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Chapter Text

The halls of the Ministry of Magic, once humming with bureaucracy and buzzing wands, now pulsed with a colder, quieter order. Golden light no longer filtered in through the great stained-glass atrium. Instead, shadows reigned, and with them came fear, compliance, and silence.

After Voldemort and Harry Potter perished together in the final battle, there was no hero left to carry the light. The Order fractured. The resistance splintered. And in the vacuum, the old blood rose.

Pureblood supremacy was no longer whispered behind closed doors—it was written into law.

The Marriage Decree passed within a month. Muggle-born witches, deemed “salvageable assets,” were auctioned off under the guise of arranged bonding, rebranded as "claims." A grotesque performance of power dressed in the language of tradition.

And Hermione Granger—war heroine, brightest witch of her age, last lioness of the fallen resistance—stood at the center of it all.

She was assigned a number.

Catalogued.

Processed.

Prepared for the claiming floor.

—

The chamber stank of incense and fear.

Rows of velvet seats rose in a semicircle around the claiming floor, where witches—paraded like livestock—stood on shallow platforms beneath the cool gaze of robed purebloods. The air was heavy, not with the usual perfume of the Ministry’s atrium, but with something cloying and ceremonial, a sickly sweetness meant to mask the truth.

Hermione’s wrists itched beneath the thin silver cuffs that marked her as property of the Marriage Decree Office. She stood on the dais in a simple cream dress—standard issue—her hair a wild, defiant halo no matter how many times the clerk tried to smooth it down.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the announcer’s voice rang out.  

“Lot Number Seventy-Three. Hermione Jean Granger, twenty-one, muggle-born, war survivor. Fully trained, unbonded.”

The words war survivor caught like a splinter. They made her sound like some rare breed, battle-tested and broken in.

The first bid came from the left balcony.
“One hundred galleons,” Lucius Malfoy said, his voice smooth and mocking. His pale hair gleamed under the enchanted lights, his cane tapping once against the railing as if to punctuate his claim.

“Two hundred,” drawled Antonin Dolohov from the opposite side, lounging like a cat ready to toy with its prey.

Her stomach knotted.

“Three hundred,” Lucius replied without looking away from her.

“Five hundred,” Dolohov countered, smirking.

The numbers climbed, the crowd’s energy tightening like a noose. Hermione’s breaths grew shallow. She tried not to look at either man, her gaze fixed on the marble floor, but she could feel them circling—predators in a gilded arena.

“Eight hundred,” Lucius said sharply, lips curling.

“Eleven hundred,” Dolohov fired back, his eyes glinting with something dark and hungry.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Every number was a nail in the coffin of her freedom.

And then—

A new voice cut through the haze.
“One thousand five hundred.”

It did not come from the balconies.

In the back of the chamber, a figure stood apart from the others—hood up, face shadowed. He was out of place in the velvet-lined auction room, his long coat unadorned, hands bare except for a curious object he held against his ear.

A muggle cellphone.

The man wasn’t watching her. He wasn’t watching the auctioneer. He was listening—to someone else, somewhere else—his head tilted slightly, as though taking quiet instructions.

Dolohov’s lip curled in irritation. “Seventeen hundred.”

The man lifted his chin a fraction. “Two thousand.” His voice was low, measured, carrying just enough to reach the dais.

Lucius hesitated.

“Two thousand five,” Dolohov tried again, eyes narrowing.

The cellphone-man’s reply was instant. “Three thousand.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room. That was not a bid—it was a warning.

Hermione’s skin prickled. Whoever this was, he wasn’t playing the game. He was ending it.

The announcer’s quill scratched across parchment. “Sold. Lot Seventy-Three—claimed.”

And as the hammer fell, the man in the back pocketed the phone and finally looked at her.

Only then did Hermione feel the first real shiver of fear.

Two guards in black Ministry livery gripped her arms before she could step down from the dais.

“This way,” one said, his voice flat and cold.

She stumbled to keep up as they led her through a side corridor lined with runed iron doors, the sound of the auction muffling behind them. The air here was damp and close, smelling faintly of ink and warding salts.

When they turned a final corner, the man was waiting.

He leaned against the wall as though he had been there for hours, hands in his coat pockets, hood still drawn low. The guards stopped just short of him, shifting their grips on her arms.

“Your claimant,” one of them said.

The man said nothing—only tilted his head in the smallest of acknowledgements. Up close, she saw the muggle phone now tucked away in his coat, the faint reflection of the torchlight on its glass screen.

Without preamble, he pushed away from the wall and started walking. The guards released her.

Hermione’s legs felt stiff as she followed him down the long hallway, past more iron doors, until they emerged into a shadowed courtyard. The distant hum of the Ministry’s wards was replaced by the cool hiss of night wind.

He led her to a small circle etched into the cobblestones—an apparition point.

“You’ll take this.” His voice was low, stripped of any warmth. From his coat, he withdrew a length of tarnished brass chain with an old iron key hanging from it.

She didn’t move to take it. “Where—”

“Now,” he said, tone flat, as though the question wasn’t permitted.

Her fingers closed reluctantly around the cold metal. The moment her skin touched it, the key glowed faintly—just enough for her to see the runes carved along its shaft. Then the world yanked out from under her feet.

She landed hard on damp grass, the portkey falling from her hand. The night here was different—thicker, quieter. When she looked up, the Ministry’s marble and glass had been replaced by black silhouettes of trees stretching high against the moon.

And in the clearing ahead, a small cottage crouched in the shadows.

The silence was thick.

No roads. No voices. Just the black lattice of the forest pressing in on all sides.

Her heart began to race. She didn’t know where she was—only that it wasn’t anywhere she wanted to be. Whoever had claimed her could be inside that cottage, watching. Waiting.

She turned sharply toward the treeline and bolted.

The cold air burned her lungs as she pushed between the trees. Branches clawed at her dress, wet leaves slapped her face, but she kept going, desperate for distance, for anything familiar.

She didn’t make it far.

The moment she crossed an invisible line, it felt like she’d run headlong into a wall—except the wall was everywhere. Magic surged against her, heat flaring across her skin before hurling her backward onto the mossy ground.

She gasped, scrambling to her feet and trying another direction. The same thing happened: an unseen force slammed into her, this time sending her tumbling hard enough to jar her teeth.

Panic knifed through her chest. She spun in place, eyes darting between the trees and the cottage, searching for some gap, some weakness in the wards, but they were seamless. She was trapped.

And then she heard it—footsteps crunching slowly through the grass behind her.

She went still.

A figure stepped into the moonlight at the edge of the clearing. Cloaked, hood drawn low, their face was hidden entirely in shadow.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Every hair on the back of her neck rose as they took a step toward her.

She thought “they” because she didn’t know. Maybe it was a woman ? Unlikely, the goal was procreation after all.

The figure crossed the clearing without hurry, each step deliberate. Hermione’s instincts screamed to back away, but the wards pressed like hot glass at her back, hemming her in.

When he reached her, the hooded stranger didn’t speak. He simply took her wrist—not roughly, but with an unyielding grip that promised there would be no escape. The heat of his fingers bled through the thin fabric of her sleeve. With that type of strength it was definitely a man. 

“Let me go, you brute” she hissed, yanking against him.

The only answer was a small twist of his hand that shifted her balance, forcing her to follow as he steered her toward the cottage. No wasted movements. No force beyond what was necessary.

The door opened before he touched it, hinges whispering in the still air. Inside, the single candle on the table flickered to life, casting long shadows along the walls. The scent of old wood and something faintly medicinal clung to the air.

He guided her over the threshold and let the door swing shut. The wards shifted—she could feel them settle around the building like a locked cage.

Her captor released her and stepped around to face her fully.

