I – ACT I
In which there is a wedding, a scar, some bickering, and a consummation.

The owl broke the orange juice pitcher.

It's funny, what a brain remembers. Hermione remembered the breaking glass most vividly, the sticky sweet juice splashing over the whole table, soaking into the checked linen tablecloth. The owl was tawny and dispassionate, bearing a tiny golden tag around its ankle which bore the Ministry seal. In its beak was The Letter.

The letter that changed her whole life, and she remembered the orange juice. What an odd, cracked place her mind was. Blisteringly intelligent, capable of recalling facts with incredible detail, and what she remembered was thinking The juice will stain the tablecloth.

She didn't even use her wand. Some old, deeply-seated Muggle habits reared within her, shutting down her mind and putting it on autopilot; she mopped it with a dish towel, fussing and murmuring to herself while Harry and Ron pored over the letters. Wasn't that just rich—Harry and Ron making the decisions, as usual, while Hermione took a back seat and took care of practical things. Heavens knew the boys didn't care about juice or stains or tablecloths. The whole house would fall apart into shambles if it wasn't for her and Kreacher.

It wasn't until Harry snapped at her—"Leave it, Hermione! Scourgify!"—that Hermione realized what a nitwit she was being.

She tipped the owl and gave him a bit of buttered toast, in a last ditch effort to not look at The Letter. Because she knew what it would say. She wasn't being cowardly, she was merely postponing a restatement of the facts.

It would be a very official letter. Full of very strong language, like Maintaining the Wizarding lineage and Making sacrifices for the betterment of our history. Oh it would be a very strongly worded letter. She would know: she had written some of it. She had been the one to draft this wretched ordinance, to remind the Minister that this law did in fact already exist. Law #241 of the Wizengamot.

If at any point in time, whether by a great plague, war, suffering, or impotence, the wizarding line begins to falter, then Law #241 shall be carried out. Any and all remaining purebloods or halfbloods shall be married to any Muggle born witches or wizards, with the intent of bearing a single healthy child. That child will become a Ward of the Ministry if unwanted by the couple, and become enrolled in a magical school of the Ministry or parent's choosing.

Oh yes, a strongly worded letter indeed.

And it would have her name at the top. Hermione Jean Granger, Order of Merlin, First Class. And at the bottom would be a little line that said …will be wed to:

And there would be a name.

They needed to be male, of wizarding lineage, and capable of creating children. That's it. Those were the only stipulations. You need to have nice sparkly clean blood, because you're getting shackled to a mudblood after all, and you need to be able to impregnate her.

The Ministry required the birth of one healthy child. That was it. After that, you could divorce happily and get married to whomever you wished. You could even give up the child and say, "Here! I don't want this horrid thing that you forced me to conceive with a stranger! Give it to some unlucky wizarding family who can't bear children! And then throw it in a school so it won't blow up half the world!"

"Hermione," Harry had said quietly, looking at her over the rims of her glasses. "You...you're safe."

She trembled.

"I'm safe?" she repeated, her voice sounding very shrill to her own ears. "Why? It—it can't be Ron."

Their gazes flicked to Ron nervously, habitually. The tips of his ears reddened and he scowled deeply; Hermione knew he didn't like to be reminded. He was partly the reason why Law #241 needed to be put into action. The War had left him, and many other young males, incapable of conceiving children. It couldn't be Ron, and he would have been her only salvation. It would be Draco or Crabbe or some other equally horrible pureblood who would wear her as an accessory and force her to carry their child.

"It's not Ron," Harry had said quietly, and he took off his glasses to rub his eyes. "It's Snape."

The world was suddenly filled with the noise of a very loud marching band. All brass horns and loud drums, and they filled up Hermione's mind until she thought her skull would burst, and her brains would leak out her ears, and there would be blood as well as juice staining the tablecloth.

"Snape." She repeated. Apparently she was only capable of parroting whatever Harry said.

"Yeah."

She lurched forward and snatched the letter from his hands, ignoring the hiss of pain from her best friend—the parchment sliced straight through his fingers, cutting him deeply, but she ignored it.

Her eyes found the hateful little line at the bottom of the page.

…will be wed to: Severus Tobias Snape, Order of Merlin, Second Class.

