How Hermione Got Her Wizard

AN: This nonsense refused to go away. It kept interfering with my other story. Now it's out of my head. Many stories and plots were twisted in the making of this dribble. No harm to authors was intended.

Professor Snape looked up with irritation as the door to the Potions classroom banged opened and then slammed shut. A disheveled witch locked the door and ran down the steps toward the Potions master’s desk.

“Miss Granger, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” Professor Snape snapped.

Hermione ran up to him, her brown eyes wide with fear and her hair crackling with electricity. “Professor, you have to save me!” she pleaded.

“Save you? From what, you silly girl?” The Professor’s expression was one of intense dislike.

“From the Weasleys,” she cried. “They’re after me. It’s the new law!”

“What new law? What nonsense are you babbling?”

“The Weasley Anti-Reproduction Act, Professor. It was leaked this morning. Someone at the Ministry did a calculation, sir. Consider this: if each Weasley offspring produces seven children, there will be 49 more Weasley’s. If their children each have seven children and their children…” Hermione shuddered. “You can see where it would end. Within two generations more than a quarter of the British Wizarding population would be Weasleys!”

“Perish the thought!” Professor Snape exclaimed.

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “So, the Ministry has decreed that only three of the Weasleys may produce offspring. The rest are to be magically castrated. The law takes effect tomorrow.”

Professor Snape winced, a fleeting—very fleeting, mind you—thought of sympathy for those unfortunate Weasleys. However, the thought of teaching of 49 redheaded, vacant-eyed Weasley brats—concurrently—wiped out any hint of masculine empathy. He turned to Hermione.

“Well, Miss Granger, I fail to see how that concerns me? And what,” he snarled, looking around his classroom as several owls swarmed in and bombarded Hermione with letters and gift boxes, “is this?”

“Gifts, bribes, marriage proposals…” Hermione said breathlessly, dodging boxes. “All the Weasley boys are courting all of the witches they know; they want to be married by midnight tonight and escape the law. See,” she said, “this is from Bill,” pointing to an Egyptian headdress of solid gold. “And this,” she picked up an emerald green dragon’s egg, “is from Charlie.” She looked at the other packages and rattled off the contents. “Exploding chocolate knickers from Fred and George—they’re arguing that since they think and act as one they should count as one Weasley…”

“I would not argue that, but do they plan to share one witch?” Professor Snape queried acidly, a raised eyebrow arching into his hairline.

Hermione shuddered.

“Ah, well, continue Miss Granger, your tale of woe is mildly amusing,” the Professor said grudgingly. The only thing that would make it more so would be if Potter-the-boy-might-yet-die-by-my-hands-before-NEWTs-or-even-shortly-thereafter would be one of those castrated. He would volunteer to handle that job in a heartbeat—no magic necessary!

“That’s a rare aluminum cauldron, from Percy,” Hermione continued pointing to a bowl-shaped object, “Go on, take it if you want it,” correctly reading the covetous eye of the Potions master. She knew Percy had risked life and limb at Harrod’s after-Christmas sale to obtain the bowl-shaped caldron. It was his most prized possession. “I keep trying to return the gifts, but they are impregnated with a tracking spell.” At the word impregnated, Hermione blanched, thinking of the fate that could await her. She pointed to the last gift. “See that?” Of course he did. How could he fail to notice the brand-new, cherry-red Firebolt Extreme XL? It had to have cost 3,000 Galleons. “That’s from Ron. Can you imagine? At least Percy gave me something useful.”

“Miss Granger, again, I fail to see how any of this is my concern,” Professor Snape said coldly, though he did pick up the aluminum cauldron. He’d wanted one for years, but on a Hogwarts’ salary…fat chance. He spared a bitter thought for the newfound Weasley wealth, courtesy of that tenuous familial relationship with the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Arthur Weasley, the not-so-bumbling bamboozler, had managed to snatch the Black estate out from under Potter’s nose while Potter sniveled about his lost godfather. He, Severus Snape, spy extraordinaire, war hero and recipient of Order of the Merlin (Ninth Class), lived in penury.

“Professor, you must save me,” Hermione said again.

“Surely, you know how to say the word, ‘no,’ Miss Granger.”

“It’s Professor Dumbledore, sir. He’s called upon the unmarried women in the Order to respond. This is a crisis of epic proportions, he says. You know that Weasleys make up 3/5 of the Order; without a continuation of their numbers, his political support will erode. He plans to become Minister of Magic when he turns one hundred and seventy-five. And you know that Tonks and I are the only unmarried women in the Order. Please, sir, help me,” Hermione pleaded. “Ron is threatening to tie me up naked in the Shrieking Shack and read Quidditch Through the Ages to me over and over until I agree to marry him.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“Do you have something in your eye, Miss Granger,” Professor Snape inquired solicitously. “I repeat, how can I help you?”