Hermione stayed where she was, breath sharp in her lungs, the fire of panic burning in her veins. The hood still hid his face.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached up, tugging the hood back in one slow motion.

The candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face—the hooked nose, the pallid skin, the black eyes that had once glinted with contempt from behind a classroom desk.

Severus Snape.

Every muscle in her body went rigid. “You…” Her voice cracked. “You’re dead.”

His expression didn’t change. “That’s what they told you.”

Her throat went dry. “Why—”

“You will not leave this place,” he said, cutting across her words. His tone was smooth, even, and stripped of all emotion—less a threat than a statement of natural law. “You will not attempt to breach the wards again. And you will not speak unless it is necessary.”

It was not the voice of a savior. It was the voice of a man who had already decided her fate.

He moved past her to a cupboard, the faint rustle of his robes following him. “Your room is upstairs. You will find clothing in the wardrobe. Meals will be left on the table.”

Hermione stood frozen, trying to steady her breathing, every instinct torn between demanding answers and finding a weapon.

Snape glanced back over his shoulder, meeting her gaze with those black, unreadable eyes.

“Welcome home, Miss Granger.”

Chapter Text

The stairs creaked under her feet, each step heavier than the last. She half-expected the air to thin as she climbed, for the wards to crush her lungs and turn her back, but the magic here was subtle—coiled in the bones of the cottage rather than pressing against her.

The upstairs hall was narrow, lined with three doors. Snape opened the one at the far end with a flick of his fingers.

The sight made her stop cold.

It was her old Gryffindor dormitory. Not exactly, but close enough to twist her stomach. The same warm scarlet and gold, the same heavy four-poster bed with curtains tied neatly back, even a familiar-looking trunk at the foot. The window was narrow, but moonlight spilled across the rug in the same way it had at Hogwarts, softening the edges.

Her throat tightened. This wasn’t comfortable. This was the design.

“You’ll sleep here,” Snape said, his voice as smooth and detached as ever.

She stepped inside on unsteady legs, eyes darting over every detail. Whoever had arranged this knew her past, knew the pieces that might draw her guard down—or break her faster.

The panic hit without warning. Her heart surged, and she turned sharply for the door. “No—”

But he was there.

His hand caught her shoulder, firm and sure, pushing her back over the threshold before she could even plant her feet. The touch wasn’t rough—it was measured, almost careful—but it was enough to send a shiver down her spine. She hated that it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

He shut the door behind him and looked down at her, his gaze steady and unreadable. “There are rules.”

Her mouth was dry. “I’m not—”

“One,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Obedience. When I give you an instruction, you will follow it without delay or question or there will be consequences”

She clenched her jaw.

“Two,” he continued, “you will keep yourself clean and well-groomed. You will not neglect your appearance.”

Her breath hitched. “And three?”

A flicker of something dark passed over his expression. “You will not lie to me.”

The words landed like a lock clicking shut.

All she could think about was all the time she deceived him in her school year. From the ingredient in his supply closet, to the time she set his cloak on fire. 

“Precisely what I was referring to” he said

She couldn’t believe it. He was reading her mind. He was invading her own personal space. How could he sleep at night she pondered. 

“Years of practice” he said coldly. 

From his pocket, he drew two slender bracelets of polished silver, their surfaces etched with intricate runes. They were beautiful—delicate in design, almost ceremonial—but the moment he slid the first over her wrist, she felt it: the quiet suffocation of her magic being pressed deep, smothered beneath layers of enchantment.

The second followed, settling on her other wrist.

“They will remain,” Snape said. “Do not attempt to remove them. It may hurt”

Hermione stared at the metal circling her skin, her pulse loud in her ears. The room felt smaller now, the air heavier.

Without another word, he stepped back toward the door. “Rest. We begin tomorrow.”

The latch clicked softly as he left, but the weight of the bracelets remained, cold and inescapable.

“What will I do tomorrow ?”

But he never answered. 

The adjoining door creaked open to reveal a bathroom that didn’t belong in a lonely cottage.

It was almost an exact copy of the prefects’ bath at Hogwarts—gleaming marble, high-arched ceiling, a sunken tub large enough for five, silver taps that promised water hot enough to steam the room. Scented oils in cut-glass bottles lined a low shelf, their contents catching the candlelight in jeweled glints.

He had said keep yourself clean and well-groomed.

Hermione hesitated at the threshold. She had not had a proper bath in weeks—just quick, tepid washes in overcrowded holding cells. The memory of warm water on her skin felt like something from another lifetime.

She stepped inside and closed the door. The bolt slid home with a soft click.

The marble floor was cold under her bare feet as she knelt to turn the taps. Hot  water gushed in, filling the tub with curling steam. She added a splash of something floral from one of the bottles—it spread quickly, wrapping the air in a scent both soothing and alien.

When she slid into the water, her muscles almost buckled with relief. The heat sank deep into her bones, drawing out the aches of travel and confinement. For a moment she closed her eyes, letting herself drift.

But the stillness was dangerous.

The bracelets at her wrists sat just above the waterline, cool and heavy, a reminder that the comfort was not hers by choice. And beneath that, another truth pressed in—one she had been shoving to the farthest corner of her mind since the parchment with her number had been read aloud.

The Marriage Decree had one goal.

Procreation.

Her breath caught. She had fought Death Eaters, stood on the front lines, bled for the resistance—but she had never done that. Never crossed that threshold with anyone. The thought of it—forced, inevitable—sent a sick wave through her stomach.

She tried to shake it off, focusing on scrubbing her skin, combing her hair with fingers pruned from the water. But the images came unbidden: a faceless man leaning close, her body no longer her own, the law’s cold script written over every choice she’d ever made.

Her chest tightened. The edges of the room seemed to tilt.

She gripped the side of the tub, forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. Again.

Somewhere in the cottage, a floorboard creaked. She froze, the sound anchoring her in the present, reminding her she wasn’t alone—not here, not even in this moment.

She didn’t know if it was worse that he might come in… or that he might be waiting for her when she stepped out.

The water had cooled, and the steam had faded to a thin veil clinging to the mirror. Hermione dried off quickly, wrapping herself in the thick towel hanging by the door. Her skin prickled in the cooler air, and the weight of the silver bracelets seemed sharper now, as if the magic inside them had been reawakened.

She dressed in the simple nightgown folded on the counter—a garment clearly chosen for her, soft cotton,keeping her modest, a gesture she appreciated. It was comforting to see he didn’t put on some kind of lingerie but still leaving her feeling exposed in ways she couldn’t quite name.

The thought of stepping back into her room made her stomach clench. She opened the bathroom door slowly, half-hoping the room beyond would be empty.

It wasn’t.

Snape was seated in the chair beside her bed, the candle on the nightstand casting a flickering halo around him. He wasn’t slouched, but upright, hands folded loosely in his lap. Still and Waiting.

Her breath hitched. “What—”

His gaze swept over her once, not lingering in any one place, but thorough enough to make her want to pull the nightgown tighter around herself. “You followed my instruction,” he said simply.

Her throat was dry. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Compliance is most easily broken at the start,” he replied, his tone as even as if they were discussing an overdue essay. “It is… promising that you did not test me tonight.”

The implication in tonight made her skin prickle.

He rose from the chair, and she instinctively took half a step back toward the bathroom door. His eyes tracked the movement, but he said nothing, simply crossing the short distance between them.

“The rules remain,” he said, stopping close enough for her to feel the faint heat radiating from him. “Obedience. Cleanliness. Truth. Break them, and you will understand the cost.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. “And if I follow them?”

“Then you will find your stay here… tolerable.”

She shivered—not from the draft. There was no comfort in his tone, only the cool certainty of a man who knew he was in complete control.

Without another word, he moved past her to the door. “Sleep,” he said over his shoulder. “We begin tomorrow.”

