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miryum · 1 year ago

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A Green and Silver Ring (Mattheo Riddle x Reader)

An arranged marriage between you and Mattheo, one that might lead to something beautiful

Word Count: 10.3k

I know I haven't posted in a long time but I have a plan trust the process. Also, this is me coming out and saying that I love Mattheo Riddle and he's amazing

Warnings: Swearing, bad and manipulative parenting from both Mattheo and reader’s parents, a lot of misogyny (a bit from Mattheo but he gets better by a lot and it’s not that bad), arguments, Tom isn’t Mattheo’s brother and Tom is a creep, arranged marriage, one bed trope, enemies to lovers, greek mythology reference, talk of kids, needing kids to carry on family lines, and kids. Mistress is the feminine term for master (so reader isn’t Mattheo’s side piece when I refer to her as mistress), old timey talk a bit, reader is a bookworm

From the desk of Ginevra

My dearest friend,

My parents have informed me of your engagement. I was ecstatic, yet surprised, when I heard the news. I was of the assumption that your parents were allowing you to choose your husband as your family line is secure in your brother and his wife. Yet, once I learned who your husband-to-be is, I was trepidatious.

My thoughts are with you, my darling friend, and I pray for you to write to me the moment you get my letter.

I hate to break the news, but you and your fiancé are the talk of high society. Never before have two such families been intertwined. Even I have had to scold my brothers for their gossip. They seem to forget that our families are close friends.

I do not ask why your parents have made such a decision. I know they are intelligent adults and surely must have a motive, but I admit that I am blind in that regard. Your engagement seems sudden and unwarranted to me. When questioned, my mother sighed and said I would understand when I grew older. My mother continues to baffle me. I have borne two children and a third on the way! If I am not mature now, I better gain some knowledge quickly.

Always remember that I am by your side. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you. I am sure Harry will agree.

I love you, my friend.

Ginny

From the office of Lorenzo

Miss. L/n,

I believe we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m saddened to say that this letter is as formal as we’ll get - at least until your wedding. I am sure you must be taciturn and mercurial as of now. My father has told me much about you and I believe we’ll make excellent friends and confidants in our hectic world.

You’re to be my new half-sister, aren’t you? My relatives and friends are petulant to meet you.

Before any rumours (either about myself or your fiancé) hit your ears, I’ll put a rest to them. Bellatrix, your fiancé’s mother, had an affair with my father. They produced me and in return, I have the privilege of being your fiancé’s half-brother.

Being a bastard child, I’m no stranger to being ostracised and ridiculed. To be blunt, I’m sure that you will be ostracised alongside me and I believe that is one reason we can connect.

For rumours of my half-brother, I simply say this: do not fear him. He relishes in the consternation he places in other people, yet when he heard he was to marry you, I saw panic in his eyes like no other. It seems the tables have turned. He is hesitant to be wed, but you are not the problem. He simply doesn’t want to have the responsibility of another’s life on his. Your fiancé is used to belittling people - not supporting them as a husband should.

Any questions you have about your fiancé and my half-brother (whom in case I didn’t make clear, are one and the same), refer to me without any qualms. I am eager to meet you and hopefully make your transition into the Riddle family smoother.

I am well aware you have also lived your life in the upper echelons of society. But, as I’m sure you know, there are multiple circles in our complicated community. The L/ns, the Weasleys, and the Potters, for example, have grown their fortunes truthfully and innocently. They have earned the respect of their people and those whom they employ. The Riddles, Blacks, and Berkshires, on the other hand, have climbed the ranks in unconventional means and by skipping a few rungs on the ladder. They thrive and make their living on the terror and duress they cause those under them.

I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance.

Lorenzo Berkshire

P.S. I hope I haven’t scared you off.

From the office of L/n

Daughter,

You’ll be pleased to hear the engagement has gone through. Your mother and I met your fiancé last night. He seems like a nice man. He will be able to provide for you. His family is influential.

We will return home late tomorrow evening. You will depart for Riddle Estate in a week. Begin packing.

Your father

From the desk of Ginevra

Y/n,

You worry me with your lack of communication. Usually, you can’t wait to gossip with me. We have such fun at dinners and balls, yet with the most important aspect of yourself, you don’t respond. I’m simply worried, my friend. Are you alright? I can envision you curled in your bed, not letting anyone, even your nursemaid, into your room. Please do not let your impending marriage affect your state of health. It will turn out alright. Everyone I know (even me!) had apprehensions about their marriage. And with everyone I know, it turned out alright.

Misters Sirius and Remus visited Harry and I the day before last. They came to see James and Albus, but I know there was a hidden reason as well. They know of our friendship and came to ask if the rumours are true. As much as my husband adores them, Sirius in particular can be prone to gossip. The pair tittered and tsked when I told them of your fiancé. Sirius wishes to distance himself from his family, and I know he has pre-existing thoughts of the Black family, and by extension, the Riddles.

Sometimes I take a moment to gaze at the family tree upon my drawing room wall. It is full of interconnected lines and squiggles that sometimes, it makes my head hurt! The web of family ties is complicated and if we’re not somehow related already, I know that we will be once your marriage takes place. It seems the Black family spreads its roots into the Weasley family and the Riddle family- the latter of which you’ll soon be synonymous with.

Give yourself some grace. Your fiancé falls far from the tree; I am sure of it.

Please write to me. I need to make sure my closest friend is doing well.

Best wishes,

Ginny

P.S. Hermione wishes to inform you that, from what she’s heard, your Mr. Riddle is quite attractive. I have yet to hear any of the rumours myself, but at least your husband will be pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it will make the marriage more bearable.

***

Mattheo strode leisurely through Riddle Manor. It was one of the many estates his family owned, and it was soon to be officially his. Just as soon as he married the L/n girl.

The manor was spacious, which Mattheo couldn’t help but detest. How was he and a wife supposed to fill this void of empty rooms and dark halls? He knew servants and cooks would move in, but they wouldn’t occupy the dozens of upper rooms that were vacated.

For a brief moment, Mattheo couldn’t help but envision a set of children running around the halls. One of the children would run up to him, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Mattheo would scoop the child up, grinning, and would carry them to their room. The room would be bright and cheerful, and maybe, just maybe, you would be sitting on a settee, cradling a newborn or helping an older child with their school work.

But for now, the room was dark and uninviting and he had yet to meet his future wife. He had seen a portrait of the L/n family and while they were in lavish, colourful clothing, Mr. and Mrs. L/n seemed cold and stoic - just like his parents. The children, an older son and younger daughter (whom he presumed to be you), seemed kinder and by their body language, Mattheo could tell that the two siblings were close.

Mattheo slowly made his way down the hall. There were three wings of the manor; two were residential and the other was designed for taking guests. The East Wing - in which he and Miss. L/n would stay - was also fit with an office for him. He was expected to take over half of the family business once he got married. The West Wing would remain empty for now, sans for a large library and the furniture in the bedrooms.

The boy knew that his bride was to arrive later that day. She would stay at Riddle Estate until the end of the week. Just three short days before they were to be wed in name. Mattheo would move into Riddle Manor tonight, giving servants time to wipe the dust off of tables, shine the silverware, and fluff the pillows.

Mattheo walked the halls of his new home. His mind was devoid of any thoughts. Perhaps it was simply because he was always numb. Even when he heard of his engagement, Mattheo didn’t make a fuss. He didn’t remember thinking anything. Nothing such as ‘Oh, I can’t wait to meet her!’ or even, ‘I can’t believe mother and father are arranging my marriage! She better be obedient.’

No, Mattheo had thought nothing of the sort. He had spent his childhood quietly observing his father and mother, noticing the amount of fear they could inflict on people just by silence. You didn’t have to be loud and dramatic to be powerful. You simply couldn’t be afraid to follow up on your promises - however deadly they were.

The only question Mattheo had asked when Bellatrix informed him of his engagement was, “and what do we gain from the L/n’s?”

Bellatrix had shot him an callous and apathetic look. “Do not ask questions you needn’t the answers to, boy.”

Mattheo had glowered, but shut his mouth.

As he neared the foyer, Mattheo couldn’t help but think how marriage was a component in all aspects of his life. When he got married to the L/n girl, he would inherit a portion of his father’s estates, company, and wealth. Mattheo chucked to himself. Maybe he should’ve gotten married sooner.

***

“Pray tell, why weren’t you here when she arrived?” Bellatrix snarled as she gripped Mattheo’s arm. Her nails dug into his suit as she dragged him towards the drawing room.

“I was busy,” Mattheo replied harshly. Love was not a thing that came instinctively to his family.

“Doing what? Planning your suidide?” Bellatrix scoffed. “I would march to the Underworld and choke Hades to bring you back.” Mattheo glanced down at his mother, hesitantly surprised. But he knew better than to raise his hopes and dreams. “We need this contract with the L/n’s,” Bellatrix continued and Mattheo’s jaw ticked. Of course. She didn’t love him; she never had. Her son was purely business. He should’ve known better.

“Maybe if you would tell me what the L/n’s provide for us,” Mattheo pulled Bellatrix back before she threw open the door to where you were. “Then I would be more complacent.”

Bellatrix sneered. “You think you’re smart, boy. You think you have everything figured out in that pretty little head of yours. But remember: you’re nothing without the Riddle family name backing you up.” She paused and licked her lips. “But if you must know,” Bellatrix sighed, giving into Mattheo. “The L/n’s just came into some very… lucrative land that we could gain from if you marry Miss. Y/n L/n.”

Mattheo’s eyes flickered to the drawing room door. After a moment, he asked, “is that her name? Y/n?”

Bellatrix stared at him, aghast. “You didn’t bother to learn her name?!” She scoffed. “With a son like you…”

She pushed open the drawing room doors and Mattheo trudged after her, muttering, “at least I know her name now.”

You had been waiting for seven minutes and thirty nine seconds in the drawing room of Riddle Estate, the trackage of time dependent on the old grandfather clock standing ominously in the corner. Its pendulum swung back and forth continuously as its second hand ticked by. Mrs. Riddle had left seven minutes and thirty nine seconds ago to fetch her son.

While the room was perfectly clean, not a speck of dust on even the highest chandelier, it was still a cold and morose room, yet oddly epochal. The wood was the darkest mahogany you had ever seen and the lights cast odd shadows on the dark green wallpaper that had inlays of gold.

Your teacup that you were trying to hold steady was filled with a sad excuse for tea. There was a ring of gold around the mouth of the teacup. On the table beside you, a notch that looked as if someone dug a knife into the surface caught your attention. It was the little things like this that you noticed when you had nothing else to do. Your mind was trying to distract you.

The door then swung open and there stood your fiancé, his stare daring you to oppose him.