She read the line over and over again. Snape. Snape. Of all people. Of all…

"I'm safe," she said at last, her voice hollow and brittle, like finely spun Elvish glass. Completely unconvinced. "Yes. Snape won't hurt me."

Hermione looked at Harry, eyes blazing quietly, as if to impress upon him just how ridiculous those words sounded out loud.

"He won't!" Harry insisted, getting to his feet. "You saved his life, Hermione!"

"Oh yes, and that formed such an unmistakable bond of friendship," Hermione spat back, bitter and taunting, "Oh yes, we're the best of chums, Harry, didn't you know? We pop off to the pub every Friday so we can have a drink and talk about the good old days!"

Her voice was full of spiderweb cracks and her eyes were glossy with tears. Any minute now she was going to break down and cry like a complete and utter female, and of course, Harry and Ron would stare at her for a long moment and then try to mop her off the floor, because their sensible Hermione was having an utter meltdown like a toddler deprived of their favorite toy.

It was with this image in mind that she steeled herself and tilted her head back. She blinked hard and sniffed as discreetly as she could, determined not to let the boys see her as a crying, useless girl.

She folded up the letter.

"I'm sorry." She had said, very quietly, very coolly. "I need a moment. If you'll excuse me—"

And so she had fled, the letter being crumpled in her little red fist as she ran towards her bedroom to have a nice long cry, like a child.

Which had led to here. And now. She was wearing an old musty white wedding dress that had been supplied by the Ministry, which fit her perfectly and yet not well at all. Her mother had been horrified and delighted, thrown into an absolute tizzy about her darling daughter getting married, and Hermione wouldn't have told them at all, except she was going to be pregnant quite shortly and facing some very awkward questions soon. So she had explained to them, in great detail, and this was a Very Important Thing To Do, that it was her Duty To The Ministry, and all that.

So she didn't get married in her mother's wedding dress, like she had always imagined. And her father didn't walk her down the aisle. She simply stood in the middle of an empty room, wearing a white dress that had been tailored for her specifically and yet didn't fit her one bit because it was strange and alien and not her mother's.

Her parents sat in small folding chairs, holding each other's hands and crying because their daughter was getting married, even though it was odd and uncomfortable and completely all wrong. The Ministry Official was a grey-haired woman with an iron grimace and a thick black book in her hands.

Snape, of course, was all in black.

He was every inch the old Professor she remembered. Tall, his hair long and lank and curtaining unforgivingly sharp features. His full lower lip was curled perpetually into a sneer, and that nose. Goodness. Hawkish, aloof, cold and unimpeachably arrogant, that was her old Potion's professor. Her husband, shortly.

Her mind did a very funny little somersault at the idea of calling him husband.

"Please take her hand," the official said crisply. Hermione looked up at Severus and they made eye contact for the first time.

Black eyes. Narrowed by his thick, expressive eyebrows which had a furrow between them. After an odd beat, he held out a hand and Hermione accepted with equal reluctance.

His hands were cool and calloused and not at all what she expected. She didn't even know what she did expect. It wasn't as if she had fantasies about holding hands with Snape and skipping through the park—and heaven help any poor soul who did. But of course, her logical mind said matter-of-factly, his hands would be cool because he's in the dungeons all the time, and calloused because he works so hard at potions. Not to mention those bumpy callouses are definitely from holding a wand, and he's quite the expert Dark Wizard, don't you remember that nice bit of spellwork where he cut off George's ear?

"…Hermione Granger?"

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

The official harrumphed. "I said, do you take Severus Tobias Snape to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," she said, much too quickly, "of course I do."

"And do you, Severus Snape, take Hermione Jean Granger to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

There was another uncomfortable beat, and if Hermione had been looking into Snape's eyes just then, she would have seen those obsidian eyes narrow with anger and frustration.

"Yes. I do."

"Then by the power vested in me, under orders of the Ministry, I pronounce you husband and wife, and in compliance with Law #241." She snapped the book shut decisively, and then flicked her wand. Strong, glowing white bonds wrapped around their hands, flickering around each finger and unifying together into a single pure knot.

"You may now kiss the bride," the official nudged.