—

Severus

The cottage was silent except for the faint whisper of the wards breathing against the windows. Snape sat at the table in the small kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, quill poised above a scrap of parchment that refused to absorb ink evenly. The wards here did not like correspondence, but he had learned how to coax them.

He didn’t hear the owl until it was already inside.

A pale bird — Lucius Malfoy’s, sleek and self-satisfied — dropped a sealed note beside the empty teacup and fixed him with its yellow eyes, expectant for a reply that would never come. Snape cracked the wax seal, already dreading the perfume that clung to every letter from the Manor.

Severus,
I trust this finds you in one piece, though I question the wisdom of your most recent acquisition. You must have deep pockets to interfere in Ministry matters so boldly. Three thousand galleons? The auctioneer nearly choked.
If you wished to make a statement, you succeeded. Though I confess, I would rather have known the man who robbed me of my prize. Surely you did not act on behalf of anyone with sense?
Do be careful, old friend. Anonymous wagers draw attention.
— L.M.

Snape’s jaw tightened. Anonymous wagers, indeed. Lucius had been close enough to guess; the man’s vanity would not rest until he uncovered who had ruined his show of dominance.

He burned the letter with a muttered Incendio and watched the parchment curl into black petals.

Outside, the forest wind pressed against the eaves. Inside, another sound threaded through the stillness — faint, rhythmic, like water shifting in a basin. The upper-floor plumbing groaned softly.

She was bathing.

Snape’s hand stilled above the ashes.

He told himself it was nothing — a matter of ensuring the wards were stable, the enchantments on the bracelets holding as designed. Still, he found himself rising, footsteps carrying him to the base of the stairs before the thought had fully formed.

The cottage was small enough that he could feel her magic even through the suppression bands: dimmed, but there. It shimmered faintly like the embers of a dying hearth. Not gone. Contained. Fragile.

He paused at the half-closed door of the room he had built for her. Steam bled into the corridor, fragrant with some floral oil he hadn’t remembered placing there. The scent of calm. The scent of surrender.

He caught his reflection in the brass doorknob — pale, hollow-eyed, a man staring at his own failure.

He turned away.

Downstairs again, he summoned quill and parchment with a flick of his fingers, forcing his mind toward logic, calculation, anything but the sound of water above him.

He began drafting a reply he would never send:

Lucius —
You mistake motive for indulgence. The Ministry plays at control; I play at containment. What I purchased was not a prize but a variable — one they will not account for. Leave it be.

The words blurred. He dropped the quill and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

“Containment,” he murmured, as if the repetition could make it true.

From upstairs came the muffled scrape of pipes as the taps closed. Then silence.

He exhaled, long and slow, until the tremor in his hands stilled.

The owl, still waiting for an answer, gave a low hiss from the windowsill. Snape gave him a treat and the letter to send back to his master.

Would Lucius let it be ? Time will tell

Chapter Text

Flash back, the day of  the new Marriage Decree

The fire in Malfoy Manor burned low, its light the color of old honey against marble and silver. The war had ended, but the house had not changed; decadence endured where conscience had not. With Harry Potter and Voldemort now dead, life was different. Like stuck in time without their hero and villain to guide the story.

Severus sat in the far corner of the study, nursing a glass he had no intention of drinking. His seat, as always, was chosen for its shadow. He had been invited—summoned, really—by Lucius Malfoy to “discuss the new order.”

He had not wanted to come. But appearances, even for a man presumed dead, required maintenance. He had only recently “came back from the dead” and it was exhausting. 

Lucius stood before the hearth, his cane resting against one leg, his expression loose with self-satisfaction. “You should have come back sooner, Severus,” he said, swirling his drink. “You’d hardly recognize the Ministry now. Order. Cleanliness. None of that chaos from the war. The Dark Lord’s vision… refined.”

Snape did not answer. The word refined caught in his ear like a sliver of glass.

Lucius continued, tone conversational. “They’ve found a rather elegant solution to the population problem. The Marriage Decree. Ingenious, really. Bonds made by law, bloodlines restored by necessity. The Ministry gets its stability; the families get their purity.”

Snape’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass. “Purity,” he repeated softly.

“Yes.” Lucius’s lips curved. “Even the Muggle-borns have their uses now. Salvageable assets, they call them. The Decree Office is quite… efficient.”

The words hit like a slow-acting poison. Snape’s expression did not change, but something colder stirred beneath his skin. “Assets.”

“Oh, don’t look so moral, Severus. You of all people know the Ministry’s appetite for reclassification.” Lucius leaned back in his chair, eyes bright with a private amusement. “They’re cataloguing the eligible witches now. Auctions begin next week. I’ve already placed my wager.”

“Wager?”

“On a high-profile Muggle-born. There’s a pool going, you see. Which of them fetches the highest bid. The hero, the outcast, the whore—they’ve all got their appeal. I took the brightest witch of her age, naturally. Granger.”

The name hit him like a wand blast. His control held—barely. Only the faintest twitch of his jaw betrayed him. “Hermione Granger is alive.”

“For now.” Lucius smirked. “She’s being held in the Decree Office. Fully trained, unbonded, and—how did the clerk phrase it?—‘well-tempered despite ideological corruption.’ Imagine that. The girl should fetch a fortune. Some say Dolohov’s already saving his gold for her.”

Lucius chuckled at his own cleverness, but the sound receded in Snape’s ears. He heard only the rush of blood and the faint crackle of the fire.

Granger.
Alive.
And about to be sold.

His hand relaxed slowly, setting the glass on the table with care. The world around him narrowed to edges and numbers—the Ministry, the wards, the pathways of corruption that had always run beneath its marble floors.

“How very enterprising,” Snape murmured.

Lucius’s grin widened. “Come now, Severus, don’t pretend you’re above it. You’ve always had a taste for rare things. If you’ve got the gold, you might even outbid me. Imagine the irony—Professor Snape, owner of the brightest Gryffindor of her age.”

Snape stood. The movement was smooth, unhurried. The old reflexes of Occlumency closed around his mind like iron shutters. “My tastes,” he said, voice soft as the slide of a knife, “are none of your concern.”

Lucius’s laughter followed him to the door, rich and unguarded. “Then drink to progress, old friend! It’s a new world—you might even find you enjoy it.”

The door shut with a click.

Snape did not Apparate immediately. He stood in the long corridor, the scent of wax and cigar smoke clinging to his robes, and let the silence stretch until it cracked.

A wager.
An auction.
Granger.

He had thought himself finished with redemption. Finished with loyalty. But some debts, it seemed, refused to stay buried.

By the time the Manor’s wards registered his departure, he was already halfway to London planning how to get the girl to him without raising suspicion about his intentions. 

–

That night, he walked the empty corridors beneath the Ministry—the ones only ghosts and spies remembered. His boots echoed off the stone. Every turn, every charm, every sensor spell was catalogued in his mind.

He had lived too long in other men’s systems not to know how to break one.

At last, he reached the Maintenance Ward—a place where enchantments converged, where bureaucratic magic tangled with infrastructure. From his coat, he drew a small brass key. Its surface shimmered faintly with layered enchantments.

He had stolen it months before, from a dead registrar who had never known its worth.

With three muttered incantations, the air shimmered. The restricted files of the Marriage Decree Office unfolded before him in spectral ink. Thousands of names. Thousands of fates.

He scrolled until one appeared:
Granger, Hermione Jean.
Status: Processed. Auction pending.

Her number. Her file. Her price.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. It was not grief that moved him—it was calculation. Grief was a luxury. Action was currency.

The man he hired met him in an abandoned atrium from a defecated hotel. The contact was a half-blood broker known as Riv, thin as a reed and twice as nervous.

“You’re certain you can manage it?” Snape asked.

