Hermione had very little recollection of the rest of the morning. She remembered being escorted up to Dumbledore’s – no, it was now Snape’s – office by McGonagall and Flitwick. Snape walked with them, his back ramrod straight and his expression unreadable. Dumbledore was conspicuous by his absence from his portrait, and Hermione had an inkling he couldn’t face her, knowing there was nothing he could do about this. Some Ministry official (Hermione had no idea who), was waiting for them and read the ceremonial binding words in a monotone. Hermione spoke when prompted to; McGonagall and Flitwick signed the witness register, the latter with tears running down his face. And now she wore a ring on her left hand, a gold band with a ruby and an emerald side by side. So everyone will know, Hermione thought dully.

At lunchtime Hermione went back to the dormitory to fetch her belongings. The common room went silent as she climbed through the portrait hole, and Ginny ran forward and led her to an armchair. ‘Are you OK, Hermione?’ Ginny asked, concerned. ‘Why are you back here? He hasn’t… you know… has he?’

‘No,’ answered Hermione, feeling exhaustion crash over her, even though it was only one o’clock. ‘He hasn’t done anything to me. We’ve barely spoken. He’s sent me here to collect my things. I’m supposed to rejoin classes tomorrow.’

Lavender Brown broke free of the gawping crowd and faced the girls. ‘So,’ she said flatly. ‘Teacher’s pet has deigned to return. Always fall on your feet, don’t you, Hermione? Allowed to stay on at school, safe at Hogwarts. You know they’ve already taken Dean, don’t you? Merlin only knows who he’s with now. They’ll take me in June, too. I won’t be lucky enough to become the Headmaster’s wife.’

‘Lucky!’ cried Ginny in disbelief. She stood up and faced Lavender. ‘You think Hermione’s lucky to marry a Death Eater, do you? A killer, Dumbledore’s murderer? You have a strange sense of what’s lucky, Lavender.’

Lavender dropped her gaze and slunk back into the crowd.

Happy Birthday, Hermione.

*

Ginny’s right, though, isn’t she? thought Hermione as she unpacked her things, trying to take up as little space as possible in Snape’s rooms. I know all Death Eaters have committed terrible crimes; most of them have probably killed, but this is different. I know what Snape has done; I knew Dumbledore. What would Harry say if he knew? What would my parents say?

Suddenly, Hermione felt desperately lonely. Her parents were in Australia, Harry and Ron were God knew where, incommunicado, and now she didn’t even have Ginny to talk to. Sorting through her possessions, she found the only photograph she had of her parents. It wasn’t really safe to have a photo of them, but she needed something to anchor her to her Muggle life. It certainly wasn’t safe to put it up, though. Regretfully, Hermione kissed her parents’ smiling, static faces, then put the silver-framed photo at the bottom of her trunk, piling stuff on top of it to keep it hidden. Very carefully she closed the trunk, and then she burst into tears.

Crookshanks picked his way fastidiously through the piles of books, and she swept him up in her arms and buried her face in his wild fur. ‘Oh, Crookshanks,’ Hermione sobbed. ‘What am I going to do?’

*

Hermione had managed to gain control of herself by the time Snape strode into the sitting-room to take her down to dinner. They had managed to avoid each other all day – he had spent the day in his office, and she had taken as long as possible over her unpacking. She had managed to cram all her toiletries onto one shelf in the bathroom, hung her robes on ‘her’ side of the wardrobe, and had shoved everything else into her trunk, which she had put at the end of the bed.

The bed. Hermione went cold whenever she thought of it. There was only one bedroom in the Headmaster’s quarters, and only one bed. Hermione was trying hard not to think about what might be expected of her later.

Snape extended his arm to her. ‘We should make an appearance at the High Table,’ he said stiffly. ‘If we do not, your friends will jump to all manner of erroneous conclusions.’

To her humiliation, Hermione flushed bright red at this, but took Snape’s arm with her head held high.

‘After you, Hermione,’ Snape said, holding the door open.

‘Thank you, Headmaster.’

He glared down at her. ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ he hissed. Then, seeing her flinch, he lowered his voice. ‘You must call me Severus, Hermione. We are, however unwillingly, married, and it would be prudent to put on a show of solidarity in public.’

Presumably that was why he pulled out her chair at the High Table, and kept up a flow of conversation throughout the meal. Hermione answered him as best she could, but she could barely eat anything. All eyes had turned to her as she sat down, and she was certain the talk at the house tables was all about her.

All she could think of was the night to come. She remembered reading, in a history book at home, about the old Muggle tradition of ‘showing the sheets’. The morning after the wedding night, the newly-weds’ sheets would be shown to the village to prove the bride had been a virgin. Would her sheets be passed around a grinning, leering circle of Death Eaters tomorrow?

The rest of the meal passed in a haze of anxiety and nausea.

*

The rest of the evening passed in silence.

Hermione tried to reread her textbooks for tomorrow, but she couldn’t concentrate. Snape was checking off lists of students who had earned detention. The Carrows’ lists were several scrolls long. The only words they exchanged all night were when he asked her if she would like some Firewhisky and she said no, thank you.

At 11pm, Hermione packed up her books, plucked up her courage, and said she thought she’d go to bed. Severus replied, ‘Very well,’ and poured himself another whisky.

Hermione picked up Crookshanks and made her way to the bedroom. She brushed her teeth and washed her face, missing the girly chats she used to have with Ginny through mouthfuls of toothpaste. Then she burrowed in her trunk and found her thickest red tartan flannel pyjamas. It wasn’t that she was cold – it was still only late September, but that she needed the armour. A jug of water and a pile of books on one of the bedside tables told her which was his side of the bed, so she slid into the other side, putting a pillow down on the floor beside the bed for Crookshanks. He leapt out of her arms, padded over to the pillow and settled down immediately to sleep. Hermione got into bed feeling rather abandoned. She curled onto her side, extinguished the candle and lay there in the dark, wide eyed and waiting.

She had waited only half an hour before the bedroom door opened and Snape came in. Without looking at her, he took something from the bedside cabinet and went into the bathroom. When he returned, he was wearing the long grey nightshirt Harry had seen him in the night he got caught with the Triwizard egg.

She lay on her back, regarding him fearfully as he got in beside her, but he merely said, ‘Goodnight, Hermione,’ extinguished the candle and turned on his side with his back to her. Hermione curled back into a ball, feeling extremely relieved and, at the same time, lonelier than ever.