“Marry me first, Professor. I’d rather marry a Greasy Git than a Witless Weasley!”

As if on cue, someone pounded on the door. “’Mione! I know you’re in there! Please, please ‘Mione, you have to marry me. Tonks has already said ‘yes’ to Bill; he cheated—he used an ancient Chinese secret. There’s only one opening left!” Ron was clearly agitated.

“One?” Professor Snape’s eyebrow rose again.

“Ginny,” Hermione replied. “She hit Harry with Stupify at breakfast, then unfroze selective parts of his anatomy. They’re probably still under the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. I’m sure she’s pregnant already.”

“But Potter’s gay!” the Potions master exclaimed.

“Hardly,” Hermione replied. “Harry’s been shagging everything in skirts since Cho dumped him.”

“Malfoy will be broken-hearted,” Snape mused. “He’s been mooning over Potter for years.”

“And you were a spy?” Hermione exclaimed disbelievingly. “Draco’s no more gay than Harry is. He only told you that so that you’d let him do bed checks on the girls’ side of the dorm.”

Snape looked startled and then a smirk lit his face, “How…”

Hermione interrupted him. “If you’re going to say, ‘How Slytherin of him’… don’t. Draco was sorted into Hufflepuff. He bribed the Sorting Hat to shout ‘Slytherin’ so that his father wouldn’t disown him.”

Professor Snape was chagrined. Apparently he had paid too much attention to the Dark Lord and too little to the much more important matter of his students’ personal lives. He wondered just what it took to bribe a tattered hat.

“Hermiiiiione! You’re not going to let them do that to me are you?” Ron was sobbing. “You’re my best friend.”

Hermione turned towards the door, an agonized look on face. Didn’t she owe Ron? He saved her from a mountain troll after all. Or was that Harry? Or neither. She would have been able to save herself, after all, she was the smartest witch of her generation—everyone said so. She was smarter than the wizards too, but they never said that—the sexist pigs! She turned back to the Professor. He blinked. She had unbuttoned her robes and was wearing only a see-through nylon nightie and crotchless knickers underneath them.

“Miss Granger, I accept your proposition,” Snape said smartly, leering at her nightwear and the lush assets that it definitely did not cover. “Is this your normal attire?”

“Why get dressed when you have to wear these heavy muumuus? You should see what Pavarti and Lavender wear.”

Maybe he should. A potions accident. He could arrange that. He picked up a serrated bread knife from his luncheon tray.

“What is that for?” Hermione eyed the knife suspiciously.

“An ancient marriage ritual. I mix your virgin blood with mine, and we are married.”

“You’re a virgin?” she asked, astonished.

“Of course, not,” he returned, highly affronted. “I’ll have you know I am highly skilled in all aspects of sexual pleasure. Kinsey, Kumasutra, and Gilderoy Lockheart’s Lustful Lessons in Loving the Ladies—I’ve read them all.”

“That’s good to know,” Hermione said with a satisfied smile. “But you did say you were going to mix my virgin blood with yours. I naturally assumed…”

“Don’t be pedantic, you insufferable Know-it-all. It’s not very attractive. Shall we?” He held the knife over her hand.

“I’m not a virgin. Oh, don’t look so shocked. I mean, really, not only are there lusty Quidditch players running around half-naked here at Hogwarts, but I’ve spent countless summers locked up at Grimmauld Place with Bill, Charlie, and Sirius—not to mention the twins. What do you think they did while you were out doing all the dirty work?

‘What indeed?’ thought Snape, snidely. He had to know. “That conniving cowardly cur, Black?”

“Oh, not Sirius,” Hermione replied. “I saw Snuffles lick his privates one too many times. That much doggy breath was a bit too rank for this dentist’s daughter.”

“Then who? If I might be so bold as to ask?”

“Mad-Eye.” At his look of revulsion, Hermione continued defensively, “Really, once he drops the disguise, the creepy outfits, and that phony false eye, he’s not that bad-looking. And he does respond well to the Imperious Curse, if you know what I mean.”

‘Well,’ Severus thought, ‘compared to Mad-Eye, I’m Prince Charming, so that should work out well.’ He raised the knife again. “Well, there’s another ritual that doesn’t require virgin blood. It’s a bit messier—we have to mix the blood with Firewhisky and bathe in it—but it will do.”