“Uh,” you stood, your teacup and saucer still in hand. You quickly placed them on the table, right over the knife nick. “Y/n L/n,” you introduced yourself. You bowed your head in an informal curtsy.

Mattheo’s eyes flickered over your face. “Mattheo Riddle,” he said coldly. His voice was practically velvet. You didn’t mean to look him up and down, but you couldn’t help it. He was to be your husband, after all.

Mattheo’s hair coiled at the end and his eyes were just as dark as his curls. His nose had a scarred cut on it that looked as if it was just beginning to heal. Your fiancés cheekbones were practically sculpted from marble and for a moment, you believed that the gods had simply breathed life into a statue. Did this make you Pygmalion and Mattheo Galatea?

If it weren’t for their lethal eyes and stern posture, perhaps more would be friendly to the Riddles.

Mattheo spoke, “you’re to be my fiancée.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” You had the urge to add ‘sir’ at the end, but you bit your tongue.

Bellatrix hissed something to Mattheo and thrust a small object into his hands. Mattheo rolled his eyes and stalked towards you. “My family ring,” he grumbled. He held out an intricate silver ring with three bands interweaving. A green jewel cut into a thin diamond shape sat steadily in the middle. “It has been in the Riddle family for generations. It’s tradition to pass it down to the wife of the firstborn son. And now that is you…”

He trailed off and handed the ring to you, it laying flat on his palm. You took it from him, trying to minimise contact with Mattheo. You nodded in thanks and slid it into your ring finger.

It seemed too concrete to fathom.

Mattheo stared at the ring on your finger. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “My… wife,” he murmured halfheartedly.

***

Three weeks had passed since the wedding and it was as if you had never gotten married in the first place. Yes, it was unsettling to wake up in a bed that wasn’t your own next to a man that you were supposed to call your own. But other than necessary, Mattheo had hardly uttered a word to you.

In the three weeks you had stayed there, you had seen Mattheo a total of twenty eight times, including mornings and nights when you were forced to sleep in the same bed.

Your mornings, afternoons, and nights were all incredibly boring. You took long meals, pushing your food around. Sometimes you just sat by the window and watched the wind blow bits of grass and dirt past the window. The servants were still extracting the dust between the couch cushions and you tried to stay out of the way, but it only made you feel more isolated.

Mattheo was holed up in his office day in and day out. He had now inherited a large portion of his father’s company and Mattheo was determined to uphold the honour bestowed upon him. He had drafted contracts, sold and bought land, and even hosted a few dinner parties for his associates.

You detested the dinner parties. Thankfully, Mattheo had yet to invite you to one - hell, he had yet to speak to you about the dinner parties. You had learned of the first dinner party when you had wandered downstairs one late evening because you were thirsty. You had stared at the group of strangers, all dressed in elegance, as they stared back at you in your night clothes. Not saying a word, you had sighed and returned upstairs.

You hadn’t been eager for the marriage, but wouldn't it befit Mattheo to show some affection? Or at least acknowledge your presence?

While you had continuously tried to get your husband to open up to you, his answers had been short and venomous.

It had been a long, monotonous day for you. You had returned to the master bedroom about two hours earlier than you normally would have if you were at home.

With the wealth that you came from, the opulence was sure to be evident, but you had underestimated the Riddle family’s prestige. When Mattheo had first shown you your shared bedroom, you had to allow a flicker of surprise break through your facade. The bedroom was larger than any room in your old home and had a large bed in the middle. The lamps on the bedside table were always dimly lit and the design of the room was the same as the rest of the house - dark and bereft of love and care.

Your hair had been brushed enough, but you kept brushing simply for something to do while Mattheo finished up in the bathroom. Mattheo walked out of the ensuite with a towel wrapped around his waist. His curls were plastered to his forehead and a bead of water ran down his sternum.

Your eyes flickered to his figure through the mirror, taking in the dips and curves of Mattheo’s muscles as he silently got ready for bed. You tore your gaze away, berating yourself.

You built up your courage and tried to think of a conversation starter. You commented, “my parents wrote to me today.” After no reply from Mattheo, you continued, “they asked me when we would give them grandchildren.” You set your hairbrush down and stared at Mattheo through the mirror, looking for some sort of reaction.

Mattheo hummed noncommittally and put on some sleep pants. He used his towel to begin drying his hair. “It would be behoove us to produce some heirs,” he spoke. His tone was dismissive, as if children were nothing more than an obligation or duty to fulfil.

“Right,” you muttered, knowing that an uninterested reaction was all you were going to get out of him.

You stood and moved towards the bed. “Goodnight,” you whispered, turning off the bedside lamp and tucking yourself into bed. Mattheo was still putting on his nightclothes and had yet to get into bed.

As you turned off the light and got into bed, Mattheo finished drying himself off and slid into his own pyjamas. He sat down beside you, but didn't bother turning off his own lamp. Instead, he laid against the headboard, reading a book. "Goodnight," he finally mumbled, not even looking at you.

You curled into your blanket. After a moment, you asked quietly, “what book are you reading?”

He looked at you over the top of his book. "None of your business," he replied curtly.

You simply uttered, “okay.”

Mattheo felt an unwanted and unusual feeling root itself deep in his stomach. He scoffed and said sarcastically, "fine. Go ahead and keep asking questions all night long if it amuses you so." He opened his book again and pretended to read.

A longing and lonely pang resonated in your chest at his harsh words. You didn’t respond and instead turned your face into your pillow. You had known that your marriage was to be loveless, but it still hurt at every unspoken word. Perhaps, if you had been five years younger when you married Mattheo, your spirit would still be alive with the juvenile belief that you could stand up to him.

Mattheo huffed and his gaze turned up to stare at the wall ahead of him. “If you’re so miserable, then why don’t you just leave?” he snapped, not even bothering to hide his bitterness. “I am sure your family would simply love to have you back.” He flipped another page in his book, not even bothering to look at the printed words.

“I never said I was miserable,” you answered quietly, even though Mattheo knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps, though, you believed it to be true. You took a steadying breath, closing your eyes.

Your husband smirked and leaned against the headboard. “What do you call your attitude, then? Why are you so downtrodden and defeated? Surely, you can’t blame me for being frustrated by it.” He knew that he should be taking account of making you feel this way, but he still tried to justify his behaviour.

“Goodnight,” you reiterated.

Mattheo sighed dramatically. “Whatever,” he grunted. He closed his book, threw it on the nightstand, and turned off his lamp. The room was encased in darkness except for the dim moonlight coming through the window. He shifted towards the edge of the bed, making sure a noticeable gap was between the two of you.

He thought back to your conversation. “Why don’t you just leave?”

It was too late now to apologise.

***

Mattheo let the door swing shut behind him, returning to Riddle Manor after an outing with friends. He glanced around, waiting for a servant to take his coat, but no one answered. An eyebrow cocked, Mattheo slowly walked up the stairs, hearing you instruct the servants on something, every other sentence of yours either containing, ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. Up on the landing, he found you directing a servant who was pulling a rack of your clothing. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Have you lost your damn mind? Are you trying to send a message or something?”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in me, so I’m trying to make this marriage as civilised as possible,” you said diplomatically. “I believe that if I move to the West Wing and leave you in the East Wing, it will benefit our marriage.”

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this piteous attempt at attention?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you think it’ll make me want you more?” He stuck his tongue in his cheek, grinning incredulously. “You’re delusional if you think that’s even remotely possible.” He stepped closer to you, towering over you with anger in his eyes. “This is not some game, L/n. This is marriage. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

“I’m aware that we’re married, Riddle,” you retorted. “And don’t refer to me by L/n anymore. I am now a Riddle - just like you. However, I am not going to live in a state of constant sorrow and dejection. Having a wing of the mansion to myself may help.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened as he stared at you, irritated by your resistance. “Fine,” he growled. “But don’t expect me to come running after you when you decide you want attention. You’re on your own now.” He turned away from you and walked into his now solo bedroom. “Just remember - this is your choice.”

You felt your anger inflate. “I thought you would like this!” Your voice rose and you tugged a hand through your hair. It was the first time in your marriage that you had fought back. “I have done everything I can to please you, yet nothing is enough for you!” Your voice turned desperate. “What do you want from me?”

He stopped in his tracks, turning around with surprise and disgust on his face. “Dammit, Y/n! Don’t yell at me like that!” His voice thundered, stepping towards you. “I never asked for any of this! I didn’t ask for a wife or for you to try so hard to please me! All of this is ridiculous.” His hand slashed through the air to make a point. “All I want is some space. Space to figure out what the hell I want. But let’s make one thing clear: I don’t care about you.”

“Am I not giving you space?” Your fists clenched at your sides. “I am moving out of the bedroom and out of your way. Yet, you erupt at me and get angry over nothing! You send me mixed messages and I don’t know what to do.”

Mattheo took a breath, trying to regain control over his emotions. “I am not erupting! Lord, you are so sensitive!” he snapped, running a hand over his face. “Can’t you listen for once? I am not sending you mixed signals. I am trying to figure out my place in this unorthodox situation we’re in.”

After a beat of silence, you asked firmly, “did you talk about me?” After seeing a flicker of confusion on his face, you clarified, “when you were out with your friends, did you talk about me? Did you rant about how annoying I was? Did you complain about marriage?”

His lips parted before taking a breath. “Yes, I talked about you,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I complained about how frustrating I find you and how frustrated I am with my parents for arranging this senseless marriage.”

“What did they say?” you insisted. “Did they sympathise? Did they laugh at me? Did they add fuel to your fire by commenting about how… how ‘needy’ and ‘sensitive’ I am?”

Mattheo made a low sound in his chest and rubbed his temples, frustrated by your persistence. “They agreed with me, yes. A few believed that you are too emotionally attached and sentimental. Others chalked it up to the pains of an average marriage.”

Your anger flared up and you said, “Let me tell you this: I never wanted marriage either. But I at least tried. I tried to be a nice and loving wife and a kind human.” You turned on your heel, marching out of the bedroom and towards the West Wing.

Mattheo watched you go, an unwanted feeling of guilt washing over him. He sighed and walked over to the window. ��Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Why is everything so damn complicated?”

For the next couple of weeks, you stayed true to your word. You avoided Mattheo and his office and stayed in your wing of the mansion. After a week or two, you decided to explore the mansion, stumbling upon a magnificent library. You inhaled in veneration when someone cleared their throat. Mattheo stood behind you, raising an brow. After a silence, you said recalcitrantly, “you never told me that Riddle Manor had a library.”

He smirked at your thinly veiled hatred, amused despite himself. “Well, now you know,” he said dryly. “It’s a perk of living in a Riddle household.” He walked over to a bookshelf and began browsing for a book he required for a contract that was being drafting. He showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfort at your presence. “You may use it whenever you want. But don’t expect me to join a book club or anything juvenile.”