Riv swallowed hard. “The auction’s invite-only, sir. Wards everywhere. But if you want anonymity, I’ve got… methods.” His eyes flicked to the small black device in Snape’s hand. “What’s that?”

“A Muggle communications tool,” Snape said curtly. “You will bring it into the chamber. When the bidding begins for the Granger girl, I will contact you. You will place bids as I instruct. You will not question the amount

Riv hesitated. “That’s—dangerous, sir. They’ll trace the magic, maybe even the sound—”

“They won’t trace a signal that doesn’t exist within their world.”

Snape handed him a pouch of gold—heavy, full, final.
“Three thousand galleons,” he said. “That will be the ceiling. You will stop when I say stop.”

Riv’s mouth fell open. “Three—three thousand? For a Muggle-born?”

The look Snape gave him froze the next word on his tongue.
“Do not call her that again,” he said with fire in his eyes.

When the day of the auction arrived, Snape sat alone in the darkened flat above a shuttered apothecary. The cellphone lay on the table before him, its glow a cold, alien light.

Below him, the city moved like clockwork—an empire of silence and obedience.

At precisely eight o’clock, the phone vibrated once. Riv’s voice came through, distorted by static.
“They’re starting. Malfoy’s here. Dolohov, too. She’s next.”

Snape said nothing. He listened to the faint hum of the crowd through the line—the laughter, the murmurs, the bidding.

“One hundred galleons,” Dyer muttered. “From Malfoy.”
“Two hundred—Dolohov.”
The numbers climbed, quickening.

“Eight hundred,” Lucius again.
“Eleven hundred—Dolohov. He’s pushing.”

Snape’s hand tightened around the phone. “Fifteen hundred.”

Riv repeated it aloud. The room on the other end fell quiet.
Snape could almost hear Lucius’s disbelief.

Then came the reply.
“Seventeen hundred.”

“Two thousand,” Snape said.

A pause. Then Dolohov again: “Two thousand five.”

Snape didn’t hesitate.
“Three thousand.”

The silence that followed was complete.

He could picture it—the collective unease, the confusion, the sudden awareness that someone had ended the game.

Then Riv’s voice, low and awed: “Sold. Lot Seventy-Three—claimed.”

Snape closed the phone and sat in silence for a long while.

When he finally rose, the night beyond the window had gone utterly black.

—

Before her arrival

Hogwarts lay in stillness when he arrived.
The wards, though altered since the war, still recognized him — grudgingly, like an old hound that no longer remembered whether it loved or feared its master. The air smelled faintly of dust, wax, and the ghosts of children’s laughter.

He hadn’t walked these corridors in months. Not since the trials. Not since the Ministry had called his service “redemption” and then dismissed him like a tool gone blunt.

Now he was here under the pretense of maintenance — the Headmistress’s permission quietly granted.
But his purpose was anything but bureaucratic.

He moved through the castle in silence, his boots whispering over the stones. The torches dimmed as he passed, recognizing the rhythm of his stride.
When he reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, she startled, pressing a hand to her painted chest.

“Severus Snape! You haven’t the password!”

“And yet,” he said softly, “you will let me in.”

Something in his tone — perhaps exhaustion, perhaps command — made her glance away. The portrait swung open without another word.

The Gryffindor common room greeted him like an old adversary.
The fire burned low, the chairs slightly askew, the scent of ash and parchment still thick in the air. He remembered detentions here — years of arrogance, laughter, and insolence that had driven him to fury.
And yet, standing here now, he realized he missed it. The noise. The life. The unthinking courage of youth.

He crossed the room slowly, his fingers trailing the edge of an armchair as if memorizing texture. Every detail mattered: the warm hues, the velvet drapery, the sharp tang of cedar polish in the air.
If he was to build her a refuge — or something that looked like one — it must be perfect.

He paused by the window, looking out toward the Forbidden Forest. The trees swayed darkly in the distance.
He imagined her — Hermione — staring through a window like this, clutching her books to her chest, believing in justice and rightness and the rules that held the world together.
The same rules that had failed her.

Snape’s jaw tightened.
It wasn’t kindness that drove him to this task. Kindness was dangerous — soft and mutable.
No, this was strategy.
A controlled environment. A space that would anchor her mind after the shock of capture, keep her from fracturing under fear.
If she felt safe, she would be pliable. If she believed she was among familiar things, she would obey.

That was what he told himself.
He didn’t let the other truth take shape — the one that whispered that she deserved a home, not a cell. That she’d already survived enough cruelty to fill several lifetimes.

He turned toward the staircase leading to the girls’ dormitory. The wards resisted, as they always had against boys — even grown men — but his magic was older, darker now. They gave way with a flick of his hand, the scent of rose and dust spilling through the air.

He entered quietly.
Five canopied beds stood in a perfect circle, scarlet curtains drawn back.
Sunlight, pale and cold, fell across the rugs, lighting the faded embroidery of a lion mid-roar.

Hermione’s bed had been the one by the far window. He knew it without checking — she had always sought light to read by.
He traced the edge of the bedpost, imagining the space transfigured: same colors, same size, same warmth — but in his cottage, under his control.

“A replica,” he murmured to the empty room. “Not a shrine.”

The air didn’t answer, but he could almost hear Minerva’s voice:

You’re human after all, Severus.

He exhaled sharply and turned to leave.
But as he reached the door, he caught sight of a faint scratch carved into the wood of a desk — initials, shallow but stubborn.
H.G.
He brushed a thumb over them, and for a moment, he didn’t feel like a savior or a strategist. Just a man who had watched too many children grow and die and now was trying — futilely — to save one.

When he returned to his cottage that night, he summoned wood, stone, and silk by wand and will.
Scarlet draperies unfolded from nothing, gold trim weaving itself in slow curls along the bedposts. The firelight in the hearth shimmered warmer than it ever had before.
The room was complete — every line and color a memory rebuilt from guilt and longing.

He stood in the doorway, exhausted, and whispered,

“There. You’ll remember who you are.”

Then, after a pause, quieter still:

“And perhaps… so will I.”

Like on cue, he felt the wards shift. She was there. 

"Let this crazy charade begin"

Chapter Text

Present time

Hermione sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, hands folded tightly in her lap. The curtains, tied back neatly as if inviting her to look, framed the pale morning light spilling in from the small cottage window. The room was perfect — too perfect. Every detail mirrored her old dormitory at Hogwarts, from the faded rug beneath her feet to the faint scent of polished wood and wax that clung to the air.

And that was what unsettled her.

It wasn’t the warmth or the familiarity — those were nearly comforting in a way she had not felt for weeks. No, it was the deliberate precision of it all, the way Snape had taken something deeply personal and recreated it under his control. It wasn’t her room; it was a copy, a stage, and she was the unknowing actress.

Her gaze wandered to the desk by the window. She remembered the nights she had stayed up here, poring over books by candlelight, the occasional whispered argument with friends, the tiny victories of spells mastered or essays written. The echoes of laughter and reprimands felt almost like ghosts now. And yet, seeing it again, she realized how much of herself had been imprinted into this room — how much she had given, willingly or not, to the rhythm of Hogwarts life.

A shiver ran down her spine. She had survived battles, Death Eaters, and imprisonment, but this — this replication of a childhood safe space — felt like a new kind of imprisonment. She understood, coldly, that the room was meant to calm her, to soften her defenses, to coax obedience out of her. And yet… there was something else there, too, something she wasn’t ready to name.

Snape.

Even the thought of him in proximity made her pulse quicken. Not with fear, exactly — though there was plenty of that — but with something harder to define: awareness. The way he had built this room, chosen the colors, the layout, even the scent, spoke of an intimacy that unsettled her. He had watched, remembered, and meticulously reconstructed. She could not separate the act from him. And she hated that she was thinking of him at all.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to breathe. This room, he had told her, was meant to remind her of who she was, to anchor her in a world that made sense. But the more she thought about it, the more it anchored her to him, to his control, his will, his unspoken presence.

