Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Unintentional Inveiglement	By : onecelestialbeing Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 129867 -:- Recommendations : 8 -:- Currently Reading : 29
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter and it's characters and making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 59
- 60
- 61
/N: Firstly, peace and blessings to the person who nominated my story for the 2015 SSHG livejournal fanfic awards! It was nommed best WIP (work in progress) and to say that I am pleased is a vast understatement. Talk Dirty To Me was also nominated in another category and to cast your votes just pop the mods an email at sshgficawards AT gmail DOT com and I already love you forever but I will love you beyond infinity if you take the time to vote.
Helloooo everyone I miss you! Let's see, between being snowed in, sick, and working overtime because my coworkers are delicate flowers who will met in 2 inches of snow, yours truly ends up doing doubles on the weekend and that translates into a knackered OCB for the rest of the week, an OCB who writes a few words every night and literally falls asleep at her keyboard. Trust me when I say that I write every night, but I'm not pumping out 6k at a time.
Thank you soo much everyone for the continued support and reviews! I love all my reviews, I truly do, even the ones who hate this pairing and decide to read and comment on it (why? No idea, but it amuses me) but the funniest I must say, was the last one that went something like 'I remember when you updated. Haha, not.' I was actually editing when that review came in but I laughed my little head off, so thank you :D
Please continue to beat me, throw brownies and cookies and tea in my direction, threaten me, hell do whatever it takes to encourage me to dance with the keyboard and get chapter 61 finished quickly. I already have it mentally plotted out, and 1 percent of it has already been written, but we know how that goes.
All my love to MrsHH for help with a huge chunk of this chapter. My eyes are tired so hopefully I got out all the errors but we both know that's a lie so I will be happy for the extra pair of eyes (hiiiiiiiiiiii C'sMelody!)

"There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell."
~C.S. Lewis

The pillow beneath his head was entirely too flat, and the bedsheets covering his body smelled as though they had been drenched in rain water, balled up, shoved into a dark, musty closet and forgotten about. The rest of the bedroom also held a faint odour of mildew, but even that failed to counteract the oft-experienced sensation of contentment coursing throughout his body from head to foot.
Another scent also lingered, a scent that had grown comfortably familiar to him over the past year. It was considerably more pleasant and consisted faintly of mint toothpaste and day-old shampooed hair. The source of the non-offensive aroma belonged to a young woman who was pressed sensually against his side while her soft fingertips languorously danced across his chest.
"I love you, Severus..."
Her voice trembled in the midst of that utterance, but each word sounded sure, sincere. He hadn't known how to reply, yet knew that he wanted to keep his precious one close to him for as long as possible. Her eyes shut around the same time the hand on his chest went still, and even in the midst of growing drowsy, she whispered "I love you," again, promptly falling asleep on the 'you'.
Hermione didn't have a reputation as a heavy sleeper, yet the notion could be dispelled under the right circumstances. Right now her light snores were music to his ears, because it meant that she would remain completely unaware of the short sentence being whispered into her cloud of hair.
Snape felt his eyelids growing heavy and allowed his body to gradually then swiftly fall into oblivion. His breathing soon matched Hermione's, but the sharply uttered sound of his first name immediately dragged him back to consciousness.
"Severus."
It took all of a second for Snape to realise that Hermione was no longer draped over him; she was sitting up in bed, looking perturbed as she stared at him.
"Hermione, what's wrong?"
"Severus," Hermione repeated, still sounding distressed.
"Hermione? What is it?"
"Severus, do you love me?"
Snape parted his lips to speak and was surprised to find that he was unable to. He coughed and cleared his throat multiple times to no avail. Hermione continued looking expectantly at him, sadness slowly filling her eyes when there was no forthcoming answer. Snape could not understand the reason behind suddenly losing his voice, and his frustration at not being able to verbally console his witch grew when tears began falling down her face.
Yes! Snape's mind screamed, the wizard in complete disbelief of his horrendous luck. Yes, of course I do!
Despite him reaching toward Hermione, the heartbreak on her face never faltered. The more Snape reached out the farther Hermione seemed, as though the bed was lengthening and deliberately keeping them apart. By now Hermione was crying in earnest, and she was close enough for Snape to see every teardrop, yet too far for him to console her. It still was not enough to stop him and he continued reaching toward her, clawing his way across the tangle of sheets and pillows. Whenever he drew near, the bed seemed to grow another five feet, and Snape began silently shouting for Hermione to move closer to him.
On his last attempt of touching Hermione, Snape's hand collided with something hard, causing him to bellow a loud swear.
It was odd that his voice was suddenly working; even stranger was the fact that his hand was throbbing, the pain curiously realistic for a dream. Looking down at his hand, Snape found that it looked fine. Then he looked back up and found that the room was dark and he was completely alone.