Hermione snatched her hand away. “What is it with you wizards and blood? Haven’t you ever heard of a common law marriage? De presenti consent and promittio subsequente copula, and all that. You simply state your intentions in front of witnesses. Consummate the marriage, and it’s perfectly legal. No blood.”

“Consummate the marriage in front of witnesses?” Snape replied, somewhat befuddled and yet strangely titillated.

“There was a full stop in there,” Hermione said witheringly. “I thought you were more literate than the average wizard.”

Severus looked puzzled. “Oh, you mean the books in my study. Between teaching, and grading—you have no idea how long it takes to read all those horrid essays—spying for the Headmaster and answering Voldy-Mouldy’s every whim, oh, and don’t forget saving Potter’s arse every other day—when would I have had time to read? The books do make good camouflage for my porn collection. No one ever pulls them down to see what’s behind them.”

‘That’s marvelous,’ thought Hermione. ‘If he never reads them, he won’t mind if I highlight in them.’ She turned a brilliant, chemically whitened smile to Snape. “Shall we?”

Severus covered his eyes against the glare of her teeth, and asked, “Witness?”

“Ron,” Hermione screamed, “Are you still out there?”

“Hermy! Are you going to save me?”

“Scrape the wax out of your ears and listen carefully,” Hermione screamed again. “Severus Snape you are now my husband.”

“Are you a witch or what? Surely, you can remember the most simple of spells. I don’t hold much with foolish wand waving, however…” He pointed his wand at his throat, and chanted "Sonorus."

“Hermione Granger, I declare you to be my wife.” Snape amplified drawl sent vibrations deep into Hermione’s core—literally. She felt like she was standing next to an amplifier at a Bay City Rollers concert. Interesting. She filed that information away for future use.

“Did you get that, Ron?” Hermione yelled.

“You’re already married? To Snivellius? The Bat Cave! The Greasy Spoon! The Slytherin Slug! How could you ‘ermy? I’m doomed.”

“Don’t be such an idiot, Ron. Just tell the Ministry that you’re gay. They don’t care that you’re boffing Neville, they’re only concerned about you creating little Weasley-ettes”

“Oh, you’re so smart, ‘meenie. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ll go find Neville and tell him the good news.” They heard his footsteps pounding down the hall.

“Weasley’s gay?” Severus boomed, having forgotten to remove the spell. Hermione stuck her fingers in her ears and waggled her wand at him. “Quietus, you oaf. You don’t know much do you? Ron hid his preferences because Crabbe and Goyle have been after him for years. I think it was the slugs. Apparently, they found the sight of Ron coughing up slugs sexy."

Snape shook his head, bewildered. But there were more important things at hand. “Consummation?”

“You’re such a hunk-a hunk-a-burning love, Severus-poo.” Hermione swept the desk clean, potion ingredients and Snape’s lunch combining to form a noxious substance that began to eat a hole in the dungeon floor. After aiming a quick “Scourgify" at the desk, Hermione hopped up onto it and said, “What are you waiting for?”

“I thought perhaps my rooms?”

“Not until I redecorate. All those smotheringly dusty curtains and mouldy carpets. Who was your designer, Miss Haversham? Come now, I haven’t got all day.”

Severus took one look at the scantily clad witch spread invitingly across his desk and swooped, robes billowing behind him.

“What are you doing?” Hermione said, grabbing his hair and lifting his head from her fulsome bosom.

“Foreplay. Your breasts are magnificent.” Severus winced as she tugged his hair.

“Of course they are. You don’t think I stopped with my teeth did you? We haven’t got time for that. It’s only 97.9 hours until the first NEWT. I’ve already lost three hours of study time to this tomfoolery.” Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. “Put ‘Tab A’ into ‘Slot B;’ how hard is that? We’ll have time for kinky Death Eater sex later.”

Severus stared at her. Surely she hadn’t believed the rumors of Death Eater orgies and revels. Voldemort really had been Voldy-Mouldy—his own equipment had rotted off and he was one frustrated desperado. He gleefully Crucio’ed to death any follower who even thought about sex in his presence—even if it was with his or her spouse or personal, ahem, equipment. Death Eaters were cantankerous owing to enforced celibacy. Still, he could always improvise.

With that cheerful thought, Severus manfully accomplished the job he’d been given and then set about the task of refastening the multitude of buttons on his garments. ‘I really should ask Filius if there’s a spell for this,’ he thought, smarting from the pain in the calluses on his fingers.