“I would never dream of it,” you said sarcastically. You step further into the library and can’t help but gape at the vastness. You trailed your fingers over the book spines, breathing in the smell of old books. You crouched down to examine a series of poetry titles. “I can read any of these?” you asked hesitantly.

He nodded and leaned against the shelf behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Feel free to read whatever you would like. They’re here for the entire household. Well, the servants don’t have time to read books, so in a Riddle household, the parents and children use the library the most.” Your hand faltered over the titles. “If you find something that catches your eye, go ahead and take it. I won’t stop you.” There was a hint of curiosity in his voice, as if he wished to know what topics and books piqued your interest. You hummed quietly, not fully acknowledging his words. You were already picking up a book and leafing through it. Mattheo watched you for a moment, his eyes softening briefly.

Everyday, you returned to the library. It was an escape from the walls of your room and the walls that Mattheo had put up around his heart.

Eventually, the servants recognised your routine and began to start a fire in the fireplace to keep you warm. They moved a loveseat in front of the fire that you gratefully used. You devoured the poetry collection, including Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, and started on the classics. Every once in a while, Mattheo would come into the library, but he wouldn’t talk. He simply took a book and returned to his study. Sometimes, you wondered if he remembered you lived in the mansion with him.

Mattheo found himself frequenting the library more often, looking for books he had never needed before. A swell of pride filled him whenever he saw you by the fire, knowing that something in his home brought you such comfort. He still refused to speak to you, maintaining distance and ignoring your existence, but he found himself increasingly drawn to your presence.

One day, on a whim, he decided to take a risk and left a stack of his favourite books on the table next to your chair. That afternoon, you found the stack of books. You smiled despite yourself, though you didn't make any comment to Mattheo. You picked up the first book, sat down in the chair, and began to read.

A week later, Mattheo was hosting a dinner party for his associates. He didn’t say a word about it to you, though you heard the servants preparing for it. You decided not to go, opting to stay in your safe haven of the library.

After an hour or so of faint music, you heard the door to the library squeak open and your head whipped up. You saw one of Mattheo’s friends, Tom, enter and look around. He spotted you and his lips curled up into a smirk. “So you’re the wife we’ve heard so much about?”

Your stomach clenched and you replied, “I guess so.”

Tom’s smirk grew wider as he took in your terse response, enjoying your obvious discomfort. He approached you with a lecherous gaze in his eyes before asking, “and how do you find life as Mrs. Riddle? Are you enjoying your… arrangement?” His words dripped with sarcasm, not believing for a moment that you and Mattheo were married for love.

You stared at him. “It has its perks,” you said simply.

Tom laughed derisively at your response, not convinced by your nonchalance. “And what are those perks?” he asked, moving closer to you. “Extravagant gifts? Luxurious vacations? Or simply the privilege of being married to such a powerful man?”

You squared your shoulders. “I am powerful without a man,” you said sharply. “I do not need a man to determine my worth and prowess.”

Tom scoffed. “Really? How exactly did you become powerful on your own?” he asked, challenging you. “I find it hard to believe that you could ever achieve anything significant without the backing of a powerful husband behind you.” He leaned in closer, grinning.

You closed your book with a snap. “The L/n family,” you said, talking of your maiden lineage, “has had control over many estates and affairs for decades. Without Mattheo Riddle, I would’ve inherited half of it, second only to my brother. I would’ve had four auspicious companies at my ready disposal, capable of doing most anything. So, yes, sir, I would have been momentous without him.”

Tom’s smirk faded as he recognised your family name. He remained undeterred, however, stating, “that explains why your husband was so eager to marry you. He must see you as a valuable asset to his business empire.”

As you opened your mouth to retort, the door banged open and Mattheo strode into the library.

Mattheo had noticed Tom’s absence from his party, but when it became too long to be excused as a restroom break, Mattheo had asked his brother, Enzo, if he had seen where he had gone. Enzo had smiled a small smile and whispered, “Tom went to the library. Where your darling wife stays hidden.”

Mattheo saw red.

He barged into the library, a deadly, lethal, and borderline possessive look deep in his eyes. When he saw Tom flanking you, Mattheo’s expression darkened and his hands clenched into a ready fist. “What the hell are you doing here?” Mattheo demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “This is a private wing of my home - not some place for you to bother my wife.”

Mattheo moved closer to you, placing himself between you and Tom as if to protect you from further harm.

Tom quickly stepped back and placed a confident demeanour on his face. “I was simply having a conversation with your lovely wife here,” Tom gritted his teeth.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, showing clearly that Tom was lying and intruding. You saw Mattheo’s eyes flicker down to you, his eyes softening reassuringly before snapping back to Tom, malice in his gaze.

“Don’t lie to me,” Mattheo snapped at Tom. “There’s no need for any sort of interaction or conversation with my wife unless I am present.” Mattheo placed a hand on the top of your chair, his fingers gripping it and his bicep flexing slightly to warn Tom.

Tom’s eyes flicked with something you hadn’t seen before: fear. Fear commonly associated with the Riddle name. He adjusted his collar and straightened his posture. “Of course, Mr. Riddle,” he said bitterly.

You raised a brow. “I think it’s time for you to go now,” you said, your face stoic. Tom bowed his head slightly before exiting the library. You didn’t look up to meet Mattheo’s eye. You murmured, “you didn’t have to do that. I had it covered.”

Mattheo watched Tom until he completely left the room before turning to look down on you. His voice was threatening, “you may have been able to handle Tom, but I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting or harassing you while you’re under my roof. Consider this a warning - if anyone tries to cross you again, they will regret it.”

“Perhaps you should tell your coworkers that. Not me,” you replied.

Mattheo’s expression was cold. “Fine. I will,” he growled. “I will not sit idly by and allow anyone to disrespect my wife.” He let go of your chair and adjusted the cuffs of his suit. As if in a business meeting, he said, “And consider this another warning: if you continue to act so stubbornly, I won’t hesitate to remind you of your place in this marriage.”

“My place in this marriage is your wife!” you cried out, finally standing up. “Your equal! Something you seem to forget until it’s convenient for you. Or until another man threatens your… your property! I doubt you see me any differently than this house or your assets.”

Mattheo grabbed onto your arm tightly, pulling you close and leaning down so his face was inches from yours. “Do not ever speak to me like that. You are not my equal - you are my wife and I decide what is best for both of us. If you cannot accept that, then you should reconsider your place in this marriage.” He released your arm and turned away from you, striding towards the door. “I suggest you reflect on your behaviour,” he added icily, leaving the room without looking back.

After he left the library, you let out a scream of frustration. You shoved the pile of books that Mattheo had carefully curated to the floor. They tumbled down, book after book, covers opening and pages bending. Tears pricked at your eyes as you examined the scene.

You slumped into your chair, the fire in front of your crackling softly, emitting a calming warmth.

Eventually, you fell asleep in the chair, tear stains on your cheeks. In the morning, you woke to the serene morning light filtering into the room - a vast contrast to your mood. The fire had dissolved into crackling embers. Tucked on top of you was a thick blanket and the stack of books that you had pushed over had been re-piled and stood majestically atop the table.

You sighed, knowing you should thank the servants for taking care of you and cleaning up.

After you walked to the kitchen, your footfalls heavy, you thanked the servants, who were finishing preparing breakfast. They exchanged glances and one piped up, “Ma’am, while we appreciate the sentiment, we didn’t do that. We weren’t aware that you were still in the library. We believed you had retired to bed before the social last night.” They paused and then added, “however, Mr. Riddle didn’t go to bed. He was in his study until morning light.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. You bid them an awkward goodbye before entering the dining hall.

Mattheo was already seated at the head of the table, his expression exhausted and distant. He didn’t acknowledge you when you approached, focusing instead on the uneaten plate of food in front of him.

You sat down opposite him and muttered, “the servants informed me that you blanketed me last night and cleaned up the books.” You hesitated and finally said, “thank you.”

Mattheo looked up briefly, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t respond directly. “It was necessary,” he said simply. “You should not be cold and uncomfortable in your own home.” He doesn’t make any effort to engage in conversation beyond that. Something was weighing heavily on his mind and he seemed preoccupied by it.

You hummed in response. Eventually, you stood and whispered to your husband before walking out, “you are not as cold as you want to seem. You needn’t keep the facade up with me.”

Mattheo looked up briefly before returning to his food. His expression relaxed, but he didn’t respond.

***

Later that day, Mattheo sat in his study as he always did. A knock came from the door and he glanced at the clock. It was a bit early for lunch to be delivered, but he announced, “come in.”

The door creaked open and your head peeked into the room. Mattheo’s brows furrowed - not with malice, but with scrutiny. You entered and sat in one of the two seats next to his fireplace. Silently, you cracked open a book you had brought and began to read.

Mattheo watched you intently, his gaze never wavering as he took in every detail of your face. He tried to find any acrimonious intent behind your actions, but you looked so peaceful. He found himself noticing the details of your face and your beauty as the fire cast warm highlights on your eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked eventually, his voice holding an armour of needed suspicion.

“Reading,” you said simply.

Mattheo frowned, not convinced by your answer. Why would you read in his study after the way he had been treating you? He leaned back in his chair, his work forgotten. “Isn’t there something more important that you could be occupying your time with?” he challenged.

“Not particularly,” you responded. “You’re in charge of the companies and estates. I have nothing to do. I thought I would accompany you. You must get lonely in a study by yourself.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded slowly. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment. “But don’t think I will stop working simply because my wife is here.” His posture grew taut as he began looking over documents again. “This is still my office and I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“I’m simply reading,” you murmured, a smile inching its way up your lips.

Henceforth, a routine was established. Every morning, you would knock on Mattheo’s study door, usually an hour or so after he began working. There was rarely conversation, the silence being broken by Mattheo’s scratch of a quill or you turning pages, occasionally being disrupted by the loud crack of a log in the fire.

One day, you had finished your book (it was an excellent book, one from the pile Mattheo had recommended) and stood to go retrieve another one. At the sound of your footsteps leaving his office, Mattheo’s head darted up and he suddenly asked, “where are you going?”

You paused and turned back to him. “I’m to get a new book. Unfortunately, as wonderful as this one was, it had an ending like all books do.”

Mattheo frowned and a hint of vulnerability broke through his exterior. “Get a servant to do it,” he offered.

“Well, I don’t know which one I want,” you counted, raising a brow in a smirk.

He huffed and shook his head, returning his eyes to his documents. He grumbled, “I will commission the servants to build you a small bookshelf for my office. You can keep your books there.” You stood, watching him for a moment, admiring him until his gaze snapped up. “Well, go get your book,” he said sharply. “… but hurry back,” he added in a mumble.

