Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

“Severus, we must fuck.”

Only decades as a spy, of having command of his every reaction, saved him from spitting out his tea across the High Table. But gods, it was a close thing. He slid Sybil Trelawny a narrowed look. “Must we?”

“Yes, yes we must.”

She waved her bone china cup and light skimmed the thick layer of tea leaves caught there in a brown splodge. The bangles on her thin wrists clanked and the waft of Assam, sherry and patchouli pricked pain at his sinuses.

“The leaves have never lied to me. Not once in all my years. It’s here.” Sybil thrust the cup under his nose and the shard of pain sharpened across his cheekbones. “There? See? The Horns of Aphrodite.”

Severus fought not to close his eyes, to pinch his nose, though the ache of his sinuses was deepening. Bloody patchouli. The witch had talent, history couldn’t deny it, he couldn’t deny it, but she’d never shown any control over her ability to bare witness to the future. Deep down, he believed she knew that…hence the grasping at all manner of…aids.

He had to be thankful that it was a fortnight before the new school year began and that there were no students and very few staff in the castle. 

“Sybil…”

He could be sharp, he could be the Severus Snape of old and shred her words until she was little more than tatters. But that was before Voldemort fell. Before he survived. Before he sat again as the Headmaster of Hogwarts and as the wizard he wanted to be.

“In the time to match. The time to fix.”

A full shiver ran down his spine.

That voice, a low croaking that dragged him back to a door, to his ear pressed to cold wood and the spilling of a prophecy that would almost destroy him.

He caught the cup as it slipped from Sybil’s sagging fingers. The witch slumped back in her chair and her head flopped to her shoulder. A darkness twisted in her, as if the cloudless night sky moved across her eyes and her breath puffed in chilled curls.

Severus fought not to run, to scramble back and to get the fuck away from yet another prophecy.

The drone of her voice fixed him to his seat. “Snakes and lions, eagles and badgers. Matched and mixed. Caught and bound.

“Only they who lied, who then lie, will pull us free.

“There is darkness in the bindings. A pull, a weave, a drain, a death.

“Two will break them. The Man of Grey and the Woman of Gold.

“In the time to match. The time to fix.”

A sucking rattle of Sybil’s breath snapped across him. Done. It was done.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

“Severus?”

Sybil blinked, her eyes owlish behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. A shaking hand reached for her mouth and a tear tracked down her cheek. Her chest lifted on a choked sob. “A…another one?”

He jerked a nod in reply. “Best get you to Minerva.”

Severus helped the sobbing woman to her feet, tucking her into his body. Her thin fingers clung to the buttons of his frock coat. Gods, she was little more than a pile of layered silks, skin and bone. Poor witch. Life had never been kind to Sybil Trelawny.

They were both damned by prophecy, every time, because fuck-it-all, what were the odds he was the Man of Grey?

Chapter Text

1.

Minerva slammed that day’s Prophet down on his desk. She stabbed a bony finger at the headline. “I bet you all the whiskey in the Highlands that this is the source of Sybil’s prophecy.”

“‘To have and to hold. What muggles can teach us about matrimony.’”

Severus frowned. It’d been three days since the prophecy broke from Sybil. Three days and nights of scrambling to work out what in Merlin’s name it could mean. Emergency meetings in his office, in Minerva’s, drafting in Order members to scour the Ministry archives, libraries, to discreetly worm out information from those likely to be in the know… And nothing.

But this…

“Caught and bound,” he murmured.

“Precisely.” She tapped the thin column of text beneath the headline. “This is a fluff piece. But under it, there’s a hint of the power of a bind. What it would mean to a witch and wizard. The…suggestion of a study to determine how muggle vows affect the magical core.”

“A pull, a weave, a drain, a death.”

Minerva winced. “Yes, that would appear to be the case.”

Severus sat back in his heavy chair, caught his fingers in a knot in his hair and expelled a heavy breath. “How? How could we not know that a wedding ceremony…kills? There must be marriages under the vows.”

“Not purebloods.”

“But purebloods and muggleborns? Andromeda Tonks. She eloped with Ted. Gretna Green? Still, the vows are standard.”

Minerva sank into the chair set before his desk. “It’s the only lead we have, Severus. The only thing that even remotely fits.”