Hermione looked up at him again, and she didn't see anger or frustration or helplessness, simply an unfathomable gaze. Oh, of course—she was the emotional one. Not him. Not Snape, the mighty mountain, the lonely island, the unconquerable castle.

Swept up in rightful determination and anger, Hermione stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his tight lips. It was chaste. It could almost be described as sisterly, or daughterly or—

Or childish.

"You'd better get used to kissing me, Professor," Hermione said, unable to help herself.

Those black, inscrutable eyes gave no sign of emotion. "Excuse me," he said to the official, never once breaking Hermione's gaze, "is there anything in the law which requires a kiss?"

"Only during the wedding ceremony," the official replied evenly.

"Then no, Miss Granger, I don't think I shall get used to it."

She should have felt wounded. He obviously intended the words to hurt, barbed and acidic as they were. But instead she felt something akin to relief sweeping through her like a strong October wind; he had the same tone in his voice whenever he reluctantly called upon her in class. He berated the brighter students, and she couldn't say anything when she was in school because she was a child, but now they were both adults, and both married, and she could say whatever she pleased. He obviously intended to scare and hurt, but that was for children, and not for young women.

"You'll get used to it, if I happen to like kissing you," Hermione replied pertly, with enough ice to rival Snape's own frost, "which I can't say is too much to my liking. I practiced on pillows growing up and they were much more enthusiastic then whatever little farcical display you just showed."

There was some sort of emotion there. Perhaps anger? Perhaps sympathy? Or pity, because she only now realized she admitted to practicing kissing her pillow. Did he practice when he was a teenager as well—No. She wouldn't picture Snape as a teenager.

"Then we're both in agreement," Snape said softly, "Kissing shall not be allowed."

"I didn't say it wasn't allowed," Hermione snapped back, all sass and spitfire, "I simply said it was a pathetic display. If you want to kiss me in the future you'll have to put a little backbone into it. I've kissed a number of men and even that thuggish McLaggen was more invested than you, and I'm fairly certain he's queer."

And with that, she took her husband by the hand and marched him out of the little room, heading towards the street. She paused only long enough to give her parents a sympathetic, frustrated glare, and then Apparated before they could say a word of protest.

They were in her little flat. It was odd, having tall, impetuous Snape taking up so much space in her modest little home. He skulked around the corners of the room and his cloak flared behind him whenever he moved; he was like a hook-nosed shadow with a scowl and a sneer. She flounced past him, taking off her earrings on the way by, heading towards her room. Her hair, the wild, untamable bramble that it was, had been pinned back with little mother-of-pearl clasps, and she unpinned these with the greatest of care.

"Professor," she called from within her bedroom, "Are you going to stand in my kitchen all day?"

There was silence, and then the unmistakable click of his deliberate boots against the floor. How odd to have another man walking upon her floor. She hadn't dragged man home to her flat since—well. Since that one bloke at the bar, who had smelled very nice and worked for a paper company, and had been squeamish about going down on her until she agreed to get on her knees for him first.

Needless to say, for all of her brains, Hermione did not consider herself an expert in choosing men to have flings with.

He stood in her doorway, filling every inch of it, those hooded black eyes sweeping contemptuously over her belongings. She had kicked off her pumps and stood even shorter, standing there in her bedroom struggling to unzip herself. That stupid, fiddly, wrong dress had a tiny zipper and thousands of buttons. Doubtless it was supposed to come off with magic, but Hermione wasn't about to give the stupid thing the satisfaction. No, she was going to unzip it like a muggle and burn it in the fireplace, where it deserved to be ruined.

"Could you help?" Hermione said bossily, impatiently, turning around and showing her back. She missed another blazing look from Professor Snape—full of frustration and helplessness and anger, once again—but he crossed the room without complaining and began making quick work of the buttons.

It sent an odd little chill up her spine to be undressed by a man who used to terrorize her in front of a class full of students. Actually it was odd to be undressed at all. Come to think of it, nobody had ever undressed her before. Not even Ron; they'd simply tumbled into bed in a frenzy of disrobing and Hermione had ruined a perfectly good skirt during what wasn't even a real relationship. It had just been a terrifying bundle of nerves and the threat of death and the fear of dying alone and a virgin.