You finally smiled at him before exiting and Mattheo gazed at the place you once stood, trying to memorise how your lips curled up and your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

He rather liked it when you smiled.

***

“Are you alright?”

You sniffed and laughed. “Yes, yes. I’m being foolish.” You wiped some tears from your eyes. “My book is very good.”

Mattheo chuckled lowly. “And what made you cry, hm?”

“A daughter and father interaction,” you replied quietly.

“Was the father cruel to the daughter?” Mattheo laughed tersely, shaking his head at his documents. “Are your feelings not strong enough to withstand their wrath?”

You frowned at Mattheo, setting the book down. “No,” you corrected slowly. “The father was being kind to his daughter. He was supporting her and loving her; as a father should.” There was a pause as Mattheo looked up at you. “I know that the Riddles are a harsher family - I’ve known ever since I knew I was to marry you. But… but are you alright?”

You felt absurd asking the question. Yet, when Mattheo couldn’t meet your eye, a wistful sadness blanketing the room, you felt as if you should’ve asked the simple question weeks earlier.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then Mattheo turned in his chair so his back was facing you. "I'm fine," he finally answered, his voice rough and strained. "I am used to dealing with it, I suppose." Despite his insistence that he didn't need anyone's pity or concern, your words seem to have affected him more deeply than he wanted to admit.

“May I ask a question?” you asked softly.

Mattheo hesitated for a moment before nodding, his eyes never leaving the window as he spoke. "Ask away," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He then cleared his throat and said, "but I won’t give a warm and fuzzy answer."

There was a pregnant pause in the air as you gathered your courage up and suddenly thrust your fears upon your husband. “If we ever have children, which we’re somewhat expected to,” you added hurriedly. “I don’t want them to grow up in a household where they feel as if they have to vie for love or attention. And I don’t want me to be the only one giving them attention.” Mattheo turned his head so his face was angled toward you, but his eyes could still stray to the window if need be. “If we have kids, can you promise that you’ll love them? Even if you don’t love me?”

Even though your voice was steady, Mattheo knew of the vulnerability deeply rooted within you.

He nodded cautiously, his expression serious. "I promise," he said firmly. "I may not love you, but I will love our children unconditionally. They will never have to compete for my affection or feel neglected. I may not be a fond father, but I will provide for them and protect them as best I can." A protectiveness filled his veins just at the thought of something happening to his future children.

You nodded once, a sad smile on your face. “Perhaps we’ll have a big family. Enough children to start a sports team.” You smiled at the thought, laughing lightly.

Mattheo smiled, despite himself, imagining a large brood of children running around the manor. It was an oddly appealing idea, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. "We'll see," he said noncommittally. "I'd rather have lots of sons; they'll carry on the family name and ensure my legacy continues." He turned back around and attempted to focus on his work.

“And daughters too.” You frowned, staring at your husband, even if he wouldn’t spare you a glance. “Daughters can carry on the family name just as well as sons.” A muscle in your jaw ticked.

Mattheo scowled at your defiance, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why hadn’t you just fallen into line? "Fine, daughters too," he reluctantly agrees. "But make no mistake, they will be raised to be strong and capable like their brothers. The Riddle name demands nothing less."

“And the sons can be soft and caring and sensitive,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have to vie for affection. I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have needless competition in their life. I don’t want them to grow up… like, well… you.” You finally uttered the words that had been hanging off your tongue dangerously.

Mattheo’s expression hardened as he clenched his fist tightly. "Fine!" he snapped. "They can be whatever the hell you want them to be! But don't expect me to sit back and watch while they become weaklings and failures. We need to teach them to be strong and ruthless like I am." He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process.

You jump up after him, crossing towards him. You whirled to a stop in front of him, jabbing a finger towards his chest. “Listen here, Riddle. Just because someone is kind and vulnerable doesn’t mean they’re weak!” You growled, “and just because you grew up like that, does not mean that’s the type of household I am going to have.”

Mattheo stepped forward and his hand flew up to grip your wrist. His eyes blazed with anger, but then something changed in his expression and he took a step back, looking surprised at his own reaction. "You're right," he admitted begrudgingly. "I shouldn't have assumed that being vulnerable meant being weak." He ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed, yet resolute in his decision. "But don't expect me to be a pushover either. I'll still teach them to be strong and independent."

“Strong and independent are good qualities,” you conceded. “Both for the boys and girls.”

"Agreed," he said. Mattheo straightened his cuffs and cleared his throat. "Our children will be taught to be strong and independent, regardless of gender. They will know that they are loved and valued by both of us, equally." He held out his hand to you, indicating that the argument was over - for now at least. "Deal?"

“Deal.” You shook his hand defiantly. It was a business deal, but a good deal at least.

Mattheo exhaled and brushed past you. “I’m to a meeting,” he informed you. It was a simple comment , one that was an offhand remark, but to you, Mattheo had just let you into his life. It was something he had never done before. Even if it was just a response to where he was off to, it was a window into his life. A life that now may have enough room to hold you.

Mattheo paused when he reached the door. “I never knew the way I grew up was wrong until I saw other families. I saw the parents bending down to listen to their children instead of hushing them. I saw parents comforting their children after scraped knees, not pushing them to the kitchen for some rubbing alcohol. I saw parents beaming when their child could plunk out the simplest of tunes on the piano. No one else got berated for being out of rhythm or playing a D instead of an E. I never saw another child get slapped by their parents or scolded as harshly as I was. It was around then I realised that something was wrong. But what was I to do about it?”

Words dried in your throat. You wanted to cry at his words, but you felt dried out. How could someone treat their child like that? It explained so much…

Your husband was a fragile man, you were just realising. And he was trying to pick up the pieces and present them to you in the only way he knew how.

"The stars remind me of you,” he said quietly, the change in conversation sudden. “I mean that in the best possible way.” His voice was the softest and most tender as you had ever heard it. You hoped he would keep speaking the melodies that made your heart sing in tune.

“How so?” you asked, afraid to break the plane of existence that you and Mattheo were carefully standing on.

"They are so beautiful, yet so far away. I may see them, but I can never touch them."

***

The servants didn’t know what to do. The master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, seemed to be at a ceasefire. The cooks lamented at how they had seemed to be doing so well. The maids thought they were destined to doom from the start. The butlers gossiped about Mr. Riddle’s letters to a Mr. Tom, terminating their long-term partnership. The scullery maid still had hope that the husband and wife would come to their senses and live a happy life.

It perplexed the servants when the mistress requested to move her belongings back into the master bedroom and the master looked on, a soft smile on his lips. It confused the servants when the Mr and Mrs began taking meals together and talking in hushed tones late into the night. And it bamboozled the servants when, one summer afternoon, the Lord of the household stood from his desk, cautiously moved to his Lady that was reading by the open window, and asked her to accompany him on a walk. She had accepted.

There was to be a dinner party, this time hosted at Mr. Draco Malfoy’s manor, that Mr. Riddle was expected to attend. Per usual, the master didn’t invite the mistress, but she was content to stay home. A maid briefly heard the madam whisper to her husband, “hurry home, please? I don’t like it when you’re away.” The maid had scurried away before she could hear the reply.

Mattheo returned home that night, just before the sun was setting. He climbed the steps, unbuttoning his cuffs and loosening his tie. The soft glow of light was still shining under your shared bedroom - something he still hadn’t gotten used to - and Mattheo couldn’t help but smile.

“Why are you still up?” he asked quietly when he entered the room.

“You promised to be home early and I wanted to see you before I go to bed,” you reminded him, a small book in your hands.

“Right, right.” Mattheo chuckled and shook his head, slinging off his tie and jacket.

“How was the dinner?”

Mattheo hummed noncommittally. “Not the worst. A couple of my good friends, Theo and Pansy, were there to help alleviate the pain of socialising. But… I found something odd happening.”

“And what was that, husband?” Mattheo took a moment to relish in the way that word curled off your tongue effortlessly.

“I found myself wishing you were there. Nay,” he quickly corrected himself. “I wished I was here with you.”

“Oh?” Your eyes flickered up towards Mattheo, a slight blush coming to your cheeks. “Why… what do you mean by that?”

Mattheo began to unbutton his shirt and moved towards his closet. “Well,” he admitted, mumbling to himself. “I simply mean that instead of having to socialise with people who are too tightly wound and whose only intent is to take my money,” he chucked his belt into his closet and rolled up his sleeves, “I would rather be at home with my darling wife.”

A smile inched up your lips. “Really? Tell me more about this darling wife of yours.”

Mattheo hummed, stepping towards the bed. He crawled down on the bed, leaning on his forearms to lean up towards you. “My wife… I’ve come to care deeply about her. She is a beautiful, elegant woman, one who has a fiery tongue about her and an intelligent brain that even I cannot rival. She always seems to get her way, even when I try to fight back. It’s as if my wife has a command over me that I have willingly submitted to. And I am not ashamed to say so.” He lightly caressed your arm, sending a trail of goosebumps up your skin.

“You must be careful, Mattheo,” you uttered. “That sounds an awful lot like love.”

Mattheo brought his eyes up to meet yours, the sting of tears building up behind them. His voice cracked as he said, “that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name, Y/n.”

Your lips parted in shock. “I- I didn’t realise. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Mattheo demanded before reaching up to pull you into a kiss.

His lips were soft and meaningful against yours, hungrily trying to gather every ounce of love from you. His kisses were feverish at first, his strong hand coming up to cup your jawline, his fingers just teasing behind your ear, before his lips slowed. Mattheo was a starved man and he wouldn’t let anyone take away his only solace. He shifted so he could be closer to you, gently taking the book from your hands as you surrendered yourself to him. Your hands found his silk shirt, gripping it in your fists. He placed the book on the nightstand and moved so he was hovering over you, never once letting a second go by without feeling your skin against his.

Mattheo slowly, achingly pulled away from you and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours. “My darling, my love, my life,” he murmured, dragging a knuckle down your cheek. “I apologise for everything I have ever done or said that made you feel inferior. I would be happy to kneel for you in front of my associates and family members - just to show them how much power you have over me.” He took a breath before persisting, “I was foolish. I was incompetent. I didn’t realise how much love I held for you. It is, and always will be, only you. I will promise you this: you will be the only woman I ever touch, the only voice I ever want to hear, the only skin I will ever caress, and the only eyes I ever want to see. I will wake and fall, every morning and night, thinking of you. You are the other half of my heart, for it is you who I love. I will place the galaxies and stars in the night sky for you. If you are ever unhappy, my love, I will not rest until I see you smile again. If you are ever mad, my love, I shall smite whatever upsets you, even if it is I. And I would die a happy man if you could give me only an ounce of what I give you.”