He didn’t point out that it could be years or decades before they saw the prophecy roll to its, no doubt, bitter end. Because…he felt it. A twisted roiling in his gut. The urgency that drove all of them. Whatever it was, whatever lay ahead in the darkness, it was terrifyingly close.

And if this was it and he was the Man of Grey, then… “Some poor witch has to marry me.”

Minerva huffed and the hint of a smile pulled at her mouth. “You’re a catch, Severus Snape.”

A bark of laughter broke from him and his long fingers flicked over his face, his body. “This is not a catch. This is unlucky blood, bad beginnings and a hard and bitter life.”

“You really are a miserable sod.”

His laughter was softer. “I am indeed.”

He fixed his gaze on the headline, tucked away on page ten, between an elixir to keep a crup regular and a hag creme for adding that essential lustre to chin warts. Something to be overlooked. Something that looked…silly. Innocuous. Damn them. Gods, he’d had enough of fighting, of death and intrigue, for eight lifetimes.

Of course, he knew who his Woman of Gold was. It was as obvious as the nose on his own face. Because this was his life and he was the puppet of Fate. Her favourite toy.

The witch knew it too.

Of course, she did.

Since he’d shared the prophecy, Hermione Granger had not been able to look him in the eye.

Chapter Text

2.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Miss Granger.”

“Sir.”

She hovered in the open doorway as he stepped back. Her fingers were a bloodless knot, twisting before her. Not that he blamed the witch. She was well aware of why he’d asked her to come to his office. She was another trapped by Fate, after all.

He waved his hand to the side, and the door to his small sitting room swung open. “Come through.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Granger walked, stiff backed and stiff legged, into the little round room. A fire sparked in the grate, flickering golden light over plain-plastered walls and the faded patterns of ancient tapestries. There were no portraits in the room. One of Severus’ first tasks as returning Headmaster. A place beyond the eyes and ears of everyone.

“Sit, please. Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The polite necessities pricked at him, but they were needed. Miss Granger was skittish, the dart of her eyes and the tightness of her body promising that she’d bolt at the first wrong word.

She sat, rearranged her skirt and placed her knotted fingers over her knees. Her spine was ramrod straight.

In a few heartbeats that strained in the heavy silence, a full tea service appeared in the low table that separated their wingback chairs. Clinks of cups and plates followed.

With a sigh, Severus sat back. “I won’t drag this out, Miss Granger.”

“Hermione.” Her name came out on a croak. She sipped from her cup, wet her lips and lifted her chin. “Hermione. Please. I’m aware…”

She faltered and Severus winced. “Yes. This prophecy…” He wanted to say it damned them both, but the word twisted in his chest. He wasn’t the one damned. Not truly. Where as this young witch? Yes, to be bound to him? Damned, indeed. “You agree then, that we are the people to…fulfil it.”

“The Man of Grey and the Woman of Gold.”

He gave a silent nod.

“It’s…a feeling, here,” she pushed a fist over her heart, “I can’t explain it. I simply…know.”

Another nod. “Yes.”

Miss Granger —Hermione— stared into her cup and her thoughts spun, so fast and thick he could almost see them. Emotions piled on one another. Fear. Worry. Loss. And…hope. That was an odd one. Severus pushed it away and thickened his occulumency shields to deny more of her maelstrom.

“It’s…uncertain whether we must…unite,” Merlin, he couldn’t say marry, “under what appears to be a new law, with the muggle wording, or…unite under wizarding vows. Or perhaps even a simple word-bond.”

“Marry, sir—”

“Severus.”

Her cheeks darkened and her eyes dropped for a moment, before she found him again. “Severus…” She nodded. “We’re to marry. Words, it seems, are all-important.”

He huffed a breath of laughter and she blinked. “Just so.”

“Do you think we’re also the liars?”

“‘Only they who lied, who then lie, will pull us free.’.” He put his cup to his lips and narrowed his gaze. “I have been known to lie, Hermione. Once or twice.”

A quick smile broke from her. “As have I.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Once or twice.” She shrugged. “But then, that must surely apply to so many people. The same lie, perhaps?”

“I very much doubt you and I have ever lied about the same thing.”

Her smile deepened.

Severus slid his thumb tip over the curve of the cup handle, the bone china warm and smooth under his callused skin. The inequality of their match pushed a knife under his ribs. His age, character, reputation, his…his ugliness, when Miss Granger —Hermione— was young and blooming, with her perfect life set out for her. He had snatched it from her. He drew in a breath. “It’s…beyond my control, but I do regret that you’ve been pulled into this insanity. That your…future plans are broken.”

