A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 37 – Tea

Hermione was hell-bent on keeping at least a semblance of polite interest plastered on her face at all costs. No matter how many hours she had studied, she knew that there was nothing that could have prepared her for the naked savagery being displayed just then.

The room in which this power struggle was being played out in was charming, lovely and entirely unlike anything Hermione had ever imagined Malfoy Hall looking like. She had expected something far more medieval. As it was, it seemed to be all Rococo, in light, airy wood. She had expected the talking paintings and the tea set that poured itself. After all the Malfoys were wizards first and foremost.

What she hadn’t expected was the gilded frescos, the crackle patterned mirrors, the plush rugs and the museum quality artwork. Either Lucius or Narcissa was an avid art collector and whichever one it was had exquisite taste. She dragged her mind back to the conversation just in time for the next round of rigidly polite cruelty.

“More sugar, Mrs. Parkinson?” Narcissa cooed with such viciousness that Hermione was hard pressed not to shuffle further away from her on the emerald green settee. Pansy’s mother, a bracket-faced nag if there ever was one, refused the offer with a cold smile and an expression in her eyes that made Hermione glad that wandless magic was so difficult to master.

“Mrs. Snape, perhaps you require more sugar?” Narcissa turned and offered the Sevres china sugar dish like a snake striking and this time Hermione did flinch, shaking her head in negation dumbly. The plush velvet of the settee was somewhat prickly underneath her and she wondered if it was a subtle spell worked into the furniture to make unwelcome guests uncomfortable. The sugar tongs, two entwined silver snakes with emerald eyes seemed to stare at her malevolently. Hermione shivered well aware of how precarious her position was.

“I think the tea is perfect, Narcissa,” Bellatrix announced with a predatory snarl as she stared around at those she considered far beneath her. Hermione and another Muggleborn bride topped that list, but it was obvious that Mrs. Parkinson wasn’t very far below them in her regard.

This puzzled Hermione, because she had thought that Pansy and Draco were an item and that argued for there being a certain warmth between the Malfoys and the Parkinsons. Why then were both Narcissa and her sister in law, Bellatrix treating the woman with such savage civility?

Hermione had little time to ponder this though, as she was frantically trying to recall everything that both Severus and Professor Dumbledore had taught her about Slytherin politics.

It wasn’t easy.

Being menaced by rabid dogs would be less intimidating than a roomful of pureblood wives all trying to outdo each other in rigid propriety. The rabid dogs could also be more easily dealt with, she thought sourly. A few curses and they could be dispensed with quite handily. The women, who glared at her from around the tea table, were not quite so easily dispatched.

“The weather has been delightful, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Nott?” Narcissa smiled sweetly at the plump, dark-eyed woman across from her and Mrs. Nott smiled back with equal friendliness. Apparently Theodore was still in good odor with the harpies, Hermione noted, for his mother was still treated with politeness.

“Indeed, Mrs. Malfoy, I thought the day was particularly lovely and quite perfect for tea.” Mrs. Nott had a benign expression and an untroubled countenance that spoke of either great cunning or great stupidity. How she could remain oblivious to the hostile undercurrents in the room baffled Hermione.

“I hear that dear Draco’s wedding was an event to be remembered,” Mrs. Parkinson snarled. It occurred to Hermione at that point that perhaps the hostility didn’t originate with Narcissa. The look of thin-lipped fury on Mrs. Parkinson’s face could be more about thwarted dreams than politics.

“He is a Malfoy; it was to be expected,” Narcissa cooed back with a look of vindictive glee.

It occurred to Hermione that having the Death Eaters’ wives at each other’s throats wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

“Susan looked lovely,” Hermione commented with a feigned expression of frightened timidity. She was trying to keep to the illusion that Severus had nearly broken her spirit, but it was hard not to snort or roll her eyes at these women.

The audible grinding of Mrs. Parkinson’s teeth made Hermione rather pleased with her efforts.

