Disclaimer: These character belong to J.K. Rowling, not me. I'm just having a bit of fun with them and making no money doing so.



Hermione slammed the door behind her, not because it was necessary but because it felt bloody good.

“Men,” she announced ominously, “are wankers.”

Her husband winced at her entrance, apparently (correctly) reading her mood as being more volatile than a tetchy volcano.

“Yes,” Severus agreed.

Hermione was not mollified. She kicked off her high-heeled boots and began massaging her aching feet. “They’re all swine.”

“Indubitably.”

“Condescending, know-nothing bastards who couldn’t locate their arses with the benefit of both hands and a torch.”

“At times,” Severus allowed. “Do I take it that the meeting with the publishers didn’t go as planned?”



A glass of good whisky loosened Hermione’s tongue, but left her no more kindly disposed to males.

“All they want to know about is who was shagging whom,” she spat. “Forget about analysis and scholarship—oh no, all a woman can write about is sex.” She drained her whisky and gestured for a refill. “They want a sodding romance novel, not a history. And then they brought in the Image Consultant…”

“The what?”

“Image Consultant,” Hermione repeated, her rage beginning to simmer anew. “It’s not enough to write a book, you see. I have to be fashionable enough—pretty enough—to market it.”



Hermione’s ranting had continued for a solid twenty minutes, with no end in sight. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the migraine that had been building ever since his morning squabble with the Board of Governors.

“…woman writes a book and has to shill it in a push-up bra and fuck-me shoes…”

Severus sighed. “Hermione.”

“…work twice as hard to be taken half as seriously…”

“Hermione.”

“…male students never listen…”

“Hermione!” He grimaced at the pain of shouting.

She stopped, glaring.

“I realise you’ve been disappointed, but you aren’t the only one with a difficult job!”



The moment he spoke, he regretted the words.

Hermione went wide-eyed, deadly still. He knew better than to mistake it for agreement.

It was the calm before the storm.

In an instant, she was pacing the room, electrified with fury.

“How bloody typical!” she exploded “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be a professional and a woman?”

He didn’t suppose it was very different from being a professional and a man, but refrained from saying so.

She knew what he was thinking anyway—wives always did.

“You think your job’s tougher than mine?” she challenged. “Prove it!”



Severus scowled and rose to his full height, which was not very impressive but was at least greater than his wife’s.

“You can’t be serious. Trade places for the day? Are you insane?”

“Why not? That new formulation of Polyjuice lasts for twenty-four hours. Surely we could pass as each other for a day.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless, of course, you don’t trust me to serve as Headmaster.”

“Don’t be absurd! Of course I—”

“Then you’re just afraid you can’t handle walking in my shoes.” The look on her face was a challenge.

He would not be defeated. “You’re on.”



Being Severus was fun, Hermione decided. Crowds parted in his wake, in deference to his position and temper; every face held a tinge of healthy fear.

This good mood lasted until she entered Severus’ office and discovered an avalanche of incoming correspondence. In the centre of the pile was a clutch of angry-looking Howlers, ready to burst.

“A good day, Severus,” Dumbledore’s portrait declared. “That’s the fewest Howlers you’ve had in months!”

Hermione stared.

After hours of unreasonable demands and absurd complaints, Hermione was certain things couldn’t get worse.

Then she discovered the discomfort of having an inappropriate erection.



By noon, Severus was wishing for an antidote to the Polyjuice. He couldn’t fathom how Hermione could bear her clothes; the brassiere dug painfully into his shoulders, while every step in Hermione’s high-heeled boots was agony.

More disturbing was the way others treated him. The male students spent their History lessons looking not at the board but at Severus’ chest. When Severus dared to scowl, the word ‘cow’ was whispered. In the staff room, the Defence Master pinched Severus’ arse when nobody was looking.

Severus hexed him with festering boils on his bollocks and made plans to sack the bastard.



Neither of them attended dinner in the Great Hall that evening. Instead, they met back at their quarters, irritable and out-of-sorts.

“You were right,” they said to each other in unison.

Hermione giggled, an odd sound in Severus’ baritone register. “How can you stand all the Howlers?”

“How can you stand being ogled by perverts?”

Hermione smirked. “Not as simple being a woman as it looks, is it?”

“It’s hell.” Severus wrenched the boots off and sighed in relief. “These are torture devices!”

“Wimp.” At Severus’ exhausted, forlorn expression, she relented. “Oh, fine. Come here and I’ll make it better.”



Hermione massaged Severus’ shoulders and feet, expertly easing each ache. The day’s tension melted away under her touch.

“Ohhh,” he exhaled.

“If you like that, you’ll love this.” Severus gasped as Hermione’s hands and lips strayed to other, more sensitive areas. “Good?”

Severus made an inarticulate noise of pleasure, squirming under the assault of unfamiliar, delicious sensations.

“You know,” Hermione murmured in his ear, “There’s one thing that’s better about being a woman.”

“What?”

“Multiple orgasms.”

Severus found the demonstration very convincing indeed, and although he became the first pregnant Headmaster in Hogwarts' history as a consequence, he regretted nothing.