it—if caught. Severus too.

“I trust you too much. I’m scared.”

“We’re facing the same trials,” he explained, pun intended.

She took a breath and said, “I’m ready for the next lesson.”

He searched her eyes, and Hermione willed herself to calm down—to let the emotion wash over her. It was safe. She was with him.

“Severus,” she urged. “Now. There’s another event tomorrow.”

Another orgy. Her body belonged to her—not the state. The event would strip her of that ownership if she joined without thought. No love. Just lust. No dedication. Just manipulation and pleasure-seeking. Intimacy was mocked. She had to enter as a master—or rather, a mistress.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees with hands steepled, he said, “Seduce me.”

“I-I don’t know how.”

“Try. I need to see what you do so I can make notes.”

“How far should I go?”

“As far as you’re comfortable. You don’t have to do anything. We can just talk like last time.”

It was so nice to speak with him. So nice not to count every word. But that kiss? That was even nicer.

Standing up, Hermione summoned everything in her not to be a shy, pathetic embarrassment. She liked him already, so bringing forth a smile wasn’t too much of a struggle. 

“Watch me. Okay?”

“Of course.”

First, she pulled her hair from the low ponytail, letting her curls cascade around her face. The simple long-sleeved top—black and slimming—was easy to remove. Next came the red shorts, revealing a pair of black panties to match her brassiere. She hadn’t gone without one in many, many moons.

Severus seemed to notice, staring at her chest. Were men truly this easy? Even without Imperio fogging the mind. Perhaps.

Hermione took carefully curated steps into his personal space, hips swaying as she’d seen Zaira and Alira do. Taking his hand, she gently drew him from the ottoman, turned him, and pressed him against the edge of the bed so he’d land on the mattress.

“I need your help,” she said coyly, joining him and quickly straddling his hips. 

“Yeah, sure. What is it?” he swallowed. He even looked mesmerized. This was his job and this is the reaction she earned? Easy. 

“Look at my tits. I need your opinion. They’re too small, right?”

“No. Not at all.”

“I think so,” she said, reaching around her back to unclasp the garment. Once freed, her breasts bounced just slightly. “Feel them,” she said, taking both his hands and bringing them to her chest. “And my nipples?”

Severus shook his head and licked his lips all while caressing and squeezing her. Hermione audibly gasped short, and placed her hands over his, guiding him on how to play with them, urging him to grasp her tighter. Her hips moved in an unexpected reaction. 

“Sev? Can I call you Sev?” she asked him. 

“Call me whatever you want.”

“I need something else.”

“What? Tell me.”

“I need your cock inside me. I need it,” she said, hips now moving purposefully. “My pussy is so empty. I want you to be my first, Sev.”

Suddenly, Hermione found herself beneath him, his mouth on hers in a deep breathtaking kiss. Everything felt good this time. Just good. No panic or fear. He felt so good, his weight and warmth. Severus, who had settled between her legs, was so obviously on the same train of thought judging from the bulge in his trousers.

Sooner than she wanted, he pulled away just to pepper her neck, shoulders, and chests with soft kisses. 

“You should know, if you couldn’t tell, that I think you are very good at this,” he told her before sucking on her nipple. Hermione arched her back into the sensation. This. Him. His mouth, his voice, how safe she felt in his arms, and his true smile. She wanted more of this.

After switching sides, He told her, “End of lesson two.”

“What was that?” she asked with a smile, watching him remove his shirt.

“Be confident. This is meant to be enjoyable. Let yourself enjoy it. You liked toying with me—you don’t have to pretend if it feels good. They all enjoy it. Pretend only if it’s awful.”

“Be confident?” she echoed. “I don’t know if I can let go—with them, with him.”

“Let go with me,” he said softly, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties, pulling them off. Hermione lifted her hips to help him, almost without thinking.

“Think you can?”

“How long is this session?”

“We have all day,” he murmured. “I’m yours.”

Chapter Text

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours?”

“Yes. It’s nice,” Hermione said softly. “I know you didn’t mean it like that.”

“How can you be so sure?” he smirked.

Before she could respond, he pulled down his trousers, drawing her attention. She propped herself up on her elbows to gape at him, at his length. He inched closer once he was free of the last stitch of clothing.

“Have you ever—”

“I just had my first kiss,” she simpered. “No. I’ve never… seen one… this close. Last night was… so strange.”

“What happened?”

“Everything,” she answered, studying him and his body. “I know what sex is. I’ve seen it before yesterday.”

“Research, I presume?”

“Precisely. Research. I had to know how to do it and be good at it. It didn’t help.”

“What do you want to do next?”

“What should I do? Tell me.”

“Alright,” he agreed, lying beside her. “Kneel between my legs.”

Hermione resettled herself and waited anxiously for his next direction. The man before her wasn’t unnerving, but this was so damn new, and she was a perfectionist. Her life depended on it. What was the scale on which she would be assessed? If he came, she supposed.

“Give me your hand.”

When she placed her hand in his warmer one, Hermione was guided to the thick, veiny cock that wept precum.

“Up and down,” he told her, controlling her strokes for a few moments before letting go.

“Is that good?”

“If it’s not good, I’ll let you know. It’s better if it’s wet.”

Taking the cue, Hermione recalled every video she’d seen on the subject, plus what she’d witnessed last night, and bent over. He was already so thick that she struggled just to take him onto her tongue.

As she took in more of his cock, her jaw ached.

“No teeth,” he warned. “Keep stroking my shaft. Keep moving your tongue like that. Look up at me, beautiful.”

A warmth filled her chest. His comment, the pet name, made her want to do better, so she sank a little deeper but soon gagged.

He pulled her off, creating a trail of spit from his cockhead to her lips, allowing her to cough.

“That’s sexy,” he said with a hint of sarcasm, but smiling.

“I’m trying!” she laughed, giggling at how easy it was to fail with him. It was like a high. Intimacy and friendship.

“Try again. I’m bigger than most.”

“I know. I have eyes,” she replied cheekily, before sinking down onto him again with concerted effort. She took him deeper than before and took a breath. One of his hands found its way into her curls.

“Just suck and let me… fuck… Look at me and keep stroking. Good girl.”

Hermione was no longer in control of her head movements as his hips moved up to meet her lips. She sucked as best she could, taking him in past her teeth, tapping the back of her throat. Her eyes didn’t leave his until he went a little too deep, causing her to gag again.

“So good,” he praised, something Hermione lived and died for.

In her research, she’d seen a few things she’d be willing to try. First, she used her free hand to hold and fondle his balls. She even gave them a few kisses and sucked on them briefly. Meanwhile, her thumb slowly tortured his head, specifically his slit. Of course, she challenged him with her gaze, daring him to deny how arousing and erotic this was.