And yet — she hated that, too. Because beneath the fear, there was a flicker of… understanding. Of gratitude. Of recognition that, in his own rigid, cold way, Snape had spared her something. She could wash, sleep, and exist here without the constant fear of the Ministry’s eyes, without the cruel spectacle of the auction floor. He had provided safety, and she could not pretend that she didn’t notice it.

Her hands clenched tighter in her lap. She didn’t trust herself to think any further. Not yet. Not while the bracelets on her wrists pressed against her skin like a constant reminder of the boundaries she could not cross.

She opened her eyes again, staring at the scarlet curtains, the neatly made bed, the familiar clutter of a life that was both hers and a copy. Her chest tightened. She didn’t know what she felt exactly — relief, anger, fear, fascination, or all at once.

All she knew was that in this room, recreated down to the last detail, she was reminded of everything she had survived. And everything she would have to survive still.

A quiet voice in the back of her mind whispered something she did not dare acknowledge. That perhaps, in this controlled, mirrored space, she might even begin to understand Snape.

And perhaps that terrified her more than the Marriage Decree ever could.

–

The cottage had fallen into its usual hush by the time he ascended the stairs. A candle floated beside him, its light cutting a narrow path through the dark hall. From behind her door came the faint rustle   of movement — fabric brushing against wood, the sound of someone trying very hard not to be heard.

He knocked once.

A pause. Then, quietly, “Yes?”

He pushed the door open just far enough for the candlelight to reach her face. She stood near the bed, hair still damp from the bath, the silver bands at her wrists catching the glow.

He held out a small, leather-bound book.

“You will read this,” he said. “Tonight. Memorize the contents before morning.”

She took it without answering. The cover was plain, unmarked, but the weight of it was wrong — heavier than a book should be. Her brow furrowed as she turned it over in her hands.

“What is it?”

“My schedule,” he said simply. “And yours.”

He stepped back, his expression unreadable. “Every hour is accounted for. You will rise when the bell sounds. Meals are at fixed times. You will attend to the tasks listed therein and keep written notes of your progress. Order prevents collapse, Miss Granger. You would do well to remember that.”

Her mouth tightened, but she nodded.

“Good.” His gaze flicked to the book again. “There are rules for correspondence, for leaving your room, for the use of magic once the bands are lifted. Follow them exactly.”

He turned to go, then paused at the threshold. “You may ask your question”

How did he know she had questions at this moment ? He probably assumed because she always had questions back when they were in school. Would she be able to ask him about the room ? she pondered.

“Today Miss Granger”

He was not a patient man, that she knew for sure.

“I was wondering… how did you pick my room? I mean.. Why? To hurt me ?”

For a flash, he looked hurt by the question but as soon as realize it, his mask fell back in place. 

“I wanted you to have a room that was familiar. I didn’t know how you grew up. This was the closest thing I could think of. I … “ he hesitated 

“I know I wasn’t always nice to you and your friends. I can look in a mirror, I know this is not what you would have wanted for life.”

She could see the shame and guilt very clearly now. She always thought he was heartless but now she could see his vulnerable side. He was… letting her in ?

“I made a promise. To Dumbledore before he died. That I would protect the golden trio. I failed, Harry is dead, Ron is nowhere to be found and you were captured for this stupid law. The dark lord may be dead, but the dark side is not. We must be careful.” 

He walked closer to the door now.

“I never thought you were Evil Professor, I know you don’t see it but I saw what you did to protect us.”

“You should be scared, you must have lived hell to think i’m this way”

And on that he left her pondering about who he really was under that cold mask.

The door closed behind him with a soft click and he was gone.

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, the book heavy on her lap. The first pages were lists — neat columns of times and duties written in his precise hand.

06:00 — Rise
06:15 — Wash, dress
06:30 — Breakfast (alone)
07:00 — Reading and written exercises
…and so on.

She was surprised to see that he still wanted her to read and write. She didn’t think a woman should be able to in these stupid times.

The entries continued through the day, each hour occupied, every action measured. By the time she reached the back of the book, her eyes ached from the precision of it.

Then, near the final page, the handwriting changed. The letters grew smaller, softer — not the rigid script of instruction but something more deliberate, almost private:

Your obedience is your freedom, trust must be earned for the both of us

The words were clinical, almost antiseptic, but they tightened her chest all the same. The language of discipline, not cruelty, yet it left no room for comfort.

She closed the book slowly, her hands trembling.

Downstairs, she could hear him moving — the steady rhythm of a man following a schedule he had written long before she arrived.

Rigid man. Rigid rules. And she was now one more entry in his ledger.

–

The morning came without sound — only a dull gray light leaking through the high windows. Hermione woke before the bell, the weight of the book still beside her on the coverlet. The memory of its contents pulled her fully into the day.

She opened it again.
06:00 — Rise. 06:15 — Wash. 06:30 — Breakfast. 07:00 — Reading.

The words were clean, absolute.
No room for hesitation.

She obeyed.

By the time she descended the stairs, the cottage was already awake. A faint scent of ink and parchment drifted from the study, and somewhere deeper inside, she heard the faint clink of glass on wood — Snape, already at his workbench.

He had not locked any doors. That surprised her. She half expected wards to confine her movements, but the house was open — if unnervingly quiet.

The kitchen was neat, functional, like everything else here. A pot of tea sat waiting on the stove, still warm. A plate covered with a linen cloth held two slices of toast, perfectly cut.
He had written 06:30 — Breakfast (alone), and indeed, he was nowhere to be found.

She sat and ate, eyes drifting to the windows that looked out over the moor. The world outside was pale and endless, but it no longer felt like a cage. Not yet. 

The day unfolded as the book dictated. She studied each section, her quill scratching notes in the margins. Rules upon rules — how to address him in conversation, the times she was permitted to use the library, the expectations for order and cleanliness.

There were pages on silence, on focus, on discipline when they were in public. There was a note saying that when they were inside she could go where she wanted and speak freely. 

It was maddening — and oddly comforting. The predictability of it dulled the sharp edge of her fear. By midafternoon she was moving freely through the cottage, testing doors, mapping corridors.

The potion lab was as precise as she remembered him to be: rows of jars labeled in Latin, gleaming copper scales, the faint perfume of crushed herbs. The adjoining library smelled of dust and oil and candlewax. Its shelves towered to the ceiling, filled with more books than she could read in a lifetime.

No part of the house felt warm, but none of it felt hostile either. Only controlled.

By evening, she had learned where everything was — from the storeroom to the small enclosed garden with its strange silver-leaved plants. The routine began to settle around her shoulders like a cloak. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable.

When the final bell of the day sounded, she returned to her room as instructed. Her muscles ached pleasantly from walking and not being in a little cell like she had been in the past year. The book said she was to sleep at ten and rise at six. Simple. Reasonable.

But when she opened the door, she stopped.

Laid neatly across the bed was an outfit — folded with precision.
Dark gray wool. High collar. Modest, structured, unmistakably deliberate. A note lay on top, in his hand:

To be worn tomorrow and when we tend to outside business

Nothing more.

She ran her fingers over the fabric. It was soft, clean, and — she had to admit — her exact size. A uniform, then. It was somehow comforting. Like Hogwarts

For a moment, she simply stood there, the stillness pressing around her. Then she placed the note inside the book and folded the garment at the foot of the bed.

—

The wind moved against the windows, steady and low. She extinguished the candle, lay down, and stared into the dark — not afraid anymore, but alert, curious.

The house of rules had begun to make sense.
And that, she realized, was what frightened her most.

The second morning came with the soft clang of the bell and the pale light of dawn spilling across the floor.
Hermione rose before it could ring a second time.