Once her long, lovely back was exposed (although since Hermione did not spend great amounts of time studying her back in the mirror, she neither knew it's length nor it's loveliness), the dress was cast aside.

She stood in her silk shift, aware that her bra and undies could be seen through the clinging material, and folded her arms across her chest. "Right," Hermione said firmly, "so, we need to have a talk."

To his credit, Snape never took his eyes off her face. "We do." He agreed.

She sat down on the bed quite primly, arms still folded. "Thank you, I suppose," she said at long last, "for requesting me. Kingsley told me that you sent in a form not two days before the letters were owled."

"You were slated to be married to Draco," Severus said, somewhat hoarsely. "You were much closer in age and in temperament—I did it by request. It was not my decision."

"Well," she said, waffling a little, "thank you, anyway, whoever's decision it was. If I had been married to Draco—"

She paused here, thinking about all the horrors Draco would undoubtedly inflict upon her for the horrible crime of being born from muggle parents.

"—he would have died," she said finally, eyes fierce, "and I'm sorry to say that because I know he's your godson, and you're very fond of him—"

"Not at all," Snape interrupted.

"—but yes, there's no doubt in my mind I would have murdered him before we ever consummated our wedding. Which brings us to the point I wanted to discuss with you. We need to consummate this marriage, you know."

His eyes flashed. "I was aware of this, yes."

"So. I realize you're quite a bit older than me, which works out nicely I suppose, because then these will be much shorter sessions. But I've already taken the liberty of creating an ovulation chart so we can track this with some degree of finality, and be as accurate as possible. We can maximize our chances of success with a few contraceptive potions, I thought I would allow you to brew your choosing, that way you can verify its strength and quality."

She said all of this with a very businesslike air, bestowing the last sentence upon him as though it were a magnanimous gift.

"Why thank you for such an honor," Snape sneered, picking up on her pious tone. "And thank you for that rash, childish judgment on my stamina. I won't defend myself as clearly you are the expert here."

How did he make a compliment sound so insulting? Her lips pursed and she stood, hands at her sides, balled into fists. "Look! Your snipes and snaps and sarcasm are not appreciated, and I will thank you for taking this seriously! Obviously, being older and a man, this is more your domain, I was merely expressing—"

"Excuse me," he broke in, taking a step forward, "My domain? The bedroom is my domain?"

His tone and that invasion of space instantly informed her that she'd made a grievous mistake, and she backpedaled quickly. "Of course not, it's just, you're older, of course, so you'd be more experienced and whatnot, so of course, I mean, you'd take the lead, obviously, I mean, of course."

"Of course," he repeated snidely, slowly, taking seemingly great pleasure in her frustration. She colored hotly.

"Stop…stop this!" She insisted, her voice perhaps more squeaky than she'd like. "I have a chart. I have planned sessions—"

"Sessions," he echoed, lip curling, packing utter derision into those two syllables.

"—yes, sessions, and I'd like it very much if you stopped bullying me like a child! I'm twenty four years old, Professor, and you're my husband, as well as a member of the Order, and a decorated war hero! I'd like to go five minutes without you snarling at me and making me feel as though I ought to be carted off to detention!"

He surveyed her for a very long moment, his eyes half downcast. That inscrutable expression was on his face once more, and Hermione desperately wondered if she'd ever know what was going on inside his head. After a long moment, his hands rose and Hermione couldn't stop her flinch—she assumed he'd reach for her.

As if reading her mind (of course he could read her mind, he was an Occlumens, obviously) he smirked, and merely loosened his cravat. He unpinned it and then tossed it on the bed after a moment, revealing a triangle of smooth skin at the base of his throat. Above that, she could see three thick, pockmarked scars where Nagini had bitten him twice.

"I have my work," he said, unbuttoning his frock coat purposefully and then rolling up the sleeves of his black dress shirt, "and my potions, which occupy a good deal of my time. My nights are typically spent reading, writing, or brewing. Doubtless you have plenty of work which shall otherwise keep you busy."

"Yes," she said, relieved to be discussing things like rational adults. "Yes, I work at the Ministry usually, although I dabble at Hogwarts to teach Charms every so often."