Snape shot up in bed, awakening with a gasp and in full panic mode. His nightshirt was uncomfortably damp with cold sweat and his heart thumped erratically. Snatching his wand from beneath the pillow, he frantically held it to Hermione's side of the bed, exhaling slowly when the pale light threw her face into focus. She had one fist tucked beneath her chin, much like the way babies slept, and looked angelic in her sleep, completely unaware of her bed partner's anxious state.
A dream. Just another one of my cherished, macabre dreams, Snape thought, shaking his head and mopping a hand over his face. Wincing, he found that his hand was sore as though he really had injured it. His knuckles were red and putting two and two together, Snape found that he had somehow slammed his hand into his unyielding wooden headboard.
A quick jab of his wand ended the thrumming in his hand. His heart was finally beginning to slow down, although the jolt of adrenalin kept him on edge. Inhaling deeply as he moved to lie back down, Snape found that the blankets were twisted and rumpled, as though he had fought them in the midst of his nightmare. A sliver of Hermione's foot was exposed, and Snape straightened the bedclothes on her side before fixing his own. He then kissed Hermione's forehead before settling on his pillow. Hermione's eyes opened slowly, her brow crumpling with confusion and then smoothing out in comprehension. The blankets rustled as her small hand suddenly shifted, slowly reaching out until it rested alongside Snape's head.
Placated by Hermione's unexpected gesture, Snape curled his hand around hers, smoothing his fingertips against her palm.
The young woman maintained a loose grip on her lover's hand, soon resuming slumber with relative ease. Snape, however, found it difficult to do the same. It did not matter that he was exhausted, partly from being thrust into consciousness due to his eerie dream, and mostly because he spent every minute of his waking hour stressing over everything. Clearing his mind at the end of each night was usually carried out with little to no effort, but as of late, Snape found that he had to put forth a vast amount of concentration, getting the barest of results.
Nearly three weeks passed from the day when Hermione's battered and unconscious body was unceremoniously dropped at the headmaster's feet. The majority of her black and blue bruises had faded into green and yellow, but the scars from Bellatrix's knife remained, the 'Mudblood' carving on Hermione's forearm being the worst of all. Snape feared that the damage was likely permanent, but that was hardly the most pressing issue at hand.
Snape figured Hermione would be able to speak by now. He understood that she had been through a trauma, but this forced state of silence was worrying. For a moment, Snape believe Hermione's ability of speech fettered solely by her incapacitated mind. Yet it was only hours ago when he learned that she had somehow been robbed of that means of communication.
The night Hermione was brought to Hogwarts, the soiled clothing on her back had been the only thing to accompany her. Snape had no idea where her trunk was; perhaps at the Burrow, but regardless of the Weasleys having gone into hiding, the home remained under consistent watch in case of their return. If there was any information hinting to the location of Hermione's parents, Snape figured it would be in code and perhaps among her personal belongings.
All that was still moot as Snape needed to know where Hermione's parents were as soon as possible in the event of his death. No matter what happened to him, he intended on Hermione being returned to the Grangers, that is, should they survive the outcome of the impending war. Before that could take place, he needed to have some inkling of their current location.
It didn't seem all that long ago when Hermione experienced Snape's skill set with Legilimency. It took less than a minute that morning before she went to pieces, falling out the chair and screaming for him to stop. Hermione hadn't been able to handle it, and Snape had purposely gone easy on her. To sift through her memories now in an attempt to find some memory that would lead to the location of the Grangers would undoubtedly require a more vigorous usage of the spell. Something told the headmaster that doing so would likely cause Hermione some measure of anguish, but as he was running out of time, it left him with no other option.
"Hermione," he began that evening. "I need to do something that will possibly be unpleasant for you, unpleasant for us both because the last thing I wish is to cause you further pain, but it is necessary."
It was after dinner, and the two were sharing a book. Snape read aloud to Hermione—and the cats— and she leaned into his side, listening intently while stroking the top of Loki's head. Crookshanks had taken his place on the other side of the professor, eyes closed and tail swishing about occasionally.
"It won't take long," Snape continued, setting down the book. He took out his wand and looked down at Loki. "Bugger off, you flea-ridden menace. You too, Crookshanks."
Crookshanks readily obeyed, but the black cat was well on his way to sleep and in no hurry to move. Snape then issued a threat that made Loki jump down from Hermione's lap, and he waited until both cats were gone before gently steering Hermione around to face him completely.
"Keep your eyes focused on mine," he instructed, slipping two fingers beneath her chin. Snape kept his hand in place, mindfully raising his wand with the other. The entire time Hermione gazed trustingly at him, not moving one inch out of place. Her struggle to remain calm even after Snape cried 'Legilimens!' was obvious, and two minutes into the spell being cast, Hermione began pulling away. Not wanting to break his concentration while needing to console Hermione, Snape began rubbing his knuckles along her clenched jaw.