Your breath shook and you swore Mattheo had injected ambrosia into your veins for you were sure your blood was singing with the love that was filling your soul. “I wrote a letter to your mother today,” you offered quietly, as if your mere words could ever compare to the love poem Mattheo had just gifted to you. “And I thanked her.” Mattheo’s eyes flashed with confusion. You continued, “I thanked her for birthing such a wonderful husband and for raising him. I know you u wish to renounce your family, but as of now, I want to thank them with all my heart. Mattheo, I love you.”

“And I you,” Mattheo whispered, bringing his forehead down to rest on yours. His nose bumped against your cheek and he couldn’t contain his grin anymore. “How did I ever get so lucky?” he mumbled.

You laughed lightly. “Luck? Fate?”

Mattheo shook his head and his nose brushed light curves over your skin. “No, my wife. Simply love. Pure, unconditional love.”

***

The house was bright, the curtains pulled as far open as they could be. Some servants scuttled around, holding laundry or preparing for dinner. Meanwhile, Mattheo strode leisurely through the halls, smiling lovingly as his nephews chased each other through the halls. “What do I say, boys?” he called after them.

“Have fun, be safe, and don’t get caught!” they yelled back before running around a corner.

Enzo jogged after them and grumbled to Mattheo, “it’s not your duty to rule them up.”

“As their favourite uncle, yes, it is.”

“Your wife is in Andromeda’s room,” Enzo told his brother before sprinting off after his sons. Enzo wasn’t usually at Riddle Manor, but today was a special day. It was Orion’s birthday.

Mattheo chuckled to himself before Orion raced up the steps, panting. “Papa! Papa!”

Mattheo grinned widely and scooped Orion up. “Are you alright, hm? What’ve you been up to?”

“Aunt Pansy’s carriage just pulled up!” Orion bounced in Mattheo’s arms, beaming.

“And you’re not even dressed,” Mattheo stared at Orion, pretending to be stunned. “Where’s your mother, Ori?”

“She’s helping Andy get dressed,” Orion announced. Mattheo nodded and carried his son to his daughter’s room. “Mum!” Orion cried out, seeing Y/n standing behind Andromeda, knotting her hair into a braid.

“Oh, my darling,” Y/n tied Andy’s hair up before crossing to Mattheo and taking Orion from his arms. “Are you excited for your birthday?”

Orion hummed excitedly and wiggled down from Y/n’s arms. He darted to Andromeda and wrapped himself around her in a tight hug. Andromeda grumbled, but allowed him to cling to her as she finished her hair and rouge.

Mattheo took Y/n’s hand and pulled her back toward him, nudging his nose against hers. “Look at that,” he murmured, reaching down to play with the silver and green ring on your finger. “Mine.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. Slowly, as to not arouse suspicion from your children, he backed you up and caged you against the wall in his arms. “Seven years with you and two beautiful children to show for it.”

“Hey, mum? Where’s my- eugh!” Andromeda turned around and reeled back from the scene in front of her. “For the love of Salazar, please get a room!”

“We are in a room.” Mattheo smirked, glancing up from the crook of your neck.

“Aren’t you two, if I'm doing my calculations correctly, nearing thirty years old?” Andromeda tsked and rolled her eyes.

“You believe that simply because we’re getting older, I’m going to stop loving your mother?” Mattheo chuckled before pressing a light kiss to your jawline.

You shivered and tucked your face into your husband’s chest. “Matty, spare the poor children,” you chastised lightly. “What do you need, darling?” you turned towards Andromeda.

“You used to call me that,” Mattheo whined. He stepped back from you, letting you out of his embrace.

Andromeda sighed and asked, “where is my white shawl? It’ll go well with the dress I’m planning to wear to Orion’s party.”

“Why does it matter what you wear to Orion’s party?” Mattheo asked, puzzled.

“Because Albus Potter is going to be here,” you said as if it were obvious.

“Harry Potter’s son?” Mattheo asked incredulously. “That scumbag?”

Both you and Andromeda ignored Mattheo and Orion left the room at the sound of Aunt Pansy entering the foyer and shouting out for her favourite nephew.

“Your shawl should be in the library,” you answered. “Ori was using it as a blanket yesterday.”

Andromeda sighed and turned towards the door. “He needs to stop taking my things. Just last week he stole my candelabra so he could read in the dark. Perhaps you should accelerate his schooling. He’s getting bored, you know.”

“We’ll raise our own son, thank you, Andromeda,” Mattheo raised a brow. Andy huffed and and flicked her dress out behind her dramatically, exiting the room. Mattheo turned to you and said, “they get that from you. The love of reading.”

“Yes, but they get their flair for the dramatics from you. And lest us not forget, you keep fuelling our love of literature by buying more books and expanding our library,” you countered.

Mattheo hummed. “‘Tis true. But how could I live without spoiling my wife and children?” He whirled you around in his arms and pressed a long kiss to your lips. “Speaking of children, what would you think of expanding our family?”

You let out a laugh. “You simply like the act of making a bigger family.”

“I love my children too,” Mattheo defended.

You reached up and brushed some of his hair away from his face. “Yes you do,” you smiled up at him. “You love your family very much.”

“Always.”

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skylarstark4826 · 11 months ago

Text

Seventh-year Potions was proceeding as normal, meaning that Professor Snape was walking amongst the students with a disapproving scowl on his face while said students did their best not to screw up. It was working quite well. Even Neville was relatively calm, feeling that the many tutoring sessions with Hermione were finally paying off and that his Sticking Solution would at last allow him to escape Snape’s classroom without extra homework. He checked the board again, then his book, making sure he put everything into the cauldron in the right order. His potion was bubbling happily, spurting pink sparks. Just like it was supposed to. He sighed a little in relief.

Severus Snape was walking through his classroom, feeling rather frustrated. The potion he’d assigned for today was relatively simple to make, but extremely easy to screw up all the same. As he’d told the class, the Sticking Solution was very potent, and once two things had come into contact with it, they were inseparable for a week, after which some of the stronger magical solvents could be attempted. As little as a single drop was enough to cause this effect, and since the potion was practically colourless, this usually allowed for some unusual accidents. For which he could give detentions. A lot of detentions. His supply cabinet needed organisation and filing, and he really did not want to perform such a dreary task himself. So far though, only Gregory Goyle had come through for him, and there was no chance in hell that he’d let that imbecile anywhere near his storeroom. The only reason the boy had even managed to get into NEWT Potions was a very substantial gift sent over by his father. It seemed the poor man was harbouring illusions that his son would be the next Nicholas Flamel, and as long as the “encouragement” kept coming, he wasn’t one to rob an old man of his dreams… In short, he’d sent the stupid boy back to his common room. It wasn’t like he’d be able to achieve much with the index finger of his wand arm lodged solidly in his right nostril, after all.

He walked over to peer into Longbottom’s cauldron, giving the boy his best glare and making his hand tremble as he added the last ingredient. He was very sad to admit (only to himself, of course) that the potion looked flawless. The irksome Miss Granger had undoubtedly been whispering advice in his ear again. Turning, he planned to stalk over to Harry Potter’s desk and bully him until he did something rash that would warrant detention. It wouldn’t be that hard, seeing as the boy had a temper like a minor volcano. Smirking, he took his first step when chaos broke out.

Neville’s cauldron gave a loud lurching sound and tipped forwards. Neville screamed and tried to catch it. Hermione Granger, sitting next to him, launched forwards to stop him from touching it. At that moment, however, Neville’s sense of self-preservation kicked in, and he jerked backwards, away from the rebelling cauldron. Hermione, who was throwing herself at the spot where he would have been, had he kept moving forwards, lost her balance completely and practically somersaulted over the desk with a panicked cry. Meanwhile, Snape had started to throw himself to the side, reflexes toned through his secret hobby (Pixie wrestling), when he saw Hermione fly through the air towards the floor out of the corner of his eye. And ignored it completely, rolling away from the potion.

A split moment later, he was back on his feet, looking around his classroom angrily. The offending cauldron was standing on Longbottom’s desk, someone having had the presence of mind to cast a Levitation Charm on it before it hit the floor or spilled its contents. Shooting a furious and yet disturbingly satisfied look at Neville, he announced in his silkiest voice, “Detention. Every day for a month.” He would have added a nasty comment about the boy’s utter incompetence had he not been interrupted by a wailing sound at his feet. Looking down, he saw Miss Granger lying there in a crumpled heap. He rolled his eyes.

“I trust you’ve learnt now why you shouldn’t act on your Gryffindor impulses at every turn, Miss Granger,” he said harshly, extending a hand to her. Wincing, she took it, and he pulled her to her feet. She kept the hold on his hand, and he shot her a questioning look, trying to pull away. He couldn’t. Meeting her eyes, he saw first bewilderment and then alarm. Both pulled. Nothing happened. They looked at each other again, and Snape was the first to articulate their mutual thought.

“Bloody hell!”

The classroom became even more disrupted as all the students came running from their desks to get a better look at what’d happened. A majority was hard-pressed to keep the laughter down as the scene played out before them.

“This can’t be happening!” Hermione begged frantically, tugging at her hand with all her might.

“Oh, but I think it is,” came Draco Malfoy’s gleeful voice from behind Neville’s desk. “I’m so sorry, Professor. I can’t imagine the horror of being stuck to that for a week.”

“A week!” Neville shrieked, looking like he was about to faint.

SHMOCK! Harry’s fist replied, connecting with Malfoy’s immaculate face.

Draco screamed, trying to block Harry’s furious punches.

“Mr Potter, detention!” Snape spat. “And you,” he rounded on Neville, tugging hard and making Hermione lose her balance. They both crashed to the floor where she landed on top of him and blushed bright red before rolling off his body. He glared at her. Then he got to his feet and looked around at the shocked students surrounding them. Someone had managed to break up Potter and Malfoy, who were now in the midst of issuing silent death threats to each other. He put on his severest scowl and faced the class.

“Twenty foot of parchment on every substance in this particular potion,” he growled. “Mr Longbottom, an additional 4 months worth of detentions, and I will make sure Filch is very creative.” He turned on Harry. “Mr Potter, one month of detentions for every punch you landed on Mr Malfoy. To be served with Professor Trelawney.” He smiled evilly at the shocked look on the boy’s face. “Oh, and Potter, do try to be nice to her.” The Slytherins sniggered as Harry visibly blanched. It was no secret that Professor Trelawney had a bit of a crush on the Boy Who Lived. There seemed to be a lot of ‘romantic adventures with a mysterious and spiritual woman’ in his future lately. Usually teamed with warnings of gruesome death were he to turn this ‘gift from the higher spheres’ away.