“Yes, she did clean up well,” Narcissa smiled at the rigidly furious Mrs. Parkinson, taking up the thread with glee. “She is a Bones, of course, and Amelia was known to be a beauty in her day. I suppose that if she lost a bit of weight, Susan would be quite handsome.”

“Yes, far prettier than many of the debutantes that are coming out next season,” Bellatrix sniped. Hermione knew that Pansy’s coming out was next season. Bellatrix’s jibe hit home and Mrs. Parkinson flushed angrily.

“I suppose that for a Hufflepuff, she could be considered tolerable.” The nasty glint in the older woman’s eyes reminded Hermione of the daughter as she spoke. Pansy would probably be just like her mother when she grew up.

“Yes a Slytherin is always preferable, but at least she wasn’t a Gryffindor.” Bellatrix’s comment was obviously aimed at Hermione, but having expected something of the sort, she was careful not to bristle, but instead look forlorn and defeated.

Severus had coached her for hours in how to behave and she was very careful of every word and action, for fear of putting him in even greater danger.

The harpies appeared satisfied by her subdued demeanor and turned their attentions towards the other bride. Hermione didn’t know her, she had graduated from Hogwarts some years ago and been working in a shop in Diagon Alley. How she ended up the wife of a pureblood, Hermione didn’t know, but she was a wispy blonde with huge blue eyes and the look of someone who could be knocked over by a strong breeze.

The rest of the afternoon was only made tolerable but imagining terrible horrible deaths for Bellatrix and Narcissa. By the end, she was getting very creative.


Severus sighed internally and let the strident voices of his fellow teachers wash over him. It occurred to him that as soon as Voldemort was defeated he could escape Hogwarts forever and go and start the private potions practice he had always dreamed of. He imagined the immaculate laboratory he would work in. He already had plans for new and improved potions that his cowed workers would mass-produce while he spent most of his time inventing, researching, and studying far away from the annoying little warts he was forced to shepherd now. It would be heaven.

He poured himself another cup of tea as he daydreamed and sipped it contentedly. The staff meetings were dull, but at least the tea was good. He returned to contemplating a life after Voldemort with satisfaction.

It also occurred to him that if Voldemort weren’t defeated he would be forced to spend the rest of his probably abbreviated life brewing Rash Away for the Death Eaters.

A quick end was definitely preferable.

With great reluctance he dragged his mind back to the meeting. He hoped Hermione was suffering less than he was, though they were both stuck in social duties that could not be described as anything less than agonizing.

“But we have to provide somewhere for the babies while the classes are taking place!” Georgian’s wife said with a clink of teacup into saucer for emphasis.

They were discussing their options for childcare once again, he gathered, and as the first pregnancies were getting close to delivery time, he hoped they would come to a decision rather soon.

“But where? We have used most of the extra space we had setting up the private quarters for the married couples!” Poppy retorted with a sharp tone.

Looking around at the pinched, earnest faces of his co-workers it occurred once again to Severus that with this lot as his allies, Harry Potter was buggered right and proper. Barring Minerva and Albus, the whole lot of them were about as useful as a dishrag in a tsunami.

Flitwick, who was now babbling on about some silly decorating project for the next round of weddings, was excellent at charms, but put him in any sort of danger and he fell to pieces, instantly forgetting everything he knew. Severus could knock him out without even half trying.

Poppy, her hands folded primly in front of her, would be so busy scolding Voldemort for lack of proper respect for his elders that she would be dead before she finished her tirade. Hooch would charge in like a rampant rhino and get Avada’d instantly.

As for Trelawney, oh Merlin, the thought of her in any kind of fight made him want to cringe. Sprout was good levelheaded sort, but she knew hardly any offensive spells at all. She’d try her best, but it would be a wasted effort. Hagrid might do better, of course. Severus knew that he had secretly kept his wand and practiced a bit when no one was looking, but he had missed out on advanced training and was therefore rather… spotty in his knowledge.

Firenze was an unknown quantity. The centaur could fight, all of his kind could, but how effective would he be against a wizard of Voldemort’s class?