He couldn’t.

“You’re… wow.”

“That’s the goal,” she replied with a wink, pumping him firmly. Her confidence grew, as did the ache between her legs. “It’s so big. I have to use two hands. Is it good?” she asked innocently, then kissed his tip.

“Good? Oh, fuck!”

A spurt of white erupted from his cock, landing on her lips and dripping down her still-moving fist. Licking his cum from her lips, she must have had quite an effect on him.

“Your mouth is a weapon of mass destruction. Did you know that?” he chuckled, a bit red in the face.

She smiled and swallowed. “In what way?”

“In every way.”

“You’re being nice. I know other people are better than I am,” she said modestly.

“It’s not about comparison. It’s about the way you made me feel right then, right now. The high of it. I’ll be chasing it until I get another chance.”

As he spoke, he positioned Hermione on her back again. “I’ll show you.” Gently, Severus pushed her knees apart, her shyness evident once more. New. This was so new. Her legs were spread farther, his hands pushing behind her knees to put her center on display.

“Show me your pussy. Open up for me.”

Sliding her index and middle fingers between her cunt lips, now soaked with her arousal, she complied.

“Beautiful.”

“Beautiful? How?” she giggled.

“Delicious is more accurate,” he grinned, positioning himself lower, sinking down.

“You’re going to… Okay.”

“Tell me if you don’t want it.”

“I-I want it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I never… I don’t… It’s like the kiss earlier. I don’t know what it feels like.”

He nodded with understanding. “I’ll just touch. No, you need to.”

“You’re going to watch?”

“You’ll have to get used to having an audience, remember? Let go. You can let go.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Hermione tentatively brought her fingers closer to her entrance and clit. She slowly began circling the little bundle of nerves, the sharp pleasure causing her to jerk. Strung too tight. Soon to burst and unravel. Suddenly, an intensity she didn’t expect—a jolt of electricity, an explosion, and a cry, quickly stifled by his kiss.

Something she’d denied herself since discovering that part of herself years ago emerged from the depths of her many secrets.

Her body shook as the ripples and aftershocks of her first orgasm hit. His fingers slid between her thighs, mimicking her movements, arousing her again.

“Feel it,” he said, breaking their kiss. As he rubbed her in small, careful circles and she grew closer to the edge, he spoke again.

“Stop biting your lip. Scream out when it comes.”

“More,” she whimpered. She could feel it coming.

“Faster?”

“No,” she told him, tilting her hips to chase one specific sensation. “Right there!” she cried out, body shaking again. Her cunt clenched tightly around nothing, making her desperate for him. It was all too much, and she was grateful when his fingers eventually slowed to a stop.

“Beautiful girl. You should see yourself.”

The mirror, covered by a blanket, would no doubt berate her for her terrible complexion, mess of curls, and sweatiness.

Smiling at the idea, Hermione said, “I want to see. I need to know what I look like when it comes.”

“You mean it?”

She nodded, so Severus left her on the bed, crossed the room, and removed the blanket from the mirror. It immediately began analyzing him. He moved quickly and muted the blasted thing. It had plenty to say about him, all written out in text at the top.

“How did you do that? I couldn’t figure it out. It’s not like the ones I have at home.”

“Older model,” he said easily, still manipulating the device. “It’s buried in the menu.”

Soon, it was silent, and while that was a relief, Hermione’s heart jumped in her chest. Severus was approaching the bed again. This was it.

Finally.

Hermione positioned herself on her hands and knees, facing the mirror. She was biting her lip again, and when she met his eyes in the reflection, he said, “You’re going to make yourself bleed.”

“I’m nervous—excited,” she corrected. “I’ve been… I’m so ready for this.”

And she was.

In the mirror, she watched him stroke himself before lining up and pushing in. A gasp left her throat as inch after incredible inch of thick hardness speared her open. Pain, pleasure, shock, and awe. Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. Nothing bigger than the width of her finger had ever been inside her, and he was easily the girth of her wrist. 

And then, something tore.

The slight pain made her smile. It was gone. Proof of inexperience gone.

“Good?”

“Very good. Keep going.”

His cock—it went on forever, and she gripped the sheets beneath her. She was full, stretched. Nothing in the world could feel like this—like him. He’d already spoiled her for other men.

A gentle hand rubbed her back and thigh.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“I won’t move until you say so.”

“Move. Move please?”

“Look at me first.”

She lifted her head and found his kind eyes looking back at her. It seemed all he needed was to know she was truly happy to continue, not pretending as they often did.

Her breasts began to bounce and sway in the rhythm of his thrusts. The power in his movements drove him into the depths of her center. He was fucking her, harder as she begged him to. He found places she hadn’t known existed.

“Take it all. Like a good girl.”

She couldn’t even watch herself anymore as the pleasure overtook all semblance of awareness. Right now, they were alone. No mission, no retreat, no Amoria, no world at all. Just them in a plane of existence where there was only rapture and euphoria.

This was different from his fingers on her clit, but no less magnificent. They were surrounded by the symphony of fast, hurried fucking—sloppy, wet, skin meeting skin, grunts and moans, the scream of ecstasy warning of another peak, unexpected and rushed. He leaned down, changing his position. His next words came in a near whisper, close to her ear.

“Watch me take this pussy. Watch, Hermione. Look how beautiful you are.”

Her hair was an explosion of curls, flipped to one side so she could see and he could kiss her back and shoulders. Her face was flushed, and sweat made her glisten. Just before—that one second before—the ultimate burst of pleasure, Hermione saw her own eyes cross in the glass and his almost-stunned expression. 

Her cunt squeezed, trying to push him out, but he remained, fucking her until he was sated, and she was glad. It was so good to be full, to be full of him. Her throat felt a little sore from screaming, but it was so good.

Everything was good.

The following moments were quiet and gentle. He eventually slipped from her body, leaving a trail of white dripping from her cunt to the sheets beneath. A strange feeling because it was new.

Loose.

Relaxed.

Severus rearranged them so she was tucked into his body, covered with the thin sheet. His heavy arm kept her close. She could feel the beating of his heart and his breath on her skin. She also felt changed, more than just physically. Did everyone feel this way when it was over? Like they couldn’t let go? Like they’d never recover if the other left?

No? No.

“I can hear you thinking.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “That’s why I like you. You think. You actually think.”

“You like me?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“No,” she said truthfully. “We don’t know each other, and you like me?”

“You know more about me than anyone else.”

“I barely know you.”

“Yet, you know my deepest secret.”

She did. She knew he was real, living between life and death, searching for a partner or confidant who could understand. She’d long given up on that idea.