“Class dismissed,” Snape declared, making the spectators quickly vanish their potions and store away their cauldrons. Within a few minutes, the Potions professor and his best student were all alone in the classroom.

For quite some time, they just looked at each other, tugging weakly in deluded attempts to free themselves. Then practicality took over.

“There must be some way to solve this,” she said, pulling their hands towards her to study them. He stumbled with the tug.

“Unless you’re planning to invent a revolutionary solvent, the answer is ‘no’,” he answered, quite irritated.

“Then let’s.” She was looking up at him as though she’d just come up with a cure for Fire-breathing Chicken Pox.

“Let’s what?” he sneered.

“Let’s invent a new solvent, of course.”

“And how, pray tell, are we supposed to manage that, given that we are bloody glued together?” He could feel anger bubbling inside of him. She just scoffed.

“We still have two capable hands, don’t we? We’ll find a way.” He wanted to say something really nasty to that, but was interrupted by the door to his classroom swinging open and Dumbledore marching inside, a worried frown on his face.

“Ah, Severus, Miss Granger. I was told that we had a problem here.”

“Oh, no, everything’s just dandy,” Snape said in his most sarcastic voice, alternating his glares between Hermione and Dumbledore.

“Hrm, yes, well, I’m very sorry for both of you.”

“Really? And here I thought you’d be jumping with joy at me finally having found a girl who’ll��stick with me,” Snape drawled. Dumbledore was starting to look annoyed.

“Really, Severus, that attitude will not help solve this problem. Now, how serious is it?”

“You want that on a scale from one to ten?” Dumbledore just looked at him, the blue eyes turning icy. “Well, unless Miss Know-it-all here comes through in her ambitions to find a new and revolutionary solvent, we’ll be stuck like this for a week.”

“A week?” Dumbledore looked slightly aghast, which pleased Snape, but then a different spark crossed his eyes, almost as though he was trying to suppress a laugh. “You know, that might not be a bad idea. Trying to invent a new potion, I mean. You’ll need to find something to do to occupy your time, after all, as you can hardly attend or teach classes in your present condition.” At this, both Hermione and Snape erupted like minor volcanoes.

“I’m not spending an entire week in seclusion with this… this student!”

“Professor, I have to go to class! I’m at the most important point of my academic career! The NEWTs will begin in a little less than two months! I can’t be absent for an entire week!”

“Oh, shut it, Miss Granger! It’s widely known at Hogwarts that you could have taken your NEWTs as early as your fifth year. I figure that the only reason you even bother coming to Potions is to show off your abilities,” Snape spat, turning on her.

“I’m not…!” she started hotly, but he cut her off.

“Oh, really? Then what could your reason possibly be? To ogle your professor perhaps?” He’d meant is as a sarcastic joke and a jibe at the way she’d so tellingly fawned over the nitwit Lockhart in her second year. He was therefore highly taken aback when she first just gaped at him and then blushed furiously, looking away. He just stared at her for what felt like a very long time, utterly incapable of processing what had just happened. He was jerked back to reality when Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“Hrm.” He eyed his Potions master with a serious look on his face. “Severus, despite these… ah… complications,” he smiled gently at Hermione, who didn’t meet his eye, “I hope I can trust you to handle this situation in a professional manner.” Snape just glared at him.

“I can assure you, Headmaster, that I have no desire whatsoever to do otherwise,” he said in a cold voice. “Now, if you’d excuse me, I have papers that need to be marked. Miss Granger, if you please…”

Dumbledore followed the pair with his eyes as they disappeared through the door to Snape’s private quarters. Oh, dear, he thought to himself before turning and walking back up to his office.

The day passed in mostly hostile silence. After having marched away from Dumbledore, Snape dragged Hermione into his work room, where he settled at his desk and started spitting instructions to his auto-quill in a truly vicious manner. Finding herself both embarrassed and completely ignored, Hermione had settled herself on a chair next to him and started reading her Transfiguration book. Five hours later, she finally looked up, registering how hungry she was. Snape had just finished trashing the last essay, and the auto-quill collapsed on the desk, sending out a small howl of exhaustion.

“Excuse me, sir.” He turned around and looked at her with an irritated frown.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“It’s just… I’m hungry, sir. I believe we’ve missed dinner.”

“Yes, and that was completely intentional. I’m not sitting in the Great Hall, in front of the entire school, with my hand embarrassingly glued to one of my students.”

“Then how—”

“I’ll have the house-elves send something from the kitchens,” he said simply. With that, he rose, pulling her with him, and walked through a corridor and into another room. Stopping in front of a big fireplace, he turned to face her again. “Any thoughts of what you might like for dinner?”

“I – um…” She suddenly couldn’t think about food anymore. She looked around the room in total shock. She’d expected something similar to the slightly depressing dungeon classroom, or even to his dark and slightly scary office. Just the thought that she was standing in Professor Snape’s bedroom had her shaking slightly in the knees. The fact that the bedroom was little more than a huge bed didn’t exactly help matters. She couldn’t help staring at the deep green, velvet hangings, the black coverlet and the silver cushions adorning the bed’s surface. Typically Slytherin, yet oddly attractive. She could feel herself being pulled towards it…

“Miss Granger!” Snape’s voice jerked her out of her trance, and she blushed profusely, realising that he’d just caught her staring at his bed in a very inappropriate way. She looked down at her feet, but suddenly felt a strong hand cupping her chin and lifting it to face him. She felt an odd shiver go down her spine at the contact.

“Let me make one thing absolutely clear,” Snape said in a dangerously soft voice. “I don’t know what sort of fantasies you’ve been having about me, and I don’t wish to be enlightened. Just because I’m stuck with you doesn’t mean that I’ll start treating you differently than I have for the past seven years, and I’m quite sure that by the end of this week, you will have forgotten whatever stupid weakness you harbour at the moment and gone back to hating me like a normal Gryffindor student. Now, what would you like for dinner?”

“J-Just soup and bread, please,” she answered, trying to pull herself together. Her skin still tingled from where his hand had touched her face, and she tried to repress it. She’d humiliated herself enough for one day.

The first major problem occurred three hours or so later.

“Erm, Professor, where am I going to sleep?” Hermione asked timidly, trying not to stare at the bed.

“One would have thought your allegedly formidable brain would have worked that out by now,” he drawled. When she didn’t answer, he rolled his eyes. “Naturally, since I have no wish to sleep standing, you’ll sleep in my bed. Now get ready.”

“But, sir, my things—”

“Are in the bathroom. Oh, do shut your mouth, girl. You act like you’ve never heard of magical transportation before,” he said exasperatedly and made way for the bathroom.

A few minutes later, they came out, and Snape started to undo the buttons at the front of his robes. Hermione’s eyes grew wide.

“Um, P-Professor, w-what are you doing?” she stammered, trying not to look at the skin that came into view as the robes fell apart.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he said, his voice even.

“Um, undressing, but—”

“Which is what people usually do before going to sleep.” He turned to face her. “Do you have a problem with that, Miss Granger?”

“Um, n-no, sir. I just thought, I mean, that we might sleep like this, that’s all,” she half whispered, indicating her robes with her free hand.

“Seriously, Miss Granger, do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to sleep in full robes? I’ve already told you that you have nothing to fear from me, and I’m certainly not going to let your sense of propriety deprive me of a good night’s sleep.” He eyed her intently, his eyes narrowing as he took in her slightly flushed cheeks and lowered eyes. “Unless,” he said silkily, “it’s yourself that you worry about. Afraid you’ll accost me in your sleep?” He was mocking her, and she felt like sinking through the ground. Mumbling something unintelligible, she crawled into bed and drew up the covers to her chin, trying hard not to notice the ripping sound that told her he’d found a way to remove his robes from the blocked arm, or the warm body that settled itself next to her a few seconds later.

Several hours later, she was still awake. He’d been right, it really was impossible to sleep in full robes. The material tangled itself around her every time she moved until she felt like she was being suffocated. Groaning, she moved her free hand to her throat, undoing the first couple of buttons. She immediately felt a hundred times better and quickly worked her way down, freeing her body. It was a bit awkward, seeing as she had to use her left hand rather than her right, but sheer determination kept her going. Finally, the last button popped free, and she shrugged the fabric off her shoulders. Not wanting to rip the robe like her professor had, she rolled it up as best she could and settled down to get some rest.

She was dreaming again, one of those highly inappropriate dreams she’d promised herself to stop having. She was in bed with Snape, curled up in his arms, one leg thrown casually over his hip. Her head was resting against his chest, and she was breathing in the scent of him, moving her cheek against the warm skin. His breathing was deep and regular, and one of his hands was massaging her lower back. She sighed. She knew it was a dream, and yet it felt so real… Moving closer against him, she pressed her lips to his chest.

He groaned.

The sound only urged her on, and her lips moved over his skin with more confidence. A voice at the back of her head told her to stop, to wake up and shake the dream, but somehow, she couldn’t quite make herself do it. The hand on her lower back slid upwards, tangling itself in her hair and pulling her up for a kiss. His lips moved over hers, slowly at first, then with more intensity as she put her arm around his neck and rubbed against him, vaguely registering the hardness now pressing against her thigh. His tongue came out to taste her, and she moaned into his mouth, encouraging him to deepen the kiss further…

Then everything came to a screeching halt.

The hand in her hair suddenly yanked her head backwards, and she jerked out of the dream. Opening her eyes, she met the black ones of her professor, glittering in a very unsettling way as he tugged harder at her hair, making her cry out in pain.

“Miss Granger, let go of my body, and I’ll let go of your hair.” Mortified, she realised that her left arm was curled intimately around his neck and that one of her thighs was keeping his hips captive. She immediately rolled away, as far as she could while still attached to his hand, that was.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what I was doing,” she said, bowing her head.

“Really, now? Why is it that I don’t believe you?”

“I – I was asleep."

“How convenient. Next, you’ll be telling me that you were having some sort of erotic dream and that you simply did not realise that you were, in fact, groping one of your professors.”

“No.” Her voice was very quiet, and she didn’t turn to face him. “I just didn’t realise that it wasn’t a dream.”

Before he could say anything else, she tugged hard at his arm, desperately trying to escape from the bed. She nearly succeeded, managing to fall off the side and hitting the floor with a pained cry. Swearing loudly, he massaged his abused tendons before getting to his feet, extending his other hand to pull Hermione off the floor. Instead of reaching out, she just lay there, face against the bed curtains, trying, not too successfully, to hide the fact that tears were creeping down her face. He waited patiently for twenty seconds before tugging at the arm where they were joined together.

“Miss Granger, compose yourself,” he chided, actually trying not to sound overly intimidating for once (which was very difficult considering his current mood). “Get off the floor, and I am willing to forget that this embarrassing fiasco ever happened.”