Severus pondered the Order next. Moody was a paranoid nutter, but he was a dangerous and powerful wizard as well. Tonks, well, she fought pretty well, despite the fact that she was a menace to crockery everywhere, but she was young and very green. Kingsley was good in a fight, but most of the others were untested and inexperienced. In the meantime, Lupin was falling apart before their eyes.

Severus felt a twinge about that. He was nearly done assembling everything he needed to cure Lupin, well, or possibly to kill him.

Aye, there’s the rub, he thought with bitterness. It comes to the sticking point and his damned conscience was nagging at him. Where had the bloody thing been when he needed it? Did it even clear its dammed throat when Voldemort came a whispering? No. It was nowhere to be found, just a pale anemic thing useless to anyone. Well, until Lily had been targeted.

Lily. She was the real reason his conscience was jabbing painfully at him. Lily had cared for Lupin. They had been friends. Lily had befriended both the werewolf and the misfit boy with the big nose and the greasy hair. She had reached out to him time and again and he had been the instrument that had sealed her fate. He mustn’t let her down again.

“So Severus, do you agree?” Minerva asked suddenly and he frowned. He hadn’t heard a word of the whole discussion and she knew it. He could tell by the arch of her brow and the way her lips had twisted that she was peeved at him for his woolgathering.

“Why should I agree?” he retorted, neatly avoiding the appearance of inattention without actually agreeing to anything.

“Because if we don’t do something some of the girls will die right here at Hogwarts,” the mousy little midwife shot back at him. She was sitting across from Georgian and whilst they had appeared lately to be more at ease with each other, there was still some tension.

“I hardly think that monitoring devices in our students’ chambers will do much to save them if their spouses are determined,” Georgian sighed, making certain that Severus was brought up to speed on the discussion. His sideways glance showed concern, because Severus was rarely oblivious.

“On the other hand it might prove useful for other reasons,” Severus disagreed, suddenly seeing another use for it. The other teachers looked at him in surprise. “Should an attack come, there is always a possibility that one or more of the students might be involved. Monitoring any spells they might use could provide an early warning.” He was amused by the looks of horror and consternation on their faces. Albus merely looked thoughtful of course, but he always did that when he didn’t want you to know he’d been caught flat-footed.

“An excellent point, Severus,” Albus conceded. “We shall begin placing the objects immediately.”

Apparently that was the last item on the agenda because the staff began drifting away from the table.

“You were miles away, Severus,” Minerva murmured to him after the others had departed. “Worried about Hermione?”

Severus snorted.

“I am more concerned about Narcissa and Bellatrix, if you must know. My wife could take them both out blindfolded,” he answered with considerable pride. “As for the Parkinson cow, Hermione could dispatch her with her wand arm tied behind her back.”

“True, she is quite a formidable witch,” Albus put in.

“All the more reason to keep your wand in your sleeve,” Minerva sourly proclaimed. It took him a moment to decipher that particular comment and another moment to get over the sheer incomprehensibility of it.

“Oh really, Minerva,” Severus snarled with irritation, “one female in my life is more than enough without adding even more complications.” He wasn’t exactly a Lothario after all and Minerva’s caution was entirely unnecessary. He didn’t add that his nymphet wife was exhausting him with sexual exertions and adding another woman would very likely kill him.

“You just remember that, Severus Snape!” she scolded and he dropped his head into his arms and wondered why he had ever switched sides.


Hermione shifted in the hard wooden chair with a feeling of ill use. The library was ancient and had been designed to keep inattentive students awake and studying. It had not been set up with the needs of a very pregnant woman in mind. Cushioning charms were less than useless against the powerful enchantments laid on the furniture and she was getting rather cross.

Her ankles were swelling, despite the potions that Severus kept pouring down her throat and she was hungry all the time. Looking down at her swollen middle made her grimace. Every time she walked down the halls she felt like a parade float and the looks of disgust and pity on the faces of the other students made her sick. Other wives might be greeted with either sympathy or joy, but Snape’s wife was an outcast. She sighed, irritated by her own maudlin thoughts, and tried to pay attention to the Transfigurations parchment she was writing.