Her smile dipped. She strengthened it, but it was nervous, unsure. “There are no plans to be broken, Severus.”

He frowned. “I thought…”

“A certain wizard asked me to wait for him. He needed to work through his fame.” She snorted and stared into her cup again. “Fame equates to bedding any and every witch that throws herself at him.”

“Imbecile!” Severus bit out the word. Weasley Six expected Hermione to sit on a shelf and wait until he fucked his way through a host of witches? Had familiarity stopped him from seeing the worth of the witch he was throwing away? “How badly did you hex him?”

Oh, that smile was stronger now with a wickedness that was far too fetching. “I told his mother.”

Severus’ heart squeezed. Perhaps, just perhaps, their life together would be a one of equals, after all.

Chapter Text

3.

“They’re not going to take this well, are they?”

“No.”

Severus leant against the tall, oak dresser, lithe and at ease, whilst her insides twisted and roiled and she wanted to pace the stupidly cramped kitchen. Gods, she hated Grimmauld Place. Still heavy with grime and the magic soaked into brick and timber by generations of the muggle-hating House of Black, it held no peace for her. She wanted to go home. But well, her parents, though understanding of her need to force magic into their brains, weren’t yet forgiving nor forgetting.

Grimmauld Place, with Harry and Ron —and his revolving-door Ronettes— was the only home she had. She stopped and gripped the back of a chair. The fire behind her ran warmth the length of her spine and she breathed. In and out. She’d soon have a new home.

With the wizard calmly looking at her.

“I will not allow them to say or do anything to harm or insult you, Hermione.”

She twitched a smile. Severus Snape was an honourable wizard.

Marrying him because of a prophecy to save the wizarding world —again— wasn’t awful. Deep down, very, very deep down, the young witch who’d harboured a desperate and oh-so-secret crush on the enigmatic man was biting her knuckles and grinning. Older Hermione had to be sensible. He no more wanted to be bound to her than…than he wanted that faded mark on his arm.

She closed her eyes, not needing to dwell on how much she wasn’t wanted. Again.

And jumped as the slamming of the front door echoed down into the kitchen.

Severus straightened. A moment later he was beside her. He drew his fingers over her white-knuckled grip of the chair and a prickle of awareness swirled into her belly. The warm scent of cedar and green herbs deepened her need. “Remember.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear and her eyelids fluttered. Shit. His voice was as beautiful as ever, all velvet and smoke. “You are a powerful witch. Bright. Sharp.” A smile curved against her skin and her legs ran to water. “Vindictive.”

Only a Slytherin would find amusement in the darker side of her nature.

“Fate chose us.”

The warmth from his words skittered away. Of course, no one chose her voluntarily.

“Hermione…”

She willed herself to meet his gaze. Firelight dropped gold into the the black depth of his eyes and she found herself caught. Her mouth dried and she forgot to breathe. “I…”

“Fate chose us, yes, but I will honour and protect you. When the time comes, the vows I make to you will not be a lie.”

“Oh…”

Her heart thudded and the urge, the very real need to stretch up, to brush her lips over his, to taste him. Gods, gods… His fingertips teased the length of her jaw, a feather-light touch that scorched her. Her mouth parted. The burn of his gaze, the…the want there. What was happening? He couldn’t…he didn’t—

Severus’ dipped his head and the perfect, perfect press of his lips over hers wiped every thought from her mind. Smooth skin. Sweet breath. The touch of a heartbeat, nothing more, but he’d rocked her world sideways.

A hint of a smile lifted the corner of his lips. “I believe that Fate knows exactly what she’s doing, don’t you?” It was little more than a warm, dark whisper. He took a step back and she swayed towards him. His dark eyes gleamed. “Exactly what she’s doing.”

Hermione pressed trembling fingers to her recently kissed lips. “How…? Why?”

The clatter of boots and voices snapped her attention to the door.

Damn them.

Severus…desired her. How had she missed it? He’d promised that his vows would be real. True. Gods…

Harry and Ron burst in to the kitchen, and she opened her mouth, but, nothing. Her thoughts were all on the black-clad wizard back to leaning on the dresser. That touch of a smile, sure and sharp and unexpectedly delicious.

If his plan was to take her mind off the approaching confrontation, he’d more than succeeded!

Git.