She shook where she lay, pulling her legs tighter towards her, forming an anguished ball (he rolled his eyes) before finally, finally taking one deep breath after the other, calming down. After what seemed like an eternity, she stood on trembling legs and dried her eyes with a swift movement of her hand. She still wouldn’t face him.

“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” Without another word, he strode towards the bathroom, clenching his teeth as the pain shot through his arm when she stumbled to follow him.

“What about daisy extract?” Slow puffs of purple smoke were rising from a cauldron in the middle of the room as Hermione Granger went through yet another book on magical plants.

“A splendid idea,” came the answer from a few feet away, where Severus Snape was grinding saffron with only one hand, “if you want to develop incurable boils on the back of your hands.”

“Orange blossom?”

“Non-stop vomiting for days on end.”

“Liquorice roots and vanilla?”

“Extra ears sprouting from under your chin. Very flattering.”

“The tail of a newt then, ground with peppermint?”

“You do realise that your grade is slipping with each inane suggestion, do you not?”

He could hardly contain his smirk as the silence stretched out between them. Moving to the side to stir the bubbling cauldron, he briefly inhaled some of the purple smoke. It seemed promising.

“Bring me the ground saffron and a gold ladle, please, Miss Granger,” he said, concentration written on his face as he added one counter-clockwise turn. He could almost feel her anticipation as she placed the fine powder in front of him on the working table. He stopped stirring the potion and added two pinches of the red powder to the cauldron, watching the potion turn a shade of ruby.

“There…”

With an ease that came of much practice, he dipped the gold ladle into the potion and withdrew a small amount, holding up their combined hands and letting a single drop fall where their palms joined together. Tugging gently, he slowly moved his hand away from hers, triumph gleaming in his eyes.

Until his hand stopped, irrevocably, two inches from Hermione’s slender fingers and then shot back as though attached to a rubber band. A not-so-silent oath escaped his lips.

“Ah, Severus, Miss Granger!” Dumbledore swiftly strode through the dungeon, coming towards them. “Tell me, is there any progress?”

A thousand witty and not-so-witty retorts crossed Severus’ mind before settling on a half-strangled, “I’m afraid not”.

“That’s a terrible shame, my friend,” Dumbledore responded, not sounding overly sorry. “Luckily, I’ve managed to find someone to take your classes on such short notice, so not to worry, not to worry.”

“Who?” It was a miracle, really, how it was actually possible to speak when grinding your teeth so ferociously.

“Horace Slughorn! Your old Head of House. I believe that he will do splendidly. Had to bribe him quite exuberantly to come of course, but once he learned that Harry was still in attendance and taking Potions, he agreed quite readily. Of course, he always did have a soft spot for his mother. Lily Evans was quite remarkable at Potions, as I remember.”

“Yes,” Snape managed to spit out through his rigid jaw. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Headmaster, I have a problem to quite literally solve. Miss Granger, if you could be so kind as to hand me the scorpion’s tail?”

Turning his back to Albus Dumbledore, he vanished the ruby potion and started afresh.

“I - I’m sorry!”

Hermione’s words were muffled by the pillow she’d thrown herself into after realising that the warm, smooth skin of her professor’s neck against her lips was not a figment of her imagination.

A muttered oath came from the man next to her as he clenched his hands until the knuckles turned white and the nails bit into the skin of his palms. His mind was fighting for control, his anger boiling for having lost it at the pull of arousing dreams and soft skin against his. Thoroughly disgusted with himself and his current situation, he closed his eyes and turned inward, methodically turning his breathing back to normal and clearing his mind of inappropriate, tempting thoughts.

He didn’t speak to her as they awoke later in the morning, simply dragging her about his chambers, pretending she didn’t exist. Despite the warmth in the room, she felt chilled inside and tried to make herself as small as possible in the large chair where she was sitting. Trying to distract herself from her thoughts, she reached for the Daily Prophet on the side table, just to stare in shock at the headline covering most of the bottom of the front page.

Hogwarts Heartbreaker Strikes Again

Miss Hermione Granger (18), who three years ago caused quite a stir at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by toying with the feelings of two young men (sensitive and fragile Harry Potter – The Boy Who Lived – and internationally renowned Quidditch star Viktor Krum) is again giving evidence of questionable moral behaviour, writes Rita Skeeter, special correspondent. Having apparently grown bored with the boys her age, the devious Miss Granger is now setting her sights on the Hogwarts faculty. Sources claim that she’s been seen often in the company of a certain Severus Snape, Hogwarts Potions master (aged 38), and some say that she even shares his quarters. “She never leaves him alone,” seventh-year prefect Miss Pansy Parkinson tells the Daily Prophet. “On Monday, during class, she just threw herself at him. It’s pathetic really, how she clings to him.” Other students add that, since the affair came to light earlier this week, the suspected couple has been conspicuously absent, and the theory is that Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, has sent them both away to keep the truth from coming out. Though not strictly illegal, a relationship of this kind is, of course, highly unethical, and one would hope that the Headmaster of one of Europe’s finest Wizarding schools would put Miss Granger’s insatiable lust for seduction under check, in order to protect the students and staff from her assaults, as well as to protect the school’s reputation…

“Bloody bitch! I knew I should never have let her out of that jar!” Hermione screamed, throwing the paper at the fireplace before abruptly getting to her feet. “Well, this time I won’t. Unless it’s to crush her under my shoe,” she half-snarled, marching towards her wand on the desk, only to be stopped by the immobile weight of her Potions professor.

“Accio newspaper.”

She watched as he retrieved the newspaper from the edge of the flames and quickly scanned the article, eyes hardening with every word.

“Are you quite content?” His voice was very quiet, but every syllable so crisp they stung her skin.

“Wh-what?”

He didn’t face her, staring hard into the fire, the newspaper crushed in one of his hands.

“You have made a spectacle out of me and forever destroyed my reputation in this world.” His expression was stony, closed off and forbidding. “I would order you out of my sight, except for the fact that you’re bloody stuck to me!”

“Sir, I –”

“Not a word, Miss Granger.”

Tears of frustration pooling in her eyes, she fell down into her chair again, her shoulders slumped in resignation.

“Miss Granger, please get up and follow me.”

The crisp tones jerked her awake from the exhausted rest she’d accidentally found over her desk, her cheek smudged with ink from the parchment before her. She staggered to her feet and obeyed the pull on her right arm. He moved them swiftly across the floor into his private quarters, leading the way towards the bathroom.

Sighing, she prepared herself for the awkward situation of standing glued to the outside wall, her arm stretched painfully through a small hole that had been charmed on the door to keep the privacy when “attending to one’s affairs” (as her professor called it). Even with a handy Muffliato from the person inside to take away all sound, there was just no getting away from the acute sense of wrongness that she felt at sharing this very personal matter with Severus Snape. She therefore was very much surprised when he didn’t guide their hands through the hole in the door and slam it closed, but pulled her into the bathroom with him.

“Um – Professor, what are we doing in here?” she asked, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

“It’s quite simple, Miss Granger,” he answered in even tones. “I have been working tirelessly in the lab for four days on end and feel positively grisly. I intend to take a shower. And I think you should take one too.”

She couldn’t stop the small yelp from escaping as her mind started to spin. She too felt like a shower was terribly overdue, but still… Pictures of the two of them writhing naked against each other under the spray of hot water immediately surfaced in her mind and flushed her face. Surely, he couldn’t mean…?

“No, Miss Granger,” he answered smoothly, as though he’d been able to read her thoughts with perfect clarity, “I do not intend to turn the task of taking care of my sanitary needs into a rose-coloured encounter inspired by the latest romance novel! I know that rumour has it that I never set foot in a shower, never mind even own a bottle of shampoo, but since you have at least somewhat higher brain capacity than the people you socialise with, I trust that you already knew that this rumour was just that. Now get in the shower.”

“But, sir, how…?”

“Miss Granger, my patience is waning. I have had a very long day – a very long week actually – and I want to take a long, hot shower and clear my mind of this insane situation we are in. I do not want to stand here and argue with you.”

“I just –"

“For heavens sake!” He turned abruptly and dragged her over to the alcove occupied by a dimly lit shower, easily large enough for two people. “Get in.” Hesitantly, she opened the glass door and stepped inside, looking up at her professor with eyes that spoke of apprehension as he followed her.

“Thank you.” With a wave of his wand, a second glass was erected between them, leaving the same kind of hole for their hands that had previously been charmed onto the bathroom door. “Now, perform a Muffliatoaround yourself.” She obeyed once again, and he nodded in approval.

“Vaporio!”

Steam exited from the tip of his wand and attached itself to the shower walls. After a few seconds, she found herself in a steam-filled cocoon, unable to see either her professor or the rest of the bathroom. Looking around, she saw a small shelf with various shower gels and shampoo bottles and started to relax. Noting that she no longer heard any movement or sound from the other side of the wall, she realised that Snape must have also performed some sort of Silencing Charm. Though still acutely aware of his presence and the fact that he was, most likely, removing all his clothes just a few feet away from her, she managed to get her fingers to stop trembling for long enough to remove her robes and undergarments and hang them on a hook on the alcove wall. A second later, warm water was falling from the double showerhead above, soaking her. Closing her eyes, she turned her face to the spray, pure enjoyment filling her body as the water washed over her.

She remained immobile for quite some time, just letting the water fall, clearing her mind of all thoughts and washing dirt and sweat off her body. She felt stronger, cleansed and able to get through the next few days before she could go back to her own room and attempt to heal the bruises on her ego. She needed her peace of mind back if she were to get through the NEWTs, and wounded pride because the man she fancied did not want to get involved with her wouldn’t help. Sighing, she reached for the shampoo and began cleaning her hair as best she could with only her left hand to help her.

She was just at the end of rinsing the last of the conditioner from her long curls as she felt herself being pulled gently towards the glass barrier which separated her from her professor, and forced her to hunch down as her arm was turned in an unnatural angle. Moving closer, she sensed movement on the other side, and a bottle of some sort being put awkwardly between her fingers and the ones attached to them. A small shock went through her as she felt the hands turn, squeezing the bottle and letting it drop to the floor after fumbling with the cap. The next moment, her hand was touching wet hair, following the one attached to it mindlessly as it worked the shampoo into the dark strands and scalp of the man behind the glass. Closing her eyes, she tried her best to remain focused, to think about something else than the silky feeling of his hair tangled around her fingers, or the feeling of his skin as she brushed across his cheek or neck. She tried not to think about how he must look, on his knees (most likely, considering the position of her arm) and only inches away from her where she pressed against the glass. A shiver went through her, and she leaned her forehead against the barrier, biting her lip in agony as her mind spiralled into overdrive, every fantasy she’d had in the past few months coming into sharper focus with help of the sensory memories of the past few days. The position of her arm relaxed, and she realised that he must have finished with his hair and got to his feet without her noticing.