"A little while longer, just a little," he murmured, lying through his teeth and concealing his discouragement at finding Hermione's memories in tatters. Flickers of her home and previous school life flashed by in his mind. There were a few glimpses of a forest, the drawing room of Malfoy Manor and Hermione's attack, but nothing that resembled the information he sought. Using Legilimency on Hermione was no easy feat; it was akin to watching television when it had gone fuzzy, combined with reading a tiny-print book in dim lighting. It was hard to make sense of anything, and the little that was clear lingered for less than a second.
"Nearly there, sweetheart, just keep your eyes on mine."
Hermione's unfavourable reaction to him using Legilimency on her was no surprise, yet made things no less easy for the headmaster. She kept her eyes trained on his as directed, but the expression on her face left no doubt that she wanted him to stop. Beads of sweat began forming at Hermione's temple, and her breathing became laboured. More than once she attempted pulling away from Snape, but his hand imperiously held onto her chin, keeping her head in place. His own temples began to throb, not without reason, and Snape knew that if he was experiencing discomfort, then Hermione was likely in agony.
The longer Snape held up the spell, the more Hermione resisted. She pushed at his wrist, his shoulder, and anywhere else that would make him lower his wand. Each effort was useless, and soon she began wriggling her way off the sofa. Hermione didn't get very far because Snape was immediately on his feet, snaking one arm around her waist to keep her from falling and drawing her in until their foreheads were nearly touching.
"We're almost through, Hermione," Snape fibbed again, worried that Hermione was going to hurt herself and him in the process. Magic crackled between them, and out the corner of his eye Snape caught a few books toppling from his desk. In spite of his firm grip, she continued thrashing around, and one bent knee came very close to his crotch a few times. One swift move on her part would send him down, thus inevitably causing the pair to topple to the hard stone floor.
By now, the colour had completely drained from Hermione's face, and the professor told himself that it was risky to hold up the spell for much longer, but he continued probing deeper and suddenly his vision became somewhat clearer. Things were still fuzzy but there was Hermione, having dinner with her parents and laughing over something her father said. The next scene showed the two sitting in his dimly lit chambers, Hermione barefoot and in his lap, dressed in her bra and jeans. He was still fully dressed and holding Hermione against him, her back to his chest, using one hand to caress her stomach while his lips traced along the expanse of her delicate shoulders. Snape did not mind that enjoyable yet brief walk down memory lane, but pressed on in hopes of finding something concrete that would lead to the Grangers' carefully planned disappearance.
Just as he caught a glimpse of Hermione in the back seat of a car, what looked like a well-packed bag next to her and her parents in the front seat, Hermione's body lurched sharply in his arms and her mouth opened wide yet no sound came out. It was that when moment Snape learned that she had not been speaking because she chose not to— she was literally unable to. If there was ever a time when Hermione would have screamed, right then would have been it. Her face was contorted with pain, and her fingers were clenched tightly enough around his wrist to cause bruises, and still she was silent as a church mouse.
The discomfort from Hermione's fingers digging into his hand was not enough to make Snape drop his wand. The throbbing in his temple swiftly reached unbearable heights and made him lose focus. That combined with the sight of Hermione's eyes rolling back into her head, a thin stream of blood trickling from her nose as she crumpled in his arms, sent his wand falling to the floor with a loud clatter.
Snape forgot his own pain and frustration concerning his botched attempt at Legilimency and berated his careless behaviour as he lifted Hermione to carry her to bed. Passing out caused her breathing to become steady, and there was little for him to do besides clean the blood from her face and keep the cats away. Loki had it in his feline mind that he was supposed to stretch his furry body across someone's face whenever they were lying down, and Crookshanks was likely skulking around the corner, staring beadily from his hiding place and plotting some sort of kitty revenge because Snape was responsible for his mistress's current state.
As Hermione slept off her pain Snape watched over her from an armchair, trying to ignore the guilt eating away at him. There was no denying it: he had lied to Hermione more than once, and even though the reasoning was completely altruistic, it was not enough to ignore the nasty little voice at the back of his mind pointing out that he just put a severe strain on their bonds of trust. Besides hoping that his spell had not damaged Hermione's mind further, Snape vowed that he would do whatever it took to regain her trust if needed.
The night dwindled on, as did the professor's self-loathing and self-flagellation. Those negative thoughts were further cemented when Hermione remained in a dead sleep. Snape did his best to remain awake, wanting to make sure that Hermione was fine in the event she opened her eyes, yet ended up falling asleep in his armchair. An hour later he found himself rudely thrust into consciousness by the sensation of being tickled and suffocated. After prying his eyes open and finding the source of his discomfort—Loki, curled into a ball and slumbering atop the chair behind his head, tail swishing beneath his nostrils—Snape told off the four-legged disturbance with a few quiet yet harsh words before standing up.