The gray dress waited where she had left it. When she drew it on, it fit with uncanny precision — neither too tight nor loose, the fabric heavier than it looked. She fastened the collar and studied herself in the mirror. Plain, proper, and almost anonymous.

Exactly as he would want. 

She wondered if he had someone living with him when they were still in Hogwarts. If he was ever loved. She wonders if he ever experienced the warmth of a woman. Ridiculous thoughts. She herself had never been touched. When the war ended, she lost contact with any other survivors. Before that, well, she was too busy to survive. The third chime of the bell bringed her out of her deep thoughts.

Downstairs, the kitchen was again prepared: tea steaming, a plate laid out, and another note.

Library, 07:30. Bring the book.

She obeyed.

The library’s fire was already lit when she entered. Snape stood near the window, his back to her, sleeves rolled up as he poured something dark into a vial. He didn’t turn when he spoke.

“You have read it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He corked the vial and set it aside. “Good. The rules, as you may have deduced, are not static.”

He gestured to the book in her hands. “Open it.”

She did.
The ink on the page rippled faintly, the tidy columns of yesterday’s schedule rearranging themselves like water disturbed by wind. Lines of new text appeared — times and tasks that hadn’t existed before. Study of ingredient taxonomy. Cleaning of glassware. Dinner preparation.

She blinked, startled. “It changed.”

“Of course it did.”
He approached, his tone calm but clipped. “That book is charmed to adjust to your progress — or lack thereof. Disobedience results in an increased workload. Compliance earns stability.”

Hermione frowned. “So I’ll never know what to expect.”

“That is the point.”
He regarded her closely, the candlelight catching on the sharp planes of his face. “The world beyond this house is chaos, Miss Granger. Within it, you will find order only when you earn it.”

He paused then, his voice lowering — not unkind, but firm.
“If, however, you prove consistent — if you obey, apply yourself, and maintain discipline — I will consider providing you with a weekly schedule. Predictable. Fixed. A privilege, not a right.”

The words settled like a challenge rather than a promise. Hermione nodded once, unwilling to show the spark of excitement that flared inside her. “Understood.”

“Sir” he said coldly.

She looked at him with a puzzled look. Quickly she understood he was asking for respect. 

“Understood, Sir” she said softly. 

“May I ask a question”

“You don’t have to ask this every time when it’s the two of us, just ask your questions” 

He said almost irritated.

“Are you going to … teach me? It says Study of ingredient taxonomy on the agenda today”

“Yes, you were.. Are a bring student, it would be ashamed to let it go to waste”

She blushed, flattered by his compliment but also grateful to be able to continue her study.

“I hate to say it that way but under the ministry eye you are my property”

She winced at that.

“Therefor, if I wish you as an assistant for my apothecary I can do as please. As long as you are… fulfilling the procreation requirement”

“You have an apothecary ??” She said, no longer hiding her excitement.

“I do, I opened it anonymously when everyone thought I was dead. Now enough question and off you go. 

He waved his hand to dismiss her and she left the room, full of hope.

Why did he come out of hiding ? His plan to stay dead looked pretty solid..

The rest of the day unfolded beneath the living schedule’s quiet tyranny. Tasks appeared in the book without warning — fetching items from cupboards she hadn’t yet cataloged, labeling phials in handwriting meant to test her patience, cataloguing ancient texts until her eyes burned.

The day bled into evening in a blur of ink and glass.
The silence of the cottage had begun to change shape in her mind—no longer oppressive, but almost expectant.

When she finally closed the ledger, the light outside had gone violet and thin. Her muscles ached pleasantly; her thoughts were slower, less frantic. She was getting used to the rhythm here, even if she hated admitting it.

After supper, she sat at the small desk in her room and opened the enchanted book. The pages rustled softly, rearranging themselves as the words for the next day wrote themselves out in crisp, ink-black lines.

Most of it was familiar—
Breakfast, 0700.
Inventory, 0830.
Apprentice study period, 1000.
Meal preparation, 1800.

Her eyes followed the neat script until she reached the bottom of the final page.
There, in smaller handwriting, one new line had appeared.

You will meet with me each evening in my room after your bath. Then you will return to your own.

Hermione froze.

The letters looked newer than the rest, the ink not yet dry—shimmering faintly as if the book itself were waiting for her reaction.

Her first instinct was to slam it shut, but her eyes lingered, reading the words again and again. Meet with me after your bath.
The phrasing was clinical, restrained, but the implications curled through her mind like smoke.

Was this… another test?
Or the beginning of what she had feared from the start?

Her stomach tightened. He had told her the book would change according to her obedience, that the magic within it reflected his expectations. She had followed every rule, completed every task. Was this her reward—or the next step in whatever this arrangement was meant to become?

She glanced toward the door, half expecting to hear footsteps outside, but the hall was still. Only the fire’s slow crackle filled the silence.

Hermione shut the book carefully, her pulse quick in her throat. She pressed her hand against the cover as if to still the magic within it.

“Meet with me after your bath.”

The words echoed in her mind long after the candle had burned low.

She didn’t know if she dreaded tomorrow…
or if she was more afraid of what would happen.

Chapter Text

The day passed in silence.
The house felt emptier than usual—no sound from the laboratory, no low rumble of a man moving in the next room. Snape was gone.

Hermione moved through her tasks automatically, her mind circling the words written at the bottom of her schedule.

You will meet with me each evening in my room after your bath. Then you will return to your own.

The meaning of it shadowed every action she took. By afternoon she had convinced herself that it was simply another test of obedience—something to be endured with composure. Still, when the clock struck eight and she stepped into the bathroom, her hands trembled.

She filled the tub carefully, adding oils until the air was thick with lavender and heat. For the first time since her arrival, she brushed her hair until it shone, scrubbed her skin until it stung. The ritual steadied her, even if she wasn’t sure why she cared so much about doing it right.

When she finally stepped out, the water cooling behind her, she felt the stillness of the cottage tighten. He was back. She could sense it—his magic, faint but unmistakable, humming through the walls.

She dried off, dressed in the simple robe laid out for her, and crossed the hall. The door to his room was ajar. Candlelight flickered inside.

He was seated at the writing desk, a stack of parchment before him. When she entered, he didn’t look up immediately, only spoke in that low, deliberate tone.
“You read your instructions.”

“Yes, sir.”

He set down his quill. “Good. Then you understand why you’re here.”

Hermione clasped her hands. “To… meet with you.”

A faint twitch passed through his jaw. “Partly.”

He stood, the candlelight carving sharp planes across his face. “The Marriage Decree is not a private matter. It is enforced by those who authored it—men who have returned to positions of power and who monitor compliance closely. They expect results.”

She felt the meaning in that single word. Results.

He went on, quieter now.. “I will not force you. But understand this—the law does not care for consent. It demands lineage. Continuation. A show of obedience to the new order.”

Hermione’s throat felt tight. “And if we don’t?”

He hesitated. The pause was its own answer.
“They would intervene. Neither of us would choose the alternative.”

The air seemed to thin.

Snape moved toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “You are here to survive, Miss Granger. As am I. We will navigate this as quietly as possible.”

She stood still, the words I will not force you echoing through her mind, both a relief and a wound.

Finally, he turned back to her. “You will continue your studies. Your duties. And when the time comes that this… requirement must be fulfilled, you will be informed first.”

Hermione nodded slowly, unsure if she could speak.

Snape inclined his head, a signal that the conversation was done. “Return to your room. Rest.”

She lingered for a moment, searching his expression for something human, something beyond duty. But his gaze was shuttered again, and she understood the conversation was closed.

When she stepped back into the hall, the air felt colder. The candles guttered in her wake.

–

The next evening came with rain.
It fell in thin, steady sheets against the windows, soft enough to sound like breath. The cottage seemed smaller when it rained, the walls drawing closer, the air carrying that faint scent of damp stone and burning wood.