Hermione knew his deepest secret, and he knew hers, and somehow, she already trusted him with her life.

“I like you, too.”

Chapter Text

“What am I going to do?”

“Right now?” asked Severus. “We can just talk. I need a break.”

Hermione smiled sweetly. “I meant in my life.”

“Aren’t you going to change the world?”

She considered that. Funny how a few fleeting moments of pure joy could make the world feel wonderful. If the world were just her and him, it would be perfect.

“This must be what Imperio feels like.”

“Like a nonstop orgasm? A little.”

“No,” said Hermione. “Just peaceful. Happy. No worries.”

“It feels nice.”

“It does. I never want to leave this bed.”

“We’d starve to death,” he said, “and they’d come looking for me eventually. Someone would look for you.”

“Only the ones who want to climb. Narcissa Black is absolutely in love with Lucius Malfoy—maybe genuinely—so she’s not worth trying for. Me?”

“Worth it,” he answered quickly. “Not because of your parents. Just you.”

“You don’t have to say nice things, you know.”

“I should stop stating the obvious. You’re right.”

Eyes closed, a smile growing on her face, Hermione let her chest rise and fall without anxiety or fear. It was just as good as anything she’d felt that morning. She could get hooked on this feeling. Even her admission of a rapidly growing attachment to him should have caused her great worry. It didn’t. And she needed more. The truth—living honesty—was addictive.

“My sister didn’t have much growing up,” she began. “Just the basics. I assume they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. A single mother with a bastard? I had everything. But right now, I think she has one privilege. She could be… just be. She could cry when she was sad and scream when she was scared or angry.”

“It’s not as strong for The Common. You said she’s identical to you. She’s immune too. She’s been pretending.”

“Ugh. Listen to me. Feeling sorry for myself. If I could, I’d run off. Escape.”

“I used to think about it too.”

“Would you come with me if I asked?”

“It’d be hard with a seven-year-old.”

“You have a child?”

“A niece. My sister passed away. Her husband left Sera with my mother and me. We haven’t seen him in about five years.”

“You’re her father, in every way that counts.”

“And I can’t leave her behind.”

“And your mother?”

“She turns sixty in a few months. My father was ten years older than her.”

The sadness in his voice said more than words could. She would be Gathered—deemed obsolete. Hermione had heard it all her life. An obsolete man had no place in their world. Her own father was nearly fifty. The illness in his mind would take him first. Severus’s mother wouldn’t survive the state.

“What will you do when she turns sixty?”

“Hide. I won’t be able to drink a cup of tea and keep going as if everything is fine. Sera isn’t immune. She’ll be alright. Losing people should be devastating. It’s in the novels I read. People used to mourn for their entire lives sometimes.”

---

“How did you get into this… assignment?” she asked sometime later, curious.

“I applied,” he said simply, but she could hear the humor in his tone.

“A Socialization Integration Specialist. What kind of training was required?”

“It was a very… hands-on course.”

“Someone trained you. Gave you the same lessons?”

“Exactly.”

“Why does this service exist at all? I’m grateful, don’t misunderstand me.”

“I’m here to support the socially anxious. Imperio and genetic engineering can only do so much. Personality is unexpected. More of you are anxious about this than you think. You’re expected to model superiority—even socially.”

“How many clients have you had?”

“Over the years? Nine.”

An inexplicable pang of anger hit Hermione square in the chest. His honesty hurt. Why did she ask? Damn her curiosity.

“You’re quiet now. Did that upset you?”

“Since I can tell you everything… I’m jealous.”

“They’re gone, those women. I’ll never see them again. You’re the only one I’m assigned to.”

“I know. I—I don’t have any right to feel this way. I have no claim to you. It’s silly.”

“It’s a little flattering. I must have been that good.”

“Severus,” she admonished, shifting to look up at him, her head resting on the same pillow. “You know that.”

“I’m jealous too. I can admit it.”

“There hasn’t been a legion of men in my life. You were my first everything.”

“But I won’t be your last.”

They were both quiet after that revelation. He wasn’t wrong, and Hermione wished he was right. Overcome with the need to apologize for crimes she hadn’t yet committed, she leaned in for a kiss, stopping just short of closing the gap. They hovered there for a few moments before he met her softly.

And that’s how it started—or continued. Another two rounds of intimacy and sweet bliss. Sometime after 13:00, Hermione ordered lunch to the room at Severus’s request. She felt no hunger for the drugged meal. Thank goodness for decent company.

“Tonight’s event. Are you going?”

“I’m exhausted,” said Hermione, taking a sip of water. “I could go and leave early. I’ll set an alarm. I need to see who my competition is. I know my classmate Zaira believes I’ll destroy her chances as a good match. Though I believe she’s the villain in this equation. Not me.”

Severus chuckled. “Why is that?”

“She’s a living doll, and she knows how this works. She didn’t hide away like I did. She doesn’t need lessons on anything related to this. Zaira is an expert. If she weren’t so low in status, she could probably steal Lucius Malfoy away from Narcissa.”

“How does she feel about Regulus Black?”

“She’s never mentioned him to me.”

“Good. He’s been to this retreat three times now.”

“Three? Really?” Surprise tinted her voice. “And he’s so high status?”

“He seems to enjoy the thrill of the chase but doesn’t want a commitment with anyone.”

Hermione watched his expression—flippant.

“You don’t believe it.”

“No, I don’t. I think there’s more happening. I told you about Bella.”

“Tonight, I can try to get close to him.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I don’t even know what he looks like.”

Reaching over the edge of the bed and picking up his trousers, Severus fished out the tablet he always carried. After a few quick swipes, he pulled up Regulus’s profile on the Bureau of Legacy and Heritage site.

He wasn’t not handsome. There was a glint in his silver eyes that was a little disconcerting.

“He looks dangerous,” Hermione said.

“I get the feeling he’s pretending.”

“Immune? Like his cousin?”

“It’s a hunch.”

“How could I figure it out? If I get close to him, what should I look for?”

“Your eyes gave you away.”

“You’ve been looking for years. I won’t see the subtleties like you can.”

“Look for anything performative. Look for desperation. Look in his eyes. You’ll see it.”

---

The cold glass in her hand helped Hermione look like she belonged. The crowd was thinner than the night before, she quickly noted. She hadn’t spotted either of her girlfriends.

Music played from speakers mounted around the dining hall. Dispensers of sparsely sweet drinks were more common than banquets of food. Severus had told her drinking was faster—it made them all lose control, whatever they had, much quicker.

Hermione sipped her drink, perched near the tall floor-to-ceiling windows. Regulus Black hadn’t arrived yet, and she didn’t want to miss his entrance. The setting sun on the horizon painted long shadows across the pavement outside.