Looking towards Hermione, Snape saw that she had changed sleeping positions and dominated his side of the bed. The sight of her face buried in his pillow somewhat eased his worries; whenever Hermione had been alone in his bed, be it from him using the bathroom in the middle of the night or being absent due to attending a Death Eater's meeting or late night patrols, he always returned to his room to find her side of the bed empty and his freshly occupied. The first time it happened Snape assumed Hermione was being deliberately mischievous, until he told her to move and found that she was fast asleep. The next morning he asked whether she found his bed to be big enough for the pair of them, and Hermione seemed genuinely perplexed. His dry explanation that followed made her laugh, and her excuse for taking over his side was that she somehow knew he had left the bed but his scent remained and she could only smell it if she used his pillow.
Snape thought Hermione was insane and told her so, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as he threatened to send her back to the dormitory if she attempted to commandeer his bed again.
It had been a small inconvenience that Snape truly did not mind; now it was consoling to find Hermione doing something that was once typical of her normal behaviour. Some doubt remained, as he was well educated in the effects Dark Magic had on individuals, and knew that there were slim chances of complete recovery after the fact, but he fought to hold onto a glimmer of hope.
Realising that he was exhausted, Snape hastily changed into nightclothes and fell into bed next to Hermione, shifting her ever so slightly to allow him enough room. It took all of two seconds for him to succumb fully to fatigue, and his sleep was sound for an hour or so until his disturbing dream forced him awake.
He was thoroughly rattled and too wound up to even consider going back to sleep, but the feel of Hermione's soft hand in his was surprisingly enough to quell his aggravated state. Eventually his breathing matched the steady pace of Hermione's, and Snape lie awake, eyes closed yet mind running rampantly.
The last time he set foot in his lawyer's office was shortly after his mother's passing. That was close to twenty years ago and the man had been well into an advanced age then. Snape was unsure if the man still kept regular office hours or if his practice was even still in business, but decided to take the chance and send an owl.
The time it took for Snape to move from his bed and walk to the front room was greater than the time used to scrawl a short letter to his solicitor. He then sent for Dobby, and the house-elf was yawning as he popped into the room, sleepily accepting the freshly sealed rolled parchment from the headmaster before vanishing from sight.
Snape found Hermione on his side of the mattress when he returned to the bedroom. She was awake this time and had his pillow in her lap. On her face was the look of a toddler who was up well past their bedtime, yet continued to fight sleep tooth and nail as though they were going to miss something.
"Cheeky lass, this is where I sleep," Snape murmured, gesturing to the bed. "Now budge up so your man can lie down."
It took a few seconds of inflection, but Hermione gently set the pillow back into place before sliding over. Snape removed his dressing gown and left it draped over the footboard, noticing that his every movement was being watched. If Hermione had the ability to boss someone around by sight alone, then she was likely doing so now; Snape could almost hear her nagging at him, telling him to hurry up.
"I only went to send a letter," Snape explained after he was beneath the blankets and next to his witch. She wasted no time in using his chest as her pillow, throwing a foot and arm across him as though asserting her wish to keep him firmly rooted in place. "Madam gaoler, I understand that I am not to move, but will I be allowed to visit the toilet if needed? Or shall I conjure a bucket to piss into?"
Hermione's head popped up. She stared unblinkingly at Severus for a few seconds before resting her head against him. That stare was the closest Hermione could get to throwing daggers, and Snape almost found himself chuckling.
"Rest easy, Hermione. I will be at your side for the remainder of the night. Now go to sleep."
Hermione stayed in place, but Snape knew that she was still awake by the pace of her breathing.
"Are you unable to sleep now?" Silence. "Shall I read more of the book from earlier?" Hermione turned to face him and blinked. That was as good as a 'yes' and Snape shifted to sit up. The arm slung over his torso tightened its hold as Hermione thought he meant to leave again, and relaxed when he used his wand to summon the book from the front room.
"I assume your grip means my request for a bucket has been denied. No matter, I'll suffer the discomfort of a full bladder if needed."
Hermione did not respond to the quip that time. She yawned and settled her head into a position that allowed her to see the book. Snape quickly found the place where he'd left off and began reading aloud. The intent had been to ease Hermione back into a slumberous state, but Snape soon found himself growing drowsy. In less than ten minutes, the couple slept peacefully in one another's arms, their book dropped to the side and forgotten about.

"Dobby, this is much too big for Miss Granger, not to mention that it's nearly twice her height."
"Dobby is sorry, Headmaster sir, but it was the only one Dobby could find."
The tiny house-elf was standing upright on the sofa next to Hermione. He began pacing back and forth, ears twitching in a sure sign of nervousness, and Snape held up a hand for him to stop.
"This is fine, Dobby. I can shorten it a bit, it's not a problem."
"Dobby can fix it, sir!"