Hermione finished her bath earlier than usual, unsure what waited for her this time. The book had not changed its instruction—it still ended with the same line.

But something in the neat handwriting seemed less like command tonight, more like invitation.

She stood outside his door for a heartbeat before knocking once.

“Enter.”

Snape sat at the same writing desk as before, but there were no parchments this time, no vials or quills. Only a single candle and two cups of tea, steam curling between them.

He gestured toward the second chair. “Sit.”

She obeyed, smoothing the fabric of her robe as she did. The silence stretched between them until he finally spoke.

“I’ve given some thought to the decree,” he said, his tone deliberate. “If we are to be... bound under its terms, it serves neither of us to live as strangers.”

Her pulse quickened. “You mean—”

“I propose that we spend an hour together each night. Conversation. Reading. Whatever may help us understand each other. There will be no expectations beyond that.”
His eyes flicked toward hers, steady. “Consider it… preparation. Not for their benefits, but for ours.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. The offer was unexpectedly human, almost gentle in its logic. “Thank you,” she managed. “That would help.”

A faint nod. “Then we begin tonight.”

At first, they sat in silence, the rain filling the gaps between words. Hermione searched for something safe to say and, failing that, reached for the only thing that came to mind.
“Would you like to play a game?”

Snape raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “A game.”

“It’s something students do,” she said quickly. “To learn about each other. Truth or Dare.”

He looked faintly appalled. “You are suggesting that I participate in a juvenile Gryffindor pastime.”

She smiled, despite herself. “Unless you’re afraid of losing.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing she’d ever seen to amusement. “Very well. I’ll indulge you. But only with limits. Nothing that can injure any of us.”

“Agreed.”
She leaned forward. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Hermione considered. “Why did you really take me from the auction?”

His expression hardened for a moment, then softened just enough for honesty. “Because I could not stomach the thought of who might have, if I hadn’t.”

The words sat between them, heavier than she’d expected. “That’s... a truth I can respect.”

He inclined his head. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

He studied her. “Do you regret surviving the war?”

Her throat tightened. “Sometimes,” she said quietly. “When I think of what came after.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable this time. It was... shared.

When the clock struck the hour, Snape set down his teacup. “Our time is finished. The rule remains—you will return to your room.”

Hermione stood, pausing at the door. “Same time tomorrow?”

His reply was curt, but there was warmth buried under the words. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

She left feeling lighter, uncertain why.

And when she reached her room, the enchanted book on her desk shimmered faintly—as if acknowledging her compliance.
At the bottom of the new page, one line of fresh ink appeared:

I asked for the truth. You answered well.

—

The book had changed again overnight.

When Hermione opened it that morning, the lines shimmered and rearranged, forming a neat column of tasks in the same precise handwriting she was beginning to recognize as Snape’s.
Wake at six.
Breakfast at seven.
Two hours of reading.
Laundry and cleaning by hand.
And then—

You may spend one hour in the garden, weather permitting.

It was the first allowance she’d been given since her arrival.
Freedom, contained within a border.

The back door creaked when she opened it.
Cool morning air rushed in, carrying the scent of damp soil and pine. The garden stretched behind the cottage in tidy, overgrown squares—herb beds and narrow paths long since left to nature. Wild rosemary tangled with sage, thyme crept over the stones, and a few stubborn flowers reached toward the pale sun.

Hermione breathed deeply. The wards hummed faintly at the edges of the property, an invisible perimeter, but within them the air felt open—alive.

She found a pair of old gloves and a trowel resting on a bench, as if someone had left them there years ago. The handle fit her hand perfectly.
Kneeling, she began clearing the weeds from a patch of overrun lavender, her fingers brushing soft stems and cool dirt.

For the first time in weeks, she felt her heartbeat slow into something natural.
Work. Order. Purpose.

Every so often she glanced back toward the cottage, half expecting to see him watching from the window—but the glass stayed empty. Snape had left early, as usual, his absence marked by the quiet ticking of the clock and the faint scent of potion residue that lingered in the air.

When the sun climbed higher, she removed her gloves and pressed her palms to the soil. “You’ve been neglected,” she murmured to the plants, smiling faintly. “But we’ll fix that.”

The wind stirred, carrying the sound of her own voice away.
For a fleeting second, she felt almost human again.

That evening, the schedule guided her once more—dinner left on the table, bath at nine, meeting at ten.

The rules remained strict, but the familiarity of them gave her something she hadn’t expected: safety.

When she knocked on Snape’s door, he answered with a short, “Enter.”

The same scene as before: two cups of tea, the same candle. But tonight there was a subtle difference. A book lay open between them—his, by the look of the cramped, meticulous notes lining the margins.

“You’ve been in the garden,” he observed without looking up. “I trust you found it adequate.”

“It’s wonderful,” she said honestly. “Wild, but alive. The herbs have gone to seed, though. I could help restore them if—”

He lifted his gaze. “If you remain obedient, you may continue to tend them. It will give you something to do besides count the hours.”

She smiled despite herself. “You make it sound like a punishment.”

“It’s discipline, Miss Granger,” he said dryly. “A concept you are not entirely unfamiliar with, I trust.”

She bit back a retort. “I prefer to think of it as structure.”

He almost smirked. “Semantics.”

They sat again, facing each other across the candlelight. Hermione could feel her pulse in her fingertips. The memory of their previous night—the unexpected intimacy of honesty—still lingered.

“Truth or dare?” she said softly.

Snape regarded her with suspicion. “You persist with this… game.”

“It worked last night,” she said. “Didn’t it?”

He exhaled slowly, resigned. “Truth.”

She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “What frightens you most, Professor?”

The silence stretched. The candle flame wavered in the draft between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“Wasted potential,” he said. “My own. Others’. The idea that everything I endured led to nothing but ashes.”

Hermione swallowed. “That’s not true,” she said softly. “The war—”

“Left corpses,” he cut in, though his tone was more weary than sharp. “And a Ministry that sells its survivors. Forgive me if I don’t share your optimism.”

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she poured more tea into his cup, steady-handed, a small act of rebellion against his bleakness.

“Then I’ll fix your garden,” she said. “Something will grow here, even if you’ve given up on it.”

His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. “You are impossibly stubborn.”

“Thank you.”

He looked away, but there was the faintest curve to his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something smaller. Softer.

When the hour ended, she rose as before.
At the door, she paused. “Tomorrow night?”

Snape nodded once. “Tomorrow.”

But as she turned to go, his voice followed her quietly.

“Miss Granger—leave the lavender by the window. It thrives in the morning light.”

She glanced back, surprised by the detail, the care behind it. “Yes, sir.”

And when she returned to her room, the book on her desk shimmered again, its ink shifting to record the day’s final entry:

Progress requires patience. And roots grow best in tended soil.

Hermione touched the page, smiling faintly.
For the first time since the decree, she didn’t feel like a prisoner.
She felt… planted.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled softly through her window as Hermione rose. The garden awaited later, but first, the ritual of the day. She dressed carefully in the uniform Snape had chosen, following every line of the book’s schedule, though her mind still replayed last night’s hour.

She had been nervous at first. He had asked her to answer a personal question—a truth.

“Tell me about your first close… relationship,” he had said quietly, his black eyes unyielding.

Hermione had hesitated, cheeks warming. Memories rose unbidden—friendships, brief crushes, moments she had thought trivial then, but were more meaningful now under scrutiny. She spoke softly, deliberately, choosing words that were honest but restrained.

She had been nervous at first.
He had asked her to answer a personal question—a truth.

“I suppose it depends what you mean by ‘close,’” she began carefully, fingers curling against her knee. “There were people I cared for deeply—friends who felt like family. But if you mean romantic… there was someone. We were young, and I think we wanted to believe that was enough. That courage and loyalty could make up for everything else.”