A trio of men approached. One was dressed in all black and had silver eyes. He was jovial, laughing with his head thrown back at something his friend had said. Once inside the atrium, behind a wall of glass, Hermione watched several women flank his small entourage. The sight annoyed her—it meant she’d already failed to get his attention before anyone else. Still, she had to try.

Be confident.

She was confident that she’d rather be back in her room. With that wry thought, she took another sip.

Before leaving earlier that evening, Severus had warned her about undulled intuition. If she felt anyone’s eyes on her, she should continue her actions as if nothing were unusual. She hadn’t known this all along. He was right. How hadn’t she been caught yet?

For all Hermione knew, she might have been—but her status had saved her.

In the same vein, Severus had shared a theory. Under Imperio, most people in The First Order experienced a lowered sense of tension. Their instincts were blunted at the onset of puberty. With that knowledge, Hermione decided to test the theory.

She set her eyes on Regulus, now settling into a sofa about twenty paces away. Men and women walked between them, blocking her gaze, but she never faltered. Hermione studied him as if she could read his memories, his dreams, and his secrets. Unblinking, she waited a few seconds, her fingers tapping the sweating surface of her glass.

And then, he turned.

And smiled.

Chapter Text

Hermione remained in place, one leg crossed over the other—a daring posture she’d seen in a few pieces of media. The cushion beside her dipped as someone else claimed the seat.

“How’s it going?”

“Fine,” she said as pleasantly as she could manage, now forced to give up her pursuit. The man beside her was a coworker—Cody or Cal or something like that. He worked in the lab.

“You?”

“I could be better.”

“You should get something to eat,” Hermione suggested, hoping she could escape once he was gone.

“The only thing I want to eat is your cunt.”

The urge to run was overwhelming, but she fought it. This was what love looked like to them? She was supposed to swoon at this? She was supposed to raise a family with this?

“Well… I need to use the ladies’ room.”

Without offering him space or time to reply, Hermione rose and glided down the hall, avoiding the washrooms entirely. She sought refuge in a hidden alcove behind a few dispensary machines that sold toiletries and candy. After about twenty minutes, she prepared herself to return to the main room, hoping that Cedric or Curtis—or whatever his name was—had found a new interest.

“You found my hiding spot.”

Hermione let out a scream, quickly muffled by a man’s hand. Regulus hushed her soothingly, his eyes sparkling with humor and subdued mischief.

“I’m going to move my hand and you’re not going to scream, right?”

She nodded. Hermione prayed this clandestine meeting wouldn’t be her undoing. Regulus released her but nudged her deeper into the alcove with his body. He was tall and imposing. She remembered her first thought of him.

Dangerous.

“Hermione Granger. Surrogacy Eligibility Analyst. Our fathers are good friends.”

“They are?”

He shrugged. “Friendly. They’ve promised not to kill each other.”

“When?”

Regulus shook his head. “About eighteen years ago. Two little girls were born, but only one came home with her Papa.”

Hermione blinked, maintaining the same expression she’d had before he revealed her secrets—secrets she’d only learned recently. How long had he known?

“And what does my father know?”

“What he used to know,” Regulus replied. “He’s not himself these days.”

“What did he used to know?” Hermione amended calmly, though her heart raced.

“I’ve been looking for you. Every time I spot you, you disappear. Aren’t you having fun on holiday?”

“I suffer from periodic headaches.”

“Take anything for them?”

“I don’t want to become dependent. I’d rather sleep it off. I need quiet and privacy.”

Regulus nodded slowly, calculating his next words. “Are you getting a headache now?”

“Should I be?”

“I get them too. In fact, I think we both need quiet and privacy. All the time. Nothing soothes us.”

“When did you know?” she asked, recalling Severus’s conversation with her on the first day.

“Know what?”

“That you were immune?”

Regulus blinked twice. His eyes shifted.

“Don’t scream. Moan.”

Suddenly, Hermione felt him push her against the wall. His hands were on her waist, his lips on her chest. He knocked the wind out of her, and the sound she made resembled pleasure. Just as suddenly, that man—Carl or Clyde—appeared, interrupting the ‘lovers.’ She saw him and instantly understood. “Reg,” she whispered. “He’s watching us.”

Regulus separated from her and barked, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Quinn Bulstrode. Uh—Sir.”

“We’re busy.”

“Oh. S-Sorry,” he stammered and fled.

Regulus then stepped back, giving her space. “Sorry. I heard him coming. We didn’t need gossip circulating. We were having a serious discussion. They’d think we were having a domestic.”

It made sense, though Hermione was still reeling from everything that had happened in the last five minutes—hell, the last two days.

“No one will gossip about us hooking up back here. Smart.”

“Exactly. So two people were fucking. Hardly the most interesting thing tonight. My cousin Astrid kissed some chick from the Black Tower. She’ll be questioned, no doubt.”

“Is she one of them?”

“Queer?”

“Who knows? It won’t matter.”

“She’s your cousin. What’s the worst that could happen to her?”

“Do you know anything about my brother?”

“He’s missing.”

“He’s chained up in a house on the border. Keeping him alive was a greater punishment. Your father used to know the exact coordinates. You wouldn’t happen to know them?” Desperation dripped from each syllable.

“My father never told me anything. I’m sorry. Is that why you wanted to see me? I didn’t even know about my own sister until four months ago. His mind was a steel trap. She walked into my life unwittingly. Your father won’t tell you?”

“I can’t get near him to ask. Earlier, you said something about being immune. What did you mean?”

“You’re not mindless. Haven’t you wondered why you feel everything so much more than everyone else?”

“Why is that?”

“Someone I know has conducted research,” she said. “They theorize our world is saturated with a chemical that keeps us compliant—always willing and happy to support whatever the state wants. Some of us are immune. It doesn’t affect us the same way, or not at all.”

“A chemical? Why are some people not affected?”

“Genetics, perhaps. I wasn’t engineered,” she said. “My birth mother wasn’t a surrogate.”

Regulus leaned in, astonished. “It’s in the blood.”

“My father broke his own laws. I think they’re both immune. He’s much more than that.”

“I believe you. I’ve met him more than once. You’d never know. It must be in our blood.”

“Maybe. A recent mutation in the last generation.”

Running his fingers through his hair, he muttered, “Shit. We’re all fucked.”

“Why?”

“Bella. My cousin. She’s losing it. My uncle won’t lock her away. He’ll Gather her, like he did Andromeda.”

“That’s her sister, right? I thought she ran off.”

“She did. They found her. I wish I had your father’s control. Stone-faced. One of the most powerful men in the state.”

“I wish…”

He watched her. “What?”

“I want to change things.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d need help from someone like you.”