Snape looked down at the oversized, too-long travelling cloak in his hands and then at the overly enthusiastic house-elf. The last thing he needed was for Dobby to improperly alter the cloak and leave Hermione's legs exposed from the knee down.
"Thank you, Dobby, but I can manage. That will be all for now."
Dobby continued looking doubtful but Disapparated from the sofa when the headmaster flashed him a patented warning glance.
"You and I are going on a short errand together," Snape informed without giving further details.
Two days passed since the letter had been sent. A reply came late the night before, suggesting a midnight meeting for the next day. The unconventional time was perfect for the headmaster, and his acceptance was returned with the same owl which had accompanied Dobby to his room and waited patiently atop the elf's multiple hatted head.
It was now eleven p.m. on a Tuesday evening, and Snape was fully dressed save for his travelling cloak. Hermione was outfitted in jeans and a thick jumper that had been courtesy of Dobby. The trainers were her own, and stuffed inside were feet encased by long, knobbly bright red woollen socks that Snape suspected were knitted by the elf. A women's travelling cloak had been the only thing missing, and that task required a bit more time. The garment in Dobby's arms was much too big, but Snape ignored that in light of the circumstances.
By now Hermione was able to bathe, feed, and dress herself with minimal assistance, although Snape sometimes found himself coaxing her into finishing her dinner. Then there was the issue of Hermione starting something and then forgetting about her task halfway through; one evening after her bath, Snape found Hermione mostly dressed in her nightgown. One arm had been fully pushed through the right sleeve, yet the left was empty and hung limply at her side. That was easily dealt with, but when it came to matters of grooming, the headmaster hit a snag.
Snape approached Hermione's wayward hair with casualness, figuring that it would be a cinch to pull the bushy mass back into a plait. It took a grand five seconds before Snape realised that he was in over his head. He smoothed back Hermione's hair in nearly every direction, and tiny sections of short curls immediately sprang out, seemingly mocking his efforts. He attempted a bun, a braid, and a ponytail, each style—loosely speaking—looking more dishevelled than the previous.
"I am quite partial to your hair, Hermione," Snape began after taking a step back to survey the damage, "but I think we can both agree that I know sod all when it comes to this sort of thing."
Hermione's blinked, her face hidden beneath the riotous thicket. Snape flinched but quickly forced a straight face. All the over-handling of Hermione's hair had caused it to explode into a cloud of frizz. Trying to ignore the fact that he was the reason Hermione looked as though she'd stuck her finger into an electrical outlet, Snape did his best to think back to the many times he'd watched her wrangle each curl into submission. Unfortunately he came up blank, as Hermione would either take a shower and come to bed with her hair already plaited, otherwise she slept with it loose and complained about the knots she would have in the morning.
A little nugget of information that had been filed away suddenly made itself known, and Snape remembered the evening when he'd watched the two sisters in the Gryffindor common room. By use of a comb transfigured from a quill and a few squirts of water from his wand, he finally managed to subdue Hermione's hair with a single, passably neat plait that hung down her back.
"We're Apparating to Chester, in case you were wondering," Snape continued, arranging Hermione's braid to the side and draping the travelling cloak around her shoulders. Next he bent down at her feet and used the necessary charms to shorten it to an appropriate length. "I don't know where that damned elf found this cloak and God only knows why he thought it would fit you."
Snape wasn't daft; he never expected Hermione to answer him. All the same, he continued addressing her just like he had in the past, refusing to speak to her in a patronising tone.
"That's better," Snape announced once he was done. After putting on his own cloak and arranging its hood over his head, he did the same for Hermione. "Take my arm, Hermione. We're going to leave from here."
Hermione did as she was asked and the two left the room without further delay.

Snape's boots and Hermione's trainers made a dull crunching sound on the gravel as they made their way up a long drive. The night air was mild and a sliver of moon shone from behind a large stretch of cloud. Its pale light illuminated a large house at the top of the drive. The scent of wisteria became stronger as the two grew closer, and Snape saw Hermione staring at the purple flowers that grew over the front of the house—flowers which he strongly suspected had been maintained by magic as wisteria was known to wreak havoc on gutters and downspouts— as they waited for someone to answer the door.
"This house belongs to the solicitor who's been looking after my family's estate since before I was born," said Snape, unexpectedly. "He's semi-retired, if you will, but only sees certain clients as a personal favour. A bit odd, if you ask me, but harmless for the most part; a half-blood wizard who chose to live as a Muggle and use very little magic. I don't know how Galbraith managed that but I never cared enough to ask."
Hermione had stopped staring at the wisteria and was now looking up at Snape.
"I imagine you're tired, but I don't foresee our meeting taking very long. No one knows we're here, in case you were worried, but I expect you know that nothing is going to happen to you.
Hermione squeezed his arm and turned her head again to look at the wisteria.