Hermione straightened her robes, made a half-hearted swipe at the vast nebula of matted dishwater brown hair crackling about her head, and rolled off the desk.

“What do we do with all of this?” she asked, waving a hand at the Weasley gifts.

“Wedding presents,” Severus replied promptly. That Egyptian mask would bring a fortune on the Muggle black market. The dragon’s egg would be a wonderful bribe to keep Hagrid on his side, and the cauldron and the Firebolt he’d keep for himself. The chocolate knickers would be put to good use too. He could use them to shut his new bride’s mouth.

Severus gloated as the young witch walked up the stairs. He’d done it. His plan was coming together. He had had to move fast. He had intended to wait until after NEWTs, and then dazzle Hermione with an offer of an apprenticeship. Once under his control, he would have been able to court her or finagle her into marrying him, and then get her pregnant. Or visa versa.

But Dumbledore, interfering old fool, had started maneuvering and manipulating, plotting to send the witch he coveted into the arms of that mealy-mouthed Dean Thomas. Said there was a prophecy about a new Dark Lord who could only be stopped by Dean and Hermione’s mad, passionate couplings. Severus had outwitted him. It was he who had suggested the Weasley Anti-Reproduction Act. Oh, not openly, of course, but the right whisper in the right ear could do wonders. Severus forewarned Arthur of the law’s passage and had given him the legal grounds to overturn it. Arthur Weasley would be his most fervent ally. The law would be repealed by week’s end, and any Weasley male not smart enough to hide from the castration squad? Well, that really wasn’t his problem, was it? And it sent Hermione into his arms, as he had known it would. Severus was not worried one whit about Weasley overpopulation; for years he’d been spiking Hogwarts’ pumpkin juice supply with potent contraceptives. None of the wretched brats who attended Hogwarts in the past fifteen years would ever spawn more than one or two whining progeny.

Ah, but his bride—his bride: young, lush and fertile (with suitable antidote)—she would bear him many children, perhaps ten. A Snape dynasty would soon emerge. Dark Lord-Schmark Lord. With his cunning and a smart, always-pregnant witch at his side, Severus would take over the Wizarding world peacefully. No muss, no fuss. No deaths, no mayhem. Well, maybe an untraceable poisoning or two. He suspected that Albus had pinched the Sorcerer’s Stone and it might be necessary to resort to drastic measures to get rid of him. After all, who had trained the Aurors’ potions experts? He knew exactly which potions they knew how to trace and the many, many things that they didn’t.

Hermione paused at the top of the stairs. “Oh, Severus, honey-bunch?”

Glorious as her breasts were, he would have to do something about these sickening nicknames. Really, he thought he might even prefer ‘Snivellus.’ He said imperiously, “You may call me ‘Sir Snape’ or ‘Lord and Master’ if your prefer.”

Hermione laughed until her sides ached. “In your dreams, sweetie pie! You can call yourself ‘Lord of the Dance’ for all I care, but don’t expect me to comply.” At his mutinous expression, she continued, “Oh, and your plan for a dozen little Snapes? Forget that. One will do. I have copious amounts of Muggle contraceptive and I plan to use it.”

“But how….”

“You left your draft plan in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. We’ll discuss what you were doing with Myrtle later. But other than the litter of Snapes, it’s a good plan. You can be Minister of Magic; I’ll be Headmistress—of Hogwarts,” she added at Severus’s self-satisfied smirk. His face fell while other parts drooped. With a flash of her brilliant teeth and a flutter of her nightie, she slipped out the door.

Severus stared after her in awe and lust. His. She was his. Worthy of the name Severus Serpentine Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious Snape. They would be unstoppable and inseparable. Romeo and Juliet. Oedipus and Jocasta. Othello and Desdemona. Bonnie and Clyde. Ben and Jennifer, or was that Brad and Jennifer?

Outside the potions classroom, Hermione leaned against the door and smiled. She’d marked him as her own first year. Those eyes like octopus ink. The hair that gleamed like crude from the Exxon Valdez. The gravelly voice that ran down her spine like road rash. And now, after she posted the highest NEWTs in history—a cheating charm would ensure that—she would have him. A whispered prophecy in Dumbledore’s ear—really, the man was a fricking sap for mysticism—and the plan had been set in motion. She hadn’t known how Severus would react, but she did know that he would never have let her be mated to his mortal enemy, Dean Thomas. All she had to do was sit back and be taken.

Hermione Granger, uh Snape, uh-Granger-Snape—no, no—Granger—always got her man.

And they lived happily ever after.

The End