“Because of my family?”

“Because you’re awake. You’re immune. You’re powerful.”

“What’s your plan?”

“To marry you. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “You were so sure I’d agree.”

“Won’t you?”

“Of course. But how did you know?”

“Someone told me you might be one of us. You could feel my eyes on you. The others don’t react at all.”

“Who is this person?”

“An ally,” Hermione said. “A friend.”

“A lover?”

“I spent the entire day in bed with him.”

“Would this continue during our marriage? It could. I don’t mind. I have my own interests.”

“Like Astrid?”

“Not so depraved, according to them.”

“Alright. We’re just going to put on a show.”

“Nothing new. People have already started going home with their matches. We’re matched now.”

“I don’t want to leave yet,” she said. “I can’t. It’s important to the mission that I stay longer.”

“Are you going to share the mission with me? I am Phase One, aren’t I?”

“You were,” she admitted. “But I can’t say too much right now. Do you trust me?”

“I have no choice, do I?”

“No, I guess not. What do we do now? You’re the only reason I came here.”

“Go back to your room,” he suggested.

Hermione stammered, “R-Regulus, I don’t want to—I won’t do anything with you.”

“Another headache?” he asked, playfully resigned. “I understand. I have one too.”

“I’ll always have this headache,” she clarified. “Forever.”

“Lucky guy.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re loyal to him. Why not be with him and be happy?”

“I can’t be.”

“He’s forbidden?”

Without an answer, she admitted her crime. She loved. And she loved one of them. A Common man.

“I understand that too,” he said kindly. “Listen, I’ll walk you to the hotel and come back. This will be my last retreat. I might as well enjoy it, hmm?”

Chapter Text

Hermione opened her door with a wide smile, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“I had a really good night!” she said as the door slid shut behind Severus. “I can’t—”

Her words vanished beneath a kiss. Passionate. Unapologetic. His arms pulled her close, and she melted into him, that familiar sense of safety blooming in her chest.

Even if only for a moment.

He broke the kiss, breath warm against her cheek. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied, cheeks flushed. “I ordered breakfast—it’s already here. I’ll tell you everything. How are you?” She led him to the small seating area, poured two glasses of juice, and handed him one.

“What happened?” he asked, placing the glass on the end table and settling into the sofa across from her.

“Guess. You’ll never guess.”

“You’re right. If I try to guess, I won’t like it.”

She paused, chewing a piece of fruit. The emotion rising in her throat was familiar now. Swallowing, she said, “I didn’t stay long.”

“Alright.”

“I need to tell you something. But you have to promise you won’t get upset. I’ve never seen you upset,” she said gently. “I don’t want to. This is good.”

“I won’t get upset. I’m very good at hiding my emotions.”

“I know. But I don’t want you to do that with me. When we’re together, we should be free of all that. No hiding. No pretending.”

“I won’t get upset,” he repeated. “Tell me.”

“I’m matched. I’m getting married at the end of the retreat.”

“To whom?”

“Regulus. He’s immune, like us. We talked.”

“Just talked?”

She hesitated. The moment behind the dispensary machines flickered in her mind. “I told him about Imperio. Severus he already knew about Kalista. About my father. He’s been looking for me for two nights.”

“How did he know?”

“Our fathers know each other’s secrets. My father’s involved in a cover-up about Regulus’s older brother.”

“Sirius?”

“He’s chained up somewhere near the border. My father knows where.”

“Why is he locked up?”

“Mr. Black didn’t want to kill him. Living was a worse punishment.”

Severus exhaled, blinking slowly. “He didn’t run.”

“Andromeda did. They caught her. Regulus wants to find Sirius. He thought I might know something.”

“How did you end up matched?”

“I explained Imperio. The danger. I told him I needed to marry him for the plan to work. He’s powerful. He agreed without hesitation.”

“I bet he did.”

His tone slipped—too expressive. Hermione caught the flicker of shame on his face.

“You told me to seek him out. You said Regulus Black was the best choice.”

“I know,” Severus admitted. “Is that all that happened last night?”

“You’re jealous?”

“I am… out of control.”

She frowned. “How? You’re just sitting here.”

“Inside,” he said quietly. “I feel out of control. You told me not to hide from you. So I won’t. I’m jealous. I’m overwhelmed. I’m angry.”

“Because of me?”

“Because of him. Because he gets to have you. Because I feel too much and can’t do anything about it. I’m angry at the system. At the match. At the way the world makes us choose happiness or survival.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

“I don’t want to lose you. I never cared about the others. That was work. This is… something else. Something I didn’t know really existed.”

“He knows about you,” Hermione said softly. “I told him I had someone. He does too. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s not asking me to be anything more than a partner in front of the state. Our goal isn’t to pose as a family. It’s to save our families. The people who matter. You’re on that list. I’m not doing this to hurt you. I have to.”

“I know. I just wish you didn’t. So… he didn’t touch you?”

“There was a moment. Not a kiss. More like a hug. It lasted three seconds. Someone nearly caught us. We had to pretend.”

“I understand.”

“Severus? What happens when I go home?”

“You’ll be married. Groomed to be our next great leader. Or his wife.”

“No. I meant us.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought past… wanting to be near you. When do you leave?”

“End of the retreat. I asked to stay for the whole thing. It gives us time to plan.”

“Right. Who is he interested in?”

“He didn’t say. He guessed you must be forbidden. His interest must be, too.”

“A Common woman? Or another man?”

“Could be both. A Common man.”

“Scandal.”

He cracked a smile. The tension eased, just slightly. Truth, while addictive, could be hard to dispense.

“So, you’re getting married. Excited?”

“Eat,” she said, handing him a plate. “And stop asking ridiculous questions.”

He smirked, then grew serious. “I know you trust him. Should I?”

“Regulus seems to know more about me than I know myself. I don’t trust him. But I need him—for more than I can even imagine right now. Do you?”

“I need to know if I should hide, Hermione. I’ve been trying to learn about him. He moves from person to person. Now that I know he’s immune, I’m still stuck. This information isn’t powerful. He and his family would bury it. They write the history of this state. They edit and revise it whenever they want.”

“He seemed genuinely interested in Imperio. I mentioned a friend who’s studied it. He’s worried about his cousin,” Hermione recalled. “He said they were all fucked—himself included. Even his family has been punished for going against the grain. You could be his savior. The more we know, the better we’ll be at fighting it. He doesn’t have to fear you—not through blackmail or mutually assured destruction. He can value you.”

“You may have a point.”

You have a visitor.

Hermione rose and approached the door, peering through the privacy shield. Regulus stood there, hands clasped patiently in front of him.

Turning to a startled Severus, she said, “It’s him.”