“Oi, Hermione!” Ron called out with a bright and cheerful expression. His happiness and contentment radiated out from him in waves and it made Hermione feel quite savage. There he was, married to a girl he adored and expecting his first child with cheerful goodwill and there she was, married off to someone she wasn’t even sure she really liked all that much, while expecting a child that would be rejected by everyone from birth just because of who his father was.

“Ron,” she ground out through gritted teeth, trying not to take her foul humor out on him.

“You all right there?” he asked as he dropped into a chair beside her. The look of cheer was gone now, replaced by concern for her and she felt like a monster. He was entitled to some happiness, wasn’t he? She forced a mile and nodded.

“Fine, its just that these chairs are so uncomfortable,” she replied, taking refuge in her earlier complaint.

“Yeah, I know. Luna’s been studying in our rooms, I fetch her books for her so she doesn’t have to come here,” he told her as his gaze moved around the room. Curious as to what he was looking at, she turned her head and noted the quickly averted eyes and stilled whispers as she did so.

“Don’t pay any attention, Ron,” she murmured with a feeling of extreme weariness.

“What are they looking at?” Ron asked indignantly.

“Me,” she sighed and he gave her a blank look. It was half irritating and half comforting that he obviously had no clue at all. Irritating, because his obliviousness forced her to point out the obvious to him, yet again. Comforting, because he obviously saw nothing different in her whatever her last name was.

“Why?” Ron was still looking baffled, but there was a rising anger as well as he frowned at the gossiping hens who were whispering together in one corner.

“Because I am Mrs. Snape, the poor, abused girl that has to sleep with Professor Snape.” Her voice was level and calm, but there was anger there as well. Not just for the stupid charade she was stuck in, or the misjudgments of her fellow students, but for the real tragedy of her life. While she respected Severus, admired his courage, very much enjoyed the sexual aspects of marriage to him and occasionally found likeable things in him, she did not love him. She knew that she was in a far better situation than many Muggleborns and half bloods right now, but it didn’t change the core of grief she felt every time she saw some happy couple kissing and whispering in a corner.

“That’s just mental,” Ron grumbled and Hermione was brought back abruptly to the present moment.

“Is it?” she asked him with more patience than she had thought she had in her.

“Well yeah, you’d hex the balls off anyone who abused you,” he stated with absolute conviction. She looked in to the eyes of her best friend and for the first time in months felt genuinely happy. Despite everything that had happened to them Ron was unaffected by the changes in their circumstances. He hated Severus, she knew that, but he believed in her completely, trusted in her strength and competence and saw through to the heart of it all.

“I’m glad you’re my friend, Ronald Weasley,” she told him with great solemnity.

“You’re not going to go all girly on me and start blubbering are you?” he asked with an expression of alarm. Hermione couldn’t help it, despite the part she was supposed to be playing; she burst out laughing and nearly fell off of her chair.

The world might change but Ron would always be Ron.


Later that night, she curled against her husband, burrowing into him for comfort. Normally Severus would inch away from her, preferring to sleep on his side of the bed, but tonight he turned and looked at her, eyebrow raised in enquiry.

“I hated tea with the wives,” she began, “but I hated being back at Hogwarts more.”

“There is something soothing in open hostility, you know where you stand every moment,” he replied, his voice a pleasant low rumbling.

“Exactly.” She looked up at him and the moonlight playing across his face made him look younger and more vulnerable than she had ever seen him before. She knew it was an illusion brought on by the dimness of the room, but she needed to pretend for a moment. “I found that I preferred the snarling and sniping over the whispers and broken off conversations in the hallway.”

“The nice people are always the cruelest. They tell you things “for your own good” and shake their heads behind your back. The bad people are usually more honest in their dealings.” It was a flat statement, but it made Hermione shiver and snuggle even closer to him.

“You were always honest with me,” she choked out, shaken by the implications of her words, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her hard against him.

“I am not a nice person, Madam,” he whispered, savage and fierce, then he proceeded to prove it.