There had been a time when Gerald Galbraith enjoyed waking up early six days a week to rush to his office. He sometimes enjoyed his work, even if it consistently largely of piles of paperwork that most would consider tedious. However, his career had been secure and allowed him to live quite comfortably.
Galbraith's only son had taken over some time ago, but he still personally handled a select handful of clients. His dealings with the Prince family had been far and few in between and each appointment was exactly long enough to sort their affairs. The last time Galbraith saw any of the Princes, most of his hair had just gone completely grey.
He was still a young man by wizarding standards when the parents of Eileen Prince first visited his office. Pureblooded witch and wizard, the couple stated that they wished to ensure their daughter's financial security as she was soon to be married.
Galbraith himself was a product of a Squib father and half-blood mother, although he had been raised in a mostly Muggle fashion. As a child Galbraith was given the choice of attending either a Muggle school or a wizarding school, and he opted for the former. His days were filled with regular classes, such as maths and history, and a few evenings of the week, his mother took charge of his magical education. There was no great distinction between him and his classmates; most were from the same area and their parents all had similar careers. The idea of a hierarchy existing between Muggle-born wizards, half-bloods and purebloods was a foreign concept, one that Galbraith did not become exposed to until reaching his early twenties.
One major reason owing to his success as a solicitor was that Galbraith took on Muggle and magical clients, being in full understanding of the law on either side of the fence. The politics of it all was no concern to him; Galbraith did not give a damn about his clients' personal affairs so long as they paid their fee. Nevertheless, it was rare that the man encountered highly controversial matters. People mostly came to him when they needed help settling their estates and so forth, and usually things were cut and dry.
The Princes came to him by recommendation of another client, and from the moment the couple crossed the threshold, their wealth had been somewhat obvious; custom tailored, flowing robes made from the finest materials; understated yet expensive jewellery, and a lofty air attained from being born into a privileged existence. Galbraith struggled to understand why these two had come to see him; surely someone of their stature would have a private solicitor on retainer. But after a few minutes of conversation it didn't take long for him to understand that the Princes required someone who would handle their delicate situation with the utmost discretion.
It came out that the man Eileen Prince planned to marry was a Muggle, and not just a Muggle, but a blue-collar, dirty-fingernailed manual labourer. The Princes were not one of the wealthiest families, but they were far from being paupers and eschewed mingling with those beneath them. Therefore the renown couple could not understand how their daughter managed to fall for a commoner, and they went so far as to purposely keep the two apart, which only served in driving them closer together.
From the start Galbraith knew that the Princes did not approve of their daughter's intended, and suspected that they had disowned the young woman. A romantic by nature, Galbraith felt his heart clench at the thought of having a daughter and turning her away out of spite, purely because he did not agree with her choice of life partner. So long as the young woman was happy and cared for by her other half, he saw no reason for resorting to drastic measures. He'd had to come back to earth and remind himself that this was someone else's life, not his own, and gave away nothing of his shock as he began going through the motions of securing a trust for the Prince girl.
That day was the first and last time that Galbraith personally conducted business with the Princes. If there had been more to discuss, it was done by owl post. A few times over the years Galbraith wondered what ever became of the Prince girl. His answer arrived unexpectedly a little over twenty-five years later.
Eileen Snape barely had time to introduce herself, much less utter a word, and still Galbraith knew who she was. Never had he met anyone who remotely resembled the a member of the Prince family, and Eileen's black hair and cold, black eyes that stared straight through you immediately told on her parentage.
Eileen's features seemed to be her only connection to her parents; her mannerisms lacked the distinct grace which the Princes displayed, and her dress—an unflattering, shapeless frock in a depressing shade of grey—was surprisingly shabby, a shock when Galbraith recalled her parents' immaculate robes. The back of Eileen's dress needed to rehemming, and there was a missing button on the front, a loose thread in its place. As she dropped down into the chair opposite his desk, clutching onto a faded leather handbag, she turned to look out a window before turning back to stare at Galbraith.
"Eileen Snape, formerly Eileen Prince. You know who I am," she began bluntly, dismissing Galbraith's offers of coffee, tea, or water. Again, she turned to look out the window, and at the same time Galbraith's nose picked up the unmistakeable scent of a freshly lit Benson and Hedges. "I've a son to look after. I need the money my parents left me."
Galbraith wondered who had the gall to stand next to his personal window and indulge in a smoke, but from his disadvantaged angle the only thing he could see was a the shadow of a figure slumped against the bricks, attached to it a hint of long black hair and two thin fingers holding onto the cigarette.
In spite of Eileen's less-than-impressive appearance, (Galbraith also noticed that she looked unwell) her speech was clear, concise, and full of conviction. Moreover, while she looked as though she had been borne into unfortunate circumstances, her accent retained the hint of nobility left over from her childhood. Upon being given Eileen's current address in order to send the funds, Galbraith noticed that she resided in the North, and he wondered if she had purposefully made sure not to pick up the distinct brogue associated with the area.