"Excellent," he said flatly, and knelt to unlace his shoes, "So it's settled. Our lives shall be spent remarkably similar to previously, save for the sessions—" so much contempt, so much bitterness, damn his eyes, may they rot in his skull, "—which shall be conducted either at my house or your apartment."

"Lovely," Hermione said brightly, getting into it now. "So should we create a schedule? Equally divided between your place and mine? And—"

"Which of course," he strode forward, overriding her, "does not settle the question of tonight. Or rather, this afternoon."

"I haven't had a chance to make a contraceptive," Hermione said uncertainly.

He pulled a small vial from his pocket. "Slytherins," he said quietly, exuding the charm of a particularly well-fed cat faced with a delicate grilled canary, "don't go charging off into things unprepared."

She frowned, but didn't rise to the bait. "We can debate House qualities another time," she said firmly, and plucked the vial from his hands. She uncorked it and swallowed it in two long gulps, then pulled a face. "Ugh," Hermione groaned, shaking her head. "It tastes morbid."

"Of course it does. It has the blood of innocents and the bones of children. Did you learn nothing in my potions class?" Snape said dryly. Hermione squinted at him.

"You're going to pull something, reaching for those jokes," she retorted. "The bitterness is from the peppermint, no doubt, because there's quite a lot of it in here. You used the old recipe? The one from 1425? That should be nearly instantaneous, shouldn't it?"

"Nearly," Snape replied.

The Gryffindor closed the space between them. She wanted to put a hand on his chest, or touch his elbow or his face, or let him know somehow that she was a person, not a student. The slender Gryffindor grew suddenly grave, and for a moment she looked like a much older woman, someone much, much closer to Severus in age; he could see, in that instant, what she would look like in her middle age, and it was a rather unappealing picture. This graver, quieter Hermione looked…

Defeated.

As though that endlessly turning brain had simply just shut off.

"I'm not going to let you hurt me," Hermione said, more quietly. "And I trust you. That's why I rescued you, in the Shrieking Shack. Because you were—you are—a good man. And I know you won't hurt me. You wouldn't be causing such a fuss unless this bothered you quite a bit."

"It does bother me," Snape said lowly, "because you are a child."

She reached for him, then, and cocked an eyebrow. There she was again, twenty four and hotly determined and her sable colored eyes sparkling with temper. Her hand flattened against his chest. "I'm not," she said, very deliberately, and unbuttoned one of his shirt buttons, "a child. I've fought in a war and lobbied for laws and gotten an Order of Merlin, and I've spoken at rallies and I've loved two men in my whole life and I've fucked a good number of them. I'm not a student of yours, Severus, I'm a grown woman who can make her own mistakes."

His eyes were very dark, and he said nothing.

"So please, Severus. Please. We're not going to hurt each other. Don't you see?"

He didn't.

She sighed, and then turned away from him. "If we refuse to consummate the marriage, they'll give us different spouses. I'll go to Draco, you'll go to some other appropriately aged muggleborn woman, and you'll have to hash it out with her. And God…" her voice broke a little, "God only knows what would happen to me. He's a coward, Draco is, and he'd just—"

Hermione made a vexed, helpless gesture. "We're between a rock and a hard place. And I'm very sorry. This isn't easy for either of us."

She was very pleased with herself at that moment, with all her maturity and wisdom. This point had come up during vetting and Hermione had made a similar argument then. What else was there to do? Simply cross their fingers and wait and see if people had more children? It was doubtful.

He cleared his throat, disrupting her thoughts. "Take your slip off."

She blinked, and turned back around. "I'm sorry?"

He had drawn himself up to his full height, and he rolled up his cuffs with an air of awful finality. "The slip," he commanded, "Off."

Of course, well, obviously he'd made up his mind. Uncertainly, Hermione pulled the silk thing over her head and laid it on the dresser, hoping it wouldn't wrinkle or crumple. She stood there, in her unmatching bra and knickers (green bra, black knickers) and wondered what on earth she should do.

Right. Well, she probably ought to get him out of his waistcoat and trousers.

She reached for him with the intent of unbuttoning him but he pushed her away, somewhat roughly, and she only had a split second to give him a scandalized expression before she fell back against her down comforter with a poof. In an instant she popped up on her elbows and opened her mouth to snap at him, to tell him that he was acting very superior, all things considered.