The hotel bathroom seemed like the best hiding place, so Severus slipped inside silently. Hermione moved quickly, erasing all traces of him—the extra plate, the second glass of juice. Her hands shook slightly as she pressed the button to open the door.

“Surprise,” said Regulus with a winning smile. “Can I come in?”

“Sure. What are you doing here?” she asked, stepping back to let him in. The relief she’d felt from hearing Regulus’s story yesterday was gone. So was the comfort of Severus’s visit.

“Well, I thought I should see you before any events. Are we alone?”

“Yes,” she said. He smirked.

“You’re a bad liar.”

“Excuse me?”

Regulus turned on his heel, facing the narrow bathroom door. “You shook your head when you should’ve nodded. You didn’t have to hide him. We’re going to be together for life.” He added, half-joking, “I should know all about my wife’s lovers.”

Exhaling, Hermione wished she’d had more time to figure out what Regulus was really about.

“Severus,” she said, voice low and steady, though her fingers trembled against the doorframe. “Come out.”

The pocket door slid open, revealing Severus—stone-faced in his black uniform and metal name tag. The two men sized each other up before Regulus broke the tension.

“Regulus Black.”

“Snape.”

“Are you the scientist? Do you know what the fuck is going on?”

“Yes,” Severus replied. “I think I do.”

“Thank fuck. How?”

“I apprenticed with a chemist before he was deemed obsolete.”

In a rare show of empathy, Regulus said, “I’m sorry. Were you close?”

“He was a father to me,” Severus said. “A better one. He isolated the compound from the food we eat in the Second Order. In concentrated form, it triggered pure euphoria. The volunteer demanded more once the effect wore off. Even came back to fight us.”

Regulus sat, thoughtful. “Could it also cause the opposite? Terror, rage, despair?”

“Anything’s possible. We have no countermeasure. Surely someone’s had a terrible reaction.”

Hermione chimed in then. “Those punished for avoidable crimes might be good examples. They couldn’t comply and were sent to the Third Order—or Gathered.”

Both men turned to Hermione, each with their own expression of realization.

“What?”

“I believe that immunity,” Regulus began, “is more widespread than we think. If we’re immune and hiding in plain sight, there must be hundreds—thousands—like us.”

“Too afraid to reveal their true selves. Some crack under pressure and lose their lives,” Severus added. “Hermione told me about your cousin.”

Regulus sighed. “The more they try to fix her, the worse it gets. I—I want to go home by the end of the week. Hermione, I know you wanted to stay the full month, but I need to check on her.”

“I want to see my sister too,” she said, then turned to Severus.

Looking contemplative, Severus said, “If I start now, maybe there’s still time to undo what they’ve done. To her. To us. I want to work on an antidote. I still have all the research notes. I need somewhere safe. When Flammel died, I took everything and hid it.”

“You could wake up the Pure. Once they fall, the others will rise.”

“I might be able to help your cousin,” Severus offered.

“She might metabolize it differently,” Hermione added. “Removing its effects could help. If it’s in everything, she needs natural food and water. Nothing state-prepared. Not even soap or lotion from Amoria.”

Regulus nodded, scratching his chin. “Severus, do you have family?”

“Yes. My mother and my niece.”

“What’s your assignment after the retreat?”

“I work security at a secondary school for the Second Order.”

“Hermione and I are getting married, right?” Regulus asked, confirming with Hermione, who nodded. “We’ll get a house far from the city?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’d love that. Far from everyone. I love the mountains in Serenity.”

“We have a house there. It needs cleaning, but it’s livable. Severus, there are guest quarters you could turn into a lab.”

“Surveillance?” Severus asked.

“Limited. You’ll be head of security for the compound anyway.”

“I will?”

“I can make it happen,” Regulus said. “This antidote idea… it could work. I need to try.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“You can promise you’ll try, can’t you?”

“I can.”

“And besides, you’ll want to be close to Hermione. Bring your mother and niece. It’s a massive place. Safer than out here, where everyone’s watching.”

At the mention of her name, Hermione saw Severus’s face flicker with joy. Three days. That’s all it took to change everything.

“My sister and mother too,” Hermione added. “We have to protect everyone. Kalista is identical to me. Once I’m married, my face—her face—will be everywhere. I need to find her before that day.”

Regulus said, “Of course. Before the announcement goes out. What do you say, Snape?”

“What if I say no? What if I give up and choose a mundane life?”

“You won’t,” Regulus said. “You want to wake up from this nightmare as much as we do. Why else risk exposure—yourself, your family? This thing is genetic. Your whole bloodline would be wiped clean if I were an evil prick.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m many things. But not a killer. You?”

“I’ll do what I have to—to protect my family.”

“Understood,” Regulus said, rising. “Hermione, since this is settled, I’ll be going home tonight. I need to pack.”

“You’re rushing back for Bella, right?”

“I’m worried about her.”

She read his anxiety as more than familial concern. “So much that you get headaches?”

He nodded. “You might say that. I’ll call you tomorrow, my beautiful wife. Severus?”

“Hm?” he said, clearly unamused by Hermione’s new title.

“Let me know what you need to be comfortable. Anything you want—I’ll get it. Just tell Hermione.”

“I will.”

Just as Regulus crossed the threshold, he pulled something from his pocket.

“I meant to give this to you. I had it delivered earlier this morning, once I remembered our chat from last night.”

In his palm was an intricate platinum filigree ring, encrusted with old stones of every color. Her mother, Leda, had one just like it. Others had always envied her for it. It was an old custom, long abandoned. But Hermione was marrying power. She would wear this as proof.

Sliding it onto her finger, Hermione said, “Thank you.”

“No. Thank you,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Goodbye.”

Once Regulus was gone, Hermione closed the door behind her. The ring pressed against her skin like a brand. Not love. Not choice. Just proof.

So much was new.

The look on Severus’s face was new, too. He was pouting. Like a child.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, his expression shifting. “I still don’t trust him.”

“I do.”

“Why? He could destroy us both without a second thought.”

“He’s in love with her, Severus. You might be the only one who can save her.”

Severus looked at her then, and for a moment, she saw it—vulnerability. “And what if I can’t?” 

“He needs you,” Hermione said softly, skirting around an answer and silently toying with the ring until the stones made impressions on her thumb. “We all do.”

Chapter Text

“When are you going home?”

“Maybe in a day or two,” Hermione answered, leaning against the balcony doorframe. She’d opened it earlier that morning—just slightly, to let the warm summer breeze in. “I need to move my mother and sister somewhere safe until the house is ready. I have to talk to my father, see if I can get anything out of him.”

“You have a union to plan.”