She paused, uncertain whether to go on. He gave no sign either way, his face as still as carved stone.

“It ended,” she said finally. “Quietly. No great tragedy. Just… growing up, realizing we wanted different things.”

The words hung between them, gentle but weighted. She looked down, tracing invisible lines on the table with her finger, half-afraid to meet his eyes again.

When she did, she found him watching her—not with judgment, but with a kind of detached curiosity, as if studying something delicate that might crumble under too much pressure.

“Who was it?” he asked calmly

“Ron Weasley, surely you knew that”

“I had my doubts, I didn’t want to assume. Could have be Mr. Potter”  V

She laughed out loud at that. 

“Harry ! Never he was like a brother to me” She could remember him foundly.

“And you?” she asked after a moment, her voice softer now, testing the boundary between courage and intrusion.

His lips curved slightly, though not quite into a smile. “You’re deflecting.”

“Maybe,” she admitted, a small flicker of humor in her tone. “But I think I’ve earned the right to ask in return.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound caught between amusement and resignation. “My first close relationship was a long time ago. I was certain it would shape my life. In a way, it did.”

Hermione didn’t press. She sensed that was all he would say—and perhaps all he could.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and meant it.

“Don’t be,” he replied quietly. “Some lessons are worth the pain they cost.”

She nodded, letting silence settle between them again. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just full, like a space they were learning to share.

And when she smiled faintly, he caught it, just for a second, before looking away.

“Your turn next time,” he said, his voice dry but lighter somehow.

“Next time?” she echoed, startled.

His eyes glinted. “Surely you didn’t think I would stop at one truth.”

“Your turn,” she had said, leaning back slightly. “Truth or dare?”

He had fixed her with a sharp look. “Dare.”

“Alright,” she said, suppressing a grin. “I dare you to wear a color other than black tomorrow. Something bright. Just once. I want to see if it suits you.”

The moment hung between them. Candlelight flickered, casting long shadows.

Snape raised a single, dark eyebrow. “You are aware, Miss Granger, that I rarely, if ever, indulge in frivolity.”

“And I dare you,” she said firmly, “because you always indulge your own rules. Why not this one?”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he inclined his head. “Very well. One day only.”

Hermione couldn’t suppress the grin that rose across her face. “I’ll hold you to it.”

–

The following morning, Hermione came down to breakfast expecting the usual sight—black robes, black shirt, and that eternal air of foreboding that seemed to hang around Professor Snape like a personal storm cloud.

Instead, she stopped halfway down the stairs, eyes widening.

He was at the table, reading The Daily Prophet, wearing… dark green.

It wasn’t bright or cheerful—heaven forbid—but it was undeniably color. The rich shade caught faint glints of sunlight as he turned a page.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from smiling. “You actually did it,” she said, half-laughing.

He didn’t look up. “Did what?”

“Wore color.”

He made a dismissive sound, folding the paper with unnecessary precision. “If you are referring to my shirt, Miss Granger, I’ll have you know that this shade is traditionally associated with cunning and intellect.”

“Mm,” she said, sliding into her seat across from him. “So you’re saying it’s Slytherin chic?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “If you insist on reducing it to fashion commentary, then yes. It is Slytherin chic.”

Hermione snorted. “It’s almost… flattering.”

“Almost?” he drawled, arching an eyebrow.

She grinned, buttering her toast. “Well, it’s an improvement. You look less like a walking thundercloud.”

That earned her a low hum—something between amusement and warning. “Careful, Miss Granger. You’re dangerously close to complimenting me.”

“I’d hardly call it dangerous,” she said lightly.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, dark eyes catching hers. “You underestimate the effect such statements can have.”

The air shifted, just barely. The teasing tone remained, but there was a spark beneath it—a glimmer of something she wasn’t sure how to name. Hermione’s breath hitched before she could stop it.

Snape seemed to realize it a heartbeat later. The faint smirk that had been forming froze, his expression faltering in quiet horror at himself.

He cleared his throat. “I—ah—should check the temperature in my lab. Some ingredients are sensitive to humidity.”

“It’s breakfast,” Hermione said, laughter bubbling up despite his fluster. “Are your potions really that desperate for attention?”

He stood abruptly, pushing back his chair. “They are volatile,” he said sharply, which only made her laugh harder.

“I’m sure they are,” she managed, eyes dancing. “Tell them I said good morning.”

He gave her a look that was equal parts glare and retreat. “You are insufferable.”

“Thank you,” she said brightly.

He left in a sweep of green and black, muttering something under his breath that might have been a curse—or a prayer for patience.

When the door closed behind him, Hermione couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

In his lab, meanwhile, Severus Snape stood over his workbench, gripping the edge with both hands. He could still hear the echo of her laughter, bright and unguarded, and it twisted something deep in his chest.

Flirting, he thought grimly. Merlin help me, I was flirting.

He exhaled through his nose, long and slow. “This is unacceptable,” he muttered, glaring at an innocent cauldron. “Absolutely unacceptable.”

And yet, when he caught his reflection in the polished brass—green shirt and all—he couldn’t quite suppress the faintest, traitorous smile.

—

At lunch, they met outside to eat in the freshly cleaned garden. Hermione had made a sitting area to eat in when the good days would come. Today was exceptionally warm for a fall day so they decided to have their lunch out.However, a sudden shadow passed over the table, and an owl swooped down, wings beating the warm air breaking their p. It landed lightly between them, talons gripping the edge of the wood, a folded parchment clutched in its beak.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. He reached out, plucking the note from the owl’s grasp with a flick of his fingers. The bird blinked, then vanished into the blue sky, leaving a faint streak of feathers behind.

Hermione watched him unfold the parchment, the weight of his expression drawing her heart into a tight knot.

“The Ministry,” he said flatly, scanning the text. “They have scheduled a visit… in one month. To confirm compliance with the procreation law.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. One month. That was all the time they would allow for her body to… for the law to be satisfied. She swallowed hard, glancing away toward the lavender she had nurtured. The garden that had felt like freedom now seemed fragile, a world away from the stark reality inked onto that parchment.

“They will come here?” she asked, her voice small.

“Yes,” Snape replied, setting the note on the table. His dark eyes met hers, unreadable but piercing. “They will inspect, they will question, and they will enforce. The consequences of failure are… well understood.”

Hermione’s hands gripped the edge of her chair. She had fought Death Eaters, walked through fire, bled for her beliefs—but this… this was different. This was the Ministry itself, confirming the measure of her body, her compliance, her captivity under law.

Snape’s gaze softened fractionally. Not warmth—never warmth—but the faintest acknowledgment of the fear she carried. “You will not face them unprepared. That is why the schedule, the rules, and the… nightly meetings… exist. They are for your protection as much as for the law.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened. “Protection?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, dark eyes settling on her. “In a house where others might not hesitate to take what is demanded, I ensure you remain intact, whole, and aware. You have agency within the boundaries set here. You have safety.”

Her breath caught. Despite the weight of the Ministry’s looming visit, she felt the small, undeniable truth in his words. He would not allow her to be harmed beyond what the law required. He was… a guardian of sorts.

For the first time, she realized the strange duality of her emotions: fear for the law and her circumstances, but trust for him. Respect, gratitude, and a cautious comfort that had grown slowly in their shared hours.

The owl’s message lay between them, a stark reminder that the stakes were rising. But for a fleeting moment, the garden remained hers, the sunlight warming her face, and the man beside her—rigid, exacting, yet quietly protective—remained the only constant she could hold onto.

She picked up her tea, letting the warmth seep into her hands. “Then we prepare,” she said softly.

Snape inclined his head. “We do.”

And as they sat together, the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint hum of morning life in the garden offered a fragile, temporary solace against the storm of the law to come.