But her words were cut off, and her mouth closed with a snap, because Severus Snape was on his knees between her parted legs, and oh GOD what was happening?

The breadth of his narrow shoulders spread her knees apart and she automatically raised her legs—those wide, cool hands settled her thighs on top of his shoulders. She quivered at the hot, damp breath between her legs and squeezed her knees together involuntarily, but those strong hands kept her pinned.

"Professor," she began, her voice high and warbling, "You really don't need—"

He ignored her and laved at her sex behind the thin cotton layer of knickers. Slow, purposeful, deliberate strokes, and Hermione had her hands fisted in the bed sheets, completely bewildered. Her old Potion's professor was going down on her, with great skill and enthusiasm, and the whole scenario was too bizarre for words.

His teeth nipped at her through the cloth and she squeaked, the blood thundering through her head. He was still mouthing her through the fabric, as though her knickers represented some sacred line which couldn't be crossed, but he'd only been down there a minute and Hermione was already about to tear his hair out.

"P-Professor," she began, her voice much too breathy, "j-just—"

He snagged the elastic with one finger and pulled it down sharply, and she bent her knee obligingly; within moments her knickers dangled off one ankle like a lewd flag on a ship. The H.M.S. Orgasm, Captain Snape at your service.

Now that hot, wicked, skilled tongue went to work and Hermione couldn't even hear herself think. One bizarre thought, unfettered, floated through her mind—tongue-lashing—and she nearly giggled. Perhaps she did. Quite drunkenly. Her head fell back amid the downy pillows and her toes curled because it was like a bullet, rushing through her, making her lightheaded and dizzy; she could feel it in the very soles of her feet, cresting like the sunrise over a great hill.

It was all lips and teeth and tongue and she couldn't even feel anymore, or perhaps she could, but too much of it—she shuddered powerfully and made a strangled, mewling noise, perhaps like a sob, perhaps like an exultation, she had no idea. She realized suddenly that she had one hand curling through his hair, and released him quickly, choosing instead to bite her fist to keep herself from crying out.

He stroked her once with two fingers, top to bottom, and she thrashed with the overstimulation. He did it again, apparently enjoying her sensitivity, and she let out a little cry despite the fist in her mouth.

Severus got to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gazing down at Hermione as though he'd prepared a particularly complicated potion, with no help from her: that is to say, even-tempered, expressionless, and perhaps a hint of smugness.

"You didn't," Hermione said raggedly, "You—"

"Yes," Severus said flatly, and there wasn't nearly enough conceit in his tone. If anything, he sounded quite tired and almost bored. "It was necessary."

She was dripping with sweat. She was fairly certain the puddle between her thighs would ruin her comforter. Her hair was matted in the back and Hermione felt slightly cross-eyed, but there was a checks and balances to these things; she knew that much. Hermione propped herself up on her elbows, hoping Severus would overlook the little roll of baby fat still on her untoned stomach, and then sat up.

"Let me—" she started to say, pushing herself off the edge of the bed.

"No."

He was very certain about that. After a moment, he wiped his mouth again, almost compulsively, and then pulled his wand from his pocket. "Nox."

The lights went out, and the curtains were drawn quickly. The whole room was plunged into semidarkness, and Hermione felt her eyes slowly adjust. There was a rustle of fabric and she could see his chest now, so very pale and nearly luminous in the dim light. His tattoo stood out in sharp, sinuous relief, and Hermione wanted very badly to have him put a glove or a sleeve on, so that hateful snake wouldn't be staring at her.

But she said nothing, and watched him fumble in the dark, until she reached for him.

"Come here," she whispered, and it was all right, for a moment or two.

I think it's a rite of passage in the SSHG community to do a Marriage Law fic with this couple. I was long overdue for this trope and I'm hoping to do a more lighthearted take on a typically very angsty and serious plot idea. I can't keep these two apart and unhappy for long, anyway.

Unbetat'ed because I don't want to heap more work on my lovely beta's head. Take 'em with typos and run-ons, fellas.

Oh, also, note to returning readers: don't worry, Proximity isn't abandoned. I've got a few chapters in the cooker and getting one tweaked with the beta right now. Should be out in a couple days. -Nylex