“Reg’s parents will handle that. They outrank us. All the decisions are theirs.” She paused. “When are you going home?”

“At the end of the month.”

He was working. Working… as in…

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

That feeling came again. She didn’t like it. It was too much. She breathed through it and looked outside to distract herself. The camera on the balcony caught her attention, and she smiled.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?” she replied, turning back to him. The smile slipped from her face.

“Let’s have a good day.”

His voice was soft, his palm open for her to take. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his and let him pull her in, guiding her onto his lap. Once there, Hermione studied him. They sat in silence. She ran her fingers over the lines in his forehead, then traced his jaw.

“What are you doing?”

“Memorizing you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again. I want to remember you this way.”

“What way is that?”

“All mine.”

He smiled. “I am yours.”

“Sev,” she murmured, “Are you going to take more clients?”

“I do what they tell me to do. Abandoning this post would affect my other one.”

“But Reg said you’d work for us.”

“He said a lot of things. I have a child to raise. Anything could happen between now and then. I have to act like nothing’s changed.”

“I don’t want you to be with anyone else that way,” she said, pouting like he had earlier.

“By this point in the retreat, people who requested one of us will keep the same one for their entire stay. I probably won’t get any new jobs. They might even send me home early.”

“Can’t you say you have an emergency?”

He shook his head. “Emergencies aren’t an option when working for the First Order. It’s written clearly in the contract.”

Hermione knew that. She’d helped draft a few contracts herself. Not even a death in the family was considered a valid reason to abandon your post. According to the laws and doctrines, he was less than she was. How could that be? She was to be worshipped simply for her birthplace. Fallacies and delusions, all of it. His earlier words—Let’s have a good day—echoed in her mind.

“Any more lessons?”

“You’ve met every objective,” Severus said. “You don’t need me anymore.”

“But I want you.”

There was intensity in her voice. She wanted him here. With her. In her bed. In her. She wanted him in her life—her first true friend, and now lover.

“Then have me.”

 --

She took him slowly, easing her way down onto him. He’d moved the mirror again, taking that same object that taunted her for hours every day and set it right in front of them. “Show your beautiful pussy,” he’d said. “Slick and wet for me.”

Legs spread, hooked over either muscular thigh, Hermione’s entire center was on display, stretched open. His hands grabbed her tits and squeezed.

“You’re almost too tight,” Severus breathed into her hair. “Playing with yourself. Love yourself.”

Love? When did love come into this? What was that?

She brought her lip between her teeth and shook her head no. 

“Embarrassed? Don’t be. You’re gorgeous, sitting on my cock like this. Let me help you.”

His words went straight to her cunt, so it clenched around him hard. Hermione watched in the reflection as his hand found hers and guided it to her clit.

“Make yourself come. Let go. Let me feel it.”

It took no time at all for Hermione to climb that special peak and get to the edge of bliss. Severus whispered pure filth into her ear, promising to fuck her until she couldn’t walk, couldn’t move. She’d be sore for days when he was done.

“I’m about to come!” she warned, body shaking. In the past few days, she’d been here over and over again, and the threat of revealing her true self, falling into pleasure, was still an obstacle to overcome. Sev knew that.

“Come for me.”

He’d guided her sweat-drenched body to the bed, lying her down. It was their fourth round, and she wanted him again. Perhaps they weren’t completely immune, she thought as he grew hard again, stroking his length. It had been hours, maybe. She didn’t know and couldn’t care with her legs pushed up by her ears. She could feel him driving deeper and deeper, as she rushed to the peak and—

“Ahhhh!” she screamed, directly into a kiss that caught her by surprise. 

And then… 

The world slowed. He moved like a summer evening—hot, unhurried, inevitable. He took her hand and slid the ring off her finger with his teeth, then tossed it across the room. No words. Just the quiet return of his mouth, his hands, his devotion. All mine. Understood.

Right then, right there, Hermione knew one thing: this was lovemaking. Not performance. Not compliance. Passion—the kind she’d read about in forbidden books, the kind that could start a family or burn down a nation.

And when it was over, his head resting on her chest, her own swimming in those exquisite chemicals that felt like love and forever, she heard him whisper:

“This is a dream. I don’t want to wake up. Don’t wake me up.”

Looking out the window of the private car, Hermione took in the familiar sights of Grace—the city she called home, for now. The status symbol on her finger would change all that. Her new home was the top three floors of the East Tower, a massive glass-and-steel high-rise reserved for First Order families.

Owning land was a rare privilege. The Grangers held properties in every direction, but none were convenient for social living. For everyone else, proximity to power was worth the close quarters.

Stepping out, Hermione looked up at the building—past the tiered gardens and balconies—to her own floors. She’d be facing them both soon. Hopefully. It would be nice to get it over with.

With a practiced smile, she greeted the Common servants who came to unload the vehicle. The front desk staff welcomed her home, pleasant as always. Nothing ever changed. These people had worked here since she was a child, and they would continue until it was time to say goodbye. She’d once found comfort in that.

She smiled just the same. No one needed to know her traitorous thoughts were now endorsed and underwritten.

The elevator ride up forty-one floors was swift. She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. Severus had taught her that—when it was time to leave Joy. He’d said it when they first met, too. He calmed her. She missed him already.

The elevator stopped. A large brown frosted-glass door appeared before her. Home.

Inside, the hum of machines greeted her. No voices. No movement.

“Mother?” she called, stepping deeper into the living space. From here, she could see the entire first floor—and beyond it, the city in all its sleek, shining glory.

A figure moved in the corner of her eye. Turning, Hermione spotted her mother on the terrace, surrounded by lush greenery. Leda looked like something out of a painting—lounging in paradise, beautiful beyond belief. Those ocean-blue eyes found her, and regal hands beckoned her outside.

Hermione’s steps were uncertain. Being near Leda was rarely a good idea. She rarely had anything pleasant to share—unless it was about herself.

“Four days,” Leda said as Hermione stepped onto the terrace. “Did they send you home?”

“I’m getting married.”

The older woman blinked. “You?” she asked, clarifying because it was so outlandish—the idea that anyone would want Hermione.

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“Regulus Black.”

Leda’s mouth fell open. Hermione wondered how disgusting her mother must find her. Regulus was handsome, yes, and powerful—but he was just another man. His influence mattered, but the Grangers were not Common trash.

“Your ring. Let me see.”

Hermione felt the tug as Leda jerked her hand forward to inspect the jewelry. She smirked—then quickly hid it. Hermione’s ring was nicer. Encrusted with more stones.

“When is it?” No compliment. No comment. Just envy.

“I’ll know as soon as his family sets the date,” Hermione replied, smiling genuinely. There was something delicious about this.

Leda reached for a glass of something cold on the nearby table.