Once Galbraith hashed out the details between the Muggle bank and Gringott's, as well as the time and day when the monies would be delivered, Eileen indicated that the meeting was over with a jerky nod of her head. The entire exchange only lasted ten minutes or so and her departure was as abrupt as her arrival. Once Eileen had gone, Galbraith was left with a sense of disconcertment, unsure if she had truly visited. Even though she hadn't been the one smoking, the only reminder of her presence was the lingering scent of cigarettes, and Galbraith spent the next fifteen minutes rehashing his odd client's visit minutes and airing out his office.
The cheque was sent and cleared, and Galbraith never spoke to the woman again. A year later, the news of Eileen Snape's death had swiftly reached his desk, and the reason for her lone visit suddenly made sense. A week later, Galbraith sent notice to Eileen's last living relative—her only child— to let him know that he was now a homeowner. Three days after the missive was sent, the male spitting image of Eileen Snape showed up at his office.
The older man calculated that the illustrious last living line to the Snape and Prince family was between the ages of eighteen and twenty. Long black hair—Eileen's hair—hung to the young man's shoulders and in his eyes. He wore a long-sleeve buttoned shirt that had seen better days—perhaps an attempt at dressing properly for the meeting—yet seemed an odd fashion choice considering the unseasonably warm weather. While Severus easily maintained that surly, aloof disposition that was synonymous with young men, it was weariness in his eyes that told the story of someone who had experienced far more than their fair share of grief in life.
Severus' eyes darted around the office as he drew closer, bringing with him the scent of stale cigarettes and an aura of difference. As was customary, Galbraith offered his client a refreshment. Just like his mum, Severus declined; instead he reached behind his ear, producing a cigarette and absentmindedly twirling it between his thin fingers. Galbraith politely offered a light while secretly hoping that he would say no; the scent of fags was notorious for lingering and seemed to stick to paper like glue, not to mention the draperies and upholstery. That offer was also turned down and after that, Galbraith got right down to business.
Severus showed no sign of emotion when condolences were extended, or any surprise at the news of being left his mother's house. "Yep," was all he said, giving away that he was not a man of many words. He fell silent again, slouching back in the leather armchair and folding both arms across his chest. One pale hand moved briefly to flick away the stringy strands that concealed all but his long nose, and he stared at the older man with a somewhat defiant expression.
Galbraith foolishly assumed Severus had something to say, but a tense moment of silence was the only thing to follow. Normally Galbraith would have called in his secretary to dig through the file cabinets that held an ungodly amount of folders, but he did it himself, grateful for the excuse of moving from beneath the young man's uncomfortable hawk-like stare that was enough to unnerve even the most stalwart of persons.
Once Severus signed the appropriate papers and left his office, Galbraith experienced that same unsettled feeling he'd been met with on the day he met Eileen.
Galbraith was quite sure that he would never again meet Severus Snape. While the young man had been hadn't exactly been rude, his standoffish behaviour made it clear that he wanted to be anywhere but a solicitor's office. So when an owl bearing a terse message—'I have an urgent matter that requires your attention at your earliest convenience. SS'—was delivered late one night just as he was about to turn in for bed, Galbraith had to sit down for a moment to recover from shock.
On the evening of the planned visit, Galbraith told his wife Marjorie that she could go to bed, he would be up in a few was enough for Marjorie to know that her husband would be receiving one of his special clients. She merely planted a kiss atop his head, giving firm orders that he not stay up too late before puffing her way across the room.
It was just before midnight, a time during which Gerald would typically find himself comfortably donning pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers. Because he was expecting clients, in place of nightclothes he wore a waistcoat, corduroys, and a checked shirt. A pair of brogues made a soft tapping sound on the floor as he paced back and forth, slipping on a tweet jacked and adjusting his cravat as his clients were to arrive soon.
"Come in, come in," he beckoned politely, opening the front door after noticing the silhouette of his tall guest through the glass. The man stepped inside, and Galbraith gave away nothing of his shock at the man's appearance. What more was that he had not come alone, a fact that had been left out of their previous correspondence.
Galbraith caught himself for a moment; the words 'Christ, I forget how much you look like your mum' were on the verge of slipping from his mouth when Severus stepped into the softly lit foyer. The wizard's austerity seemed to have remained constant; Galbraith would daresay he looked older, although that was possibly due to whatever thing responsible for the deep stress lines etched into his forehead.
The older man tore his gaze away from the imposing figure of Severus Snape long enough to notice his female companion, who was dressed in a cloak much too big for her petite frame and clutched onto his arm. She looked younger, perhaps no older than twenty, but like the professor her eyes also spoke of horrors, the sort a person wished to never again speak of.