Suddenly, she felt his fingers touch her arm, and instinctively jerked, wincing slightly as she hit the upper part of the hole in the glass. With a firm grip of her hand, he started to lather her arm with soap, his fingers trailing across her sensitive skin. Feeling her body tighten in response, she let out a small moan of frustration, damning, for the thousandth time, the stupid crush that made her so weak where this particular man was concerned. As abruptly as it had begun, the washing was over, and she straightened up and took a trembling step back from the glass, trying to get her breathing to return to normal.

It hitched in her throat when she realised that the area where she’d rested her forehead was now clear of steam and showed a very clear view of the lower part of her professor’s stomach.

She watched, mesmerised, as water trailed down the taut skin, following the thin line of dark hair which continued out of view. Without realising it, her shaking hand touched the glass, wiping at the steam. Nothing happened, and she wondered if she had somehow, unconsciously, performed magic when trying to abate the rushing arousal that came from touching him before. Then, a hand came into view, stroking the skin of the flat abdomen firmly before slipping downward, exiting her range of vision. She watched the muscles in his stomach clench and unclench as the part of the arm she could still see moved rhythmically along his body. She bit back down on her lip as her mind constructed vivid images of the missing parts of the scene, showing his hand wrapped around his hard length, stroking it back and forth as his breathing grew more shallow and his face relaxed and opened with pleasure. Without thinking, her free hand found one of her breasts, and she moaned in relief as pleasure surged through her and her nipples tightened almost painfully at the touch. Not being able to keep her eyes away from the erotic scene on the other side of the glass - her mind doing an incredibly fine job of showing her what the steamy barrier couldn’t – she lost herself in the combined pleasure of the warm water and her left hand moving over her aching body.

Severus Snape stepped out of the shower, feeling thoroughly invigorated and pleasantly relaxed. Pulling Hermione with him, he moved to sit in front of the fireplace, placing an order for the evening meal to be served. Leaning back comfortably in his chair, he picked up his research notes and started to tackle the problem of finding a new solvent for the Sticking Solution with a fresh mind. His eye wandered briefly to his student where she sat in the next chair, staring into space. The fire was reflected in the damp curls around her face, and he felt a surprising pang of sympathy for her part in their situation. The anger that he’d felt towards her over the week – anger that she should so invade his privacy and make him lose control (albeit subconsciously) of his reactions when he was asleep and vulnerable to the inclinations of his body – lessened now that his body was relaxed and his mind free of its urges. Reaching out, he caught the tray of food that had just appeared out of the fire and set it on the small table between them. A good meal and a night of uninterrupted sleep, and he’d be ready to get back to work in the morning. A small smile formed at the corner of his mouth as he moved in on the food.

“Miss Granger, if you continue to exercise so little control over your teenage hormones, I shall be forced to tie your wrists to my bedposts – except I keep getting the revolting suspicion that you might enjoy that too much. Remove. Your. Hand.”

Wide-eyed and half in shock, Hermione pulled her hand away, mortified by the exploration it had undertaken in the semi-unconscious state between sleep and wakefulness. She could still feel the impossibly smooth skin under her fingers, the contradictory hardness beneath and the twisting, jerking movements against her palm. Flashes from the scene in the shower from the day before penetrated her mind, and she quickly turned, hiding her burning face in her pillow, trying to block out his scathing comments as well as the fuming voice, which she found didn’t help matters at all.

“Do you want some of the potion?”

They had worked the day away in silence, each boiling with anger and frustration. Two cauldrons simmered serenely on the working table.

“How come you are convinced that this one will work when the others haven’t?”

“It’s not an attempt at a solvent, Professor,” she said softly. “It’s a Sleeping Potion.” She looked up at him for the first time since they had locked eyes this morning. “I’m afraid I can’t turn the clock back, but I can try to make things a little easier by giving you a night of peaceful sleep.” Her voice faltered for a second before she continued, “I’m afraid that as far as the solvent is concerned, I’m quite out of ideas, sir.”

Looking around the room, about thirty cauldrons filled the working space. Each and every attempt so far had been a failure. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and tried to bridle his frustration.

“Take your potion. We’re going to bed. Since this day seems to bring me nothing but torment, I might as well end it.” She held up a small flask to him, into which she’d decanted her potion, but he shook his head. “I have no problem sleeping as long as you let me be, I assure you. Now come to bed.”

Funny how those four words had been such a strong part of her most secret fantasies, she mused, following him, still hand in hand. The reality of him, and his words, had managed to rip away any rosy filters she might have had and replaced them with harshness. He was too prickly, too blunt, too brutal to hold the allure of romantic hope. Still, her fingers burned where he touched them.

Walking into the bedroom, she grasped the flask resolutely and downed the Sleeping Potion.

He awoke from a jumble of erotic dreams to find himself impossibly hard and her on top of him, kissing and licking his stomach, moving downwards. With a flash of panic, he realised that somehow, they were both completely naked. Twisting desperately, he managed to roll her on her back and pin her treacherous hands down above her head, trying to keep out of physical contact. Shaking her hard, he prepared to fix her with a stare and coldly tell her that her luck was out and that she would be spending the rest of the week on the floor. She didn’t wake up, however, but twisted in his arms, arching against him, moaning softly in her sleep as she struggled to get closer.

He pinched her, shook her and slapped her lightly on the cheek, said her name over and over, in a voice that lost more and more of its icy control. She still didn’t wake, but fought against him, kissing whatever skin she managed to reach and mumbling incoherent words of desire and wanting while moving with him on the large bed. In sleep, she lost the insecurity and self-doubt that he had glimpsed over the past few days. She fought against him, not to get away, but to get closer. He felt his control slipping dangerously with every touch and cursed his current situation.

The potion – it had to be the potion – was keeping her from waking up and was allowing her dreams full reign of her body. He went through all known Sleeping Potions in his mind as he tried to peel her hands and mouth off him without causing any physical harm. There was the Dreamless Sleep of course, which was out of the question since the chit was clearly dreaming; the Deep Sleep, which would have rendered her comatose and unable to move, no matter her dreams; the Enchanted Sleep, which… He suddenly jerked away, panting hard. Her hand had managed to snake its way down his body and closed around his pulsing flesh, stroking him. A groan escaped him as he managed to tear the hand away, only to be faced with the reality of her soft, wet lips as her mouth managed to close in on what her hand has just evacuated. His head swam as he tried to make sense of what was happening to him, breathing harshly as he struggled against the impulses of his body to lose his free hand in her curls and just enjoy her ministrations. His body ached and pulsated and her lips seemed to both torment and relieve him, rendering him totally incapable of coherent thought. With a last explosion of willpower, he managed to pull out of her wet mouth and roll them over, effectively pinning her down with his body.

Only to realise that he was now flush against her smooth skin, rubbing against wet heat and being effectively trapped as she wrapped her legs around him and attacked his neck with urgent kisses, begging him to come closer still.

She was walking down the path to the greenhouses with Harry and Ron, only to find a door there which normally belonged to the Charms classroom. She turned to Harry to ask if he didn’t think that this was peculiar, when Harry suddenly turned away and ran off to greet Hagrid, who came towards them, riding baby dragon Norbert (which seemed normal, in spite of the book suddenly in her hand, which said that it was absolutely impossible for a wizard or witch ever to ride a dragon). While staring at the dragon, Ron morphed into Luna on the other side of her, asking if she wanted to pet her thestral.

The dream changed…

She was in Snape’s office, working on a potion, her back aching from having been hunched over her cauldron for too long. Suddenly, he was against her back, his breath hot in her ear as he pressed himself against her, hands coming around to caress her belly. She turned in his arms, and he kissed her hungrily, lifting her up on a nearby desk and attacking her neck with his lips and tongue. Without even being aware of her own actions, she raised her wand (which was suddenly, and with no logical explanation, in her hand) and vanished both their clothes. The sensations intensified, and the kisses grew hungrier as they moved against each other, changing places and positions like clouds of smoke on a windy day. She was on her knees kissing her way down his stomach; he was pushing her roughly against the wall of the greenhouse, where she felt the stinging slap of a nearby Devil’s Snare; the two of them were rolling around on the Quidditch field, caressing, teasing, panting from excitement and effort; she was lying down, her back against the soft sheets of his bed, her legs tightly wrapped around his back as she felt him enter her, filling her body and making her moan loudly with pleasure before covering her mouth with nearly desperate kisses…

He was lost. Lost in her soft, pliant body which rocked and arched against him, lost in her wet kisses and the way her breasts pressed into his chest. He was lost in the way she moaned his name, lost in the way she moaned her desire for him, begging him to take her harder – lost in the way she whispered his name like a thing of satin and gold in his ear.

His mind had left him when his hardness came into direct contact with her wet opening, which seemed to draw him in. Plunging into her, there was no mind, only instinct and age-old pleasure surging through his body. A red haze seemed to cover everything that was thought other than registering the growing sensations in his body and the girl’s wild responses to his touch.

Surging forward again and again, he heard the breath catch in her throat and captured her moan with his mouth as he felt her come around him. He felt the sensation multiply, as it seemed to turn into a cycle of fire, fanning itself to new eruptions with each rise of flames. Shuddering, he jerked his head back, closing his eyes in rapture as he came deep within her.

Feeling his arms shake, his body near collapse, he fell down next to her, pulling her with him to keep the physical connexion. With uneven breaths, he filled his lungs with air and opened his eyes.

Hermione’s face was only inches away, her eyes open and filled with fear and confusion.

The full weight of the implications of what had just happened hit him, and he felt pure, undiluted fear for the first time since the days of the Dark Lord. Would she accuse him of sexual misconduct? Gossip to Potter and Weasley about him? Force him to marry her and have a hundred billion children with his nose and her hair? A thousand scenarios arose before his mind’s eye, growing steadily more gruesome…

And then, she kissed him. Softly, shyly almost, as though touching him for the first time. Sheer surprise stopped him from responding at first, and when the shock left him, he joined her in the careful exploration, very aware of how thin and brittle the ice was where they trod.

He felt a small smile on her lips as they left his, and without a single word she simply laid her head down close to his chest and grew still. Feeling slightly awkward, he draped his free arm around her waist and held her to him. Sooner or later, there would be music to face, but thankfully, it didn’t seem as though this was the moment.

Relaxing his muscles, he allowed his sated body to lull his mind back to sleep.

#Severus Snape #Hermione Granger #Severus and Hermione #Sevmione #severus x hermione #hermione x severus #snamione #hermione x snape

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