“I can’t wait to tell Father!” Hermione said, voice bright.

Slightly annoyed, Leda replied, “Then tell him.”

“He’s here? In the middle of the day?” Hermione kept pretending she didn’t know how bad the sickness had become.

Her mother continued sipping, letting more Imperio settle into her system—calming whatever emotions were bubbling up. Hermione would soon outrank her. It burned. A shame.

The last thing Hermione heard as she left the terrace was, “By the way, you should fix your hair.”

Taking the private internal elevator, Hermione ascended to the third floor to find her father. His room was on the left, the door wide open.

“Hello?”

“Who’s there? Oh! It’s you.”

“Yes, me,” she answered back, just as plainly.

“What are you doing back so quickly? You left just a few days ago, correct?”

Hermes, once formidable, was about to fall out of bed. Hermione rushed to catch him. He was so light—she did so easily. So thin. Was he eating?

She settled him back on the edge of the bed, keeping a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Answer me.”

“Yes. Well, Regulus Black agreed to marry me.”

“He agreed to marry you? Why does that sound so… political?”

“I think you know why.”

He was sharp today. Now was the time to gather what she could. “Sir, do you know my name?”

“Yes,” he said, anger creeping into his voice.

“What is it? Who am I?”

“Hermione, of course.”

“Are you sure?”

He huffed and tried to stand again. “You’re Hermione, my daughter. What game are you playing?”

Clearing her throat, she said, “The same game you’ve been playing with Orion Black. He knows about me, Father. And her.”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Kalista.”

Hermes looked like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Helen…”

“Yes. My mother. My real mother.”

“Is that w-why you’re marrying him? Is he blackmailing you?”

“No.”

“You love him, then?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

She needed to know more before he took a turn again. Lucidity was fleeting, and the window was closing. It was inevitable. No matter how they tried to hide whatever this was, Hermione knew.

“Where is Sirius Black?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. You know, and that’s why I could grow up here with you. And why Kalista was never Gathered. There are no twins, Father, and yet we both survive. The Blacks know about us, and you know about them. About all of them.”

He paused, looking suddenly small. When she said her sister’s name, guilt flooded his face. Maybe he did love them.

“He’s in a better place. That’s all I know. He wasn’t Gathered. He’s somewhere better than this… this damned place.”

“You’re lying,” Hermione pressed. Hermes was a master of subterfuge and duplicity. “Where is he? Why keep it a secret now? I’m your child. You must be tired of hiding. I am exhausted. We’re different from everyone else. You know we are. We’re not happy like everyone else.”

“No one is happy,” Hermes said quietly. “It’s all a show. Your mother—”

“Which one?”

“Helen,” he supplied softly. The name dripped with longing. “She made me happy. I had to hide her. And your sister. I wanted to be with them. I wanted you to know them. Nineteen years of pretending. Of putting up with that woman downstairs and all the others.”

“Why are we like this?” she asked, trying to understand. “Why aren’t we like them? Like Leda?”

“I’ve wondered that all my life. I’ve tried to figure it out, investigate, but it’s a dangerous game to ask questions that may not have easy answers.”

Hermione contemplated this. She knew the answer only because of luck. Meeting Severus was pure luck. “W-Why didn’t you tell me? We’re family.”

“How long have you known you were different? Your whole life? And you never told me. We don’t trust each other, and I am the cause of that. I know. But, I couldn’t get close to you, Hermione.”

“Why not?”

“If I showed love, we’d be caught. Don’t you get it? I’d die for all three of you—but I couldn’t show it. I kept you alive. You couldn’t survive if I loved you.”

“Helen said that. I didn’t believe her. Not at first.”

“Parents in the First Order don’t love their children. They tolerate them. Ignore them. I had to treat you the same way. You had to be like them. I worried about your intelligence, but you learned even faster than they did, a true genius—not engineered. Kalista’s the same. Too bright for her own good. I didn’t let her go to school after seven. She brought too much attention to herself.”

“She told me,” Hermione nodded, recalling the conversation wherein guilt drenched her like a monsoon. Kalista was even more brilliant, having almost no education at all and still learning as much as she did. Her talents would never be appreciated or rewarded. 

“I really don’t know where Sirius is,” Hermes continued, “I know they took him over the border. He’s not in Amoria. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. Orion kept our secrets to control me. He must’ve told Regulus so he could keep targeting me, even after death. They’re like us.”

“Unhappy?” she supplied helpfully.

“Very unhappy,” he breathed. “Can you help me to the toilet?”

Hermione supported him gently. “Why don’t you have a nurse or helper?”

“Who knows what I might say. It gets worse at night, and I know too much. I can’t trust anyone.”

After he used the toilet, she helped him to the sink.

“A man like me shouldn’t live this way. We were supposed to be perfect. Contribute to society. Leave this earth before becoming a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” Hermione said, guiding him back to bed. “What is this disease?”

“I didn’t want a name for it. I can’t treat it without exposing my status. It’s too late to escape or travel. I can’t make it to the bathroom, let alone another country. My grandfather died in an accident, apparently. Now I think that was a lie to cover up his real death. My mother said the same about my father.”

“You mean this disease is in our bloodline?”

“I mean, when it’s my time, say I had an accident. Keep us safe. All of us.”

“I will.”

“Will Regulus still want to marry you if you don’t get the information he wants?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s… political. Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t. I won’t remember this conversation in a few hours. Leda finds me insufferable—that I remember.”

Hermione giggled at his little joke. “Oh, she always found me insufferable.”

“I’m sorry you had her for a mother. I prayed she’d be indifferent to you. I know she could be heartless. They all are to some extent, but I always thought she made it her mission to tear you down.”

“It was necessary at the time,” Hermione said, fighting back tears as memories surfaced. “I understand it all now.”

“I should’ve protected you more.”

“I’m letting all that go. I’ve decided it’s for the best.”

He nodded and settled into the pillows. Hermione brought the blanket across his body. 

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“What makes them all so happy? What is it?”

“You make me happy,” he said, sleepily. “You make me happy.”

Hermione, confused since he was so alert just seconds earlier, leaned closer. “Look at me. What’s my name?”

“Helen,” he smiled. “Beautiful Helen.”

She didn’t correct him. Let him have Helen—just for a moment. He’d earned that sliver of joy. Hermione held his hand, feeling the bones beneath the skin, and wondered how much he’d forget… and what truths she might only uncover once he was gone.

“Father? Can you hear me?”

He looked up at her with the most earnest expression of love, something so new to Hermione that it almost startled her. He still saw Helen. It didn’t matter.

“You can trust me,” she said, gently squeezing his hand. “Okay? I’ll take care of you. You can trust me.”