"May I offer you a cup of tea before we begin? Or perhaps something stronger?" Galbraith enquired, feigning ignorance to the view of Snape standing directly in front of his partner, speaking softly to her while pushing the hood away from her face and tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
"That won't be necessary, thank you."
Galbraith wasn't at all surprised. With all pleasantries out the way, he led the two to the back of the house and into his office.
"So what can I do for you, Mister Snape?" the man asked once he was seated behind his desk.
Snape removed his partner's cloak before steering het into the left chair opposite the desk, waiting until she was seated before removing his cloak and sitting in the right chair.
"Should something happen to me, I would like to bequeath my entire estate to her."
Severus' words had no emotion, as though he hadn't just mentioned his death and willing all his personal belongings to another. Galbraith felt mildly perturbed and glanced over at the young woman, who remained unaffected as though she hadn't heard Severus' mention of leaving everything to her.
"Very well. And what are we speaking of, monies? Property? And are they in the Muggle world or wizarding?"
"Everything I own and both; rather, the house my mother left to me is in the Muggle world, and I have banks accounts in each. Will that be a problem?"
"Not at all, and should a bit of red tape arise, I know how to cut around it. When did you need the papers drawn up?"
"Immediately. Tonight, actually." Severus paused to peer at his companion. "I understand this is short notice but I assure that you will be handsomely recompensed."
"That won't be necessary," Galbraith replied, shaking his head. "As I remember there is a spell to help with such things, but I do hope you will forgive my shoddy wandwork. It's been some time since I've used my wand, much less touched it." Galbraith slid back in his chair and pulled open a desk drawer, withdrawing a slender length of pale wood. Ah, might I be so bold as to make a suggestion?" He waited to see whether Snape would agree or decline, and continued speaking when the man nodded his head. "Two wills, Muggle and magical, both of which will cover you on every front in case the validity of either are questioned."
"That is fine."
The first will was written swiftly, as Galbraith was able to put the majority of it into words using just his wand. He had to pause to make sure Hermione's name was spelled correctly, and complimented her on having such an unusual moniker, asking if her parents were lovers of Shakespeare. It looked as though she smiled a bit at that comment, but it was hard to tell. The process of Severus signing everything went much faster, and when it was time for Hermione to sign with a Muggle ink pen and a specialised quill used only for magical signatures, his hand guided hers until each designated area was filled in.
"Well that's that," Galbraith sighed once they were through. Severus had already tucked his copy of the documents into an inner pocket and was standing up to help Hermione back into her cloak. "Mister Snape..."
Severus slowly turned to look at him.
"I know it's none of my business," Galbraith began, feeling somewhat foolish for what he was about to ask yet unable to hold back, "but when someone comes into my office on such short notice and leaves their partner everything they own, it does make one wonder. Have you fallen ill?"
"You can say that," Snape answered, reluctantly. His fingers were at the clasp on Hermione's cloak, and his movements slowed considerably.
"I am sorry to hear that," Galbraith replied with utmost sincerity. "I know our relationship is purely professional, but if there is anything else I might help with, please let me know." He paused to look at the framed picture on his desk; he and Marjorie were in their twenties when the picture was taken. She was on his back, arms clutched around his neck, and they were both laughing at the camera. "I've been in this line of work for a long time, and I've met so many who would have all their earthly possessions buried with them if it were possible. Or if they did leave their things to someone, it came with conditions. I suppose this is my roundabout way of saying that it's a pleasant change to conduct business with a selfless person."
"You give me too much credit. Miss Granger's need for survival eclipse the need for my own, and I have to know that she will be able to look after herself," Snape replied dismissively. "Besides, it's not as though I can take it with me."
"Point taken." Galbraith nodded. "But all the same to you; good luck. I hope to see you again." He watched as Snape took longer than was necessary to fasten the frog clasp on Hermione's cloak. His body seemed to sag just a bit, as though conceding to some unpleasant fate, and he appeared regretful in that understated way of his, but quickly Snape shook off whatever crossed his mind and turned to face Galbraith.
"Apologies for calling at such a late hour," Snape offered tersely, wanting to tell the older man that their crossing paths again was highly unlikely but telling himself that there was no point to it. "We'll show ourselves out. Goodnight."
There was an underlying resigned tone to Snape's words, and for some inexplicable reason it made Galbraith sad. "Look after yourself," he called out, dropping all formal pretence.
Snape nodded his head and placed his hand on the young woman's shoulder, guiding her to the office door. Moments later there was a loud cracking sound, what Galbraith remembered Apparition sounded like, and he knew the two had gone.
Marjorie was in bed already, although Gerald knew that she was likely sitting up, a book in her lap as she waited for her husband. Galbraith untied his cravat, unbuttoned his jacket and draped it round the back of his chair. He allowed himself five more minutes of sitting in the dimly lit quiet of his study, staring into space and wondering if he would in fact see Eileen Snape's son again.
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Unintentional Inveiglement