Scary SSHG
They are newly married-one month and two days, precisely. She is a wife now, a word that is odd and disconcerting on her tongue. That they married quickly (and oh, speculations of her ambiguous state of pregnancy still worm their way into the Prophet’s gossip column) never bothered her.
She loves him. She loves how uncomplicated he is, how open and affectionate and easy their relationship is, ever since that first, impassioned kiss in the bloodied halls of Hogwarts. Kisses which led to tentative, blushing sex and then to heartfelt declarations of love to a small, private ceremony in the backyard of the Burrow.
Which is why, when he asked her to come, please come to Harry’s for Halloween, she said yes, of course, anything for him.
Even though she hates costumes, the idea of dressing up as someone else, and she hates parties and alcohol, and crowds make her anxious, their huddled anonymity, the hot, sticky breaths in tight quarters, the heated fumblings of passion in not-so-hidden corners.
She is dressed simply, as a librarian, and she knows that Ron will wrap his arms around her waist and pout, whispering, “Come on, Hermione. Not even a sexy librarian?” But no-she is going, after all, going when she would rather spend the night curled on their threadbare, hand-me-down sofa, watching scary movies and doling out candy to little pirates and princesses.
A knock on the bathroom door. “Hermione? Your costume almost ready?”
She pushes the wiry, horn-rimmed glasses down to the edge of her nose. Hmmm, she thinks. I look remarkably like Madam Pince.
“Yeah.” She opens the door to Ron and-
She feels faint, like her knees are going to give out beneath her and she is going to fall to the floor. Clutching the porcelain sink for support, she closes her eyes and takes several deep, calming breaths (One. Two. Three.)
That is not her husband.
Layers of black cloth, and buttons, and stringy hair. Only his freckled face remains the same-open and cheerful.
“Funny how we’re both going as Hogwarts staff,” Ron says good-naturedly, poking her gently in the ribs. “Although aren’t girls s’posed to be sexy on Halloween?”
She Magicks on the faucet, dipping her fingers into the steady stream of cool water. “Ron,” she says. “Where did you get those robes?”
He preens, plucking at a button. “I know, don’t I look like him? Well, Harry found these at Spinner’s End-must have been like a spare, you know. This was all Snape wore, wasn’t it?”
She nods weakly. “So… those are… were his actual clothes? Ron, that seems… disrespectful.”
He tweaks her nose, laughing. “Hermione, you and your morals. It’s just for fun. Surely Snape, dead as he is, wouldn’t begrudge a bloke. Come on, just imagine the looks on everyone’s faces!”
Wanting to touch him, she reaches out and clasps his arm. The feel of the fabric is slightly scratchy and course. Irrationally, she wants to check Ron’s forearm for a Dark Mark. She worries-what if there is the eerie, squirming skull and snake? What will she do?
But the skin beneath the black fabric is white, pale, unblemished. You foolish girl, she chides herself.
“Alright, let’s go, then,” she says, and they Apparate to Grimmauld Place, and Hermione forgets her crazy fears and worries as a vampiric Harry presses a kiss to her cheek and a smoking beverage to her palm.
******
It’s very early the next morning when they stumble home and into bed. Ron’s long drunk-mumbling incoherently and grabbing her arse-but when she wraps her arms around him and closes her eyes, she thinks, He smells different.
Like spices and dust and crinkled parchment and old books.
Like Snape.
******
She brushes and flosses her teeth judiciously every morning, even though Ron typically just scrubs his teeth once a day and teases her and her ‘occult Muggle habits.’
‘I’d like to keep my teeth well into old age,’ she always replies, cheekily. It’s become something of a long-standing joke between them, but this morning he says nothing.
“I’ve got to go into work today,” he says.
“But… it’s a Sunday,” she replies, “and yesterday was Halloween.”
“Hermione,” he says harshly, “work doesn’t stop for weekends or hangovers. I’d think that you would understand.”
She rolls her eyes and waves a dismissive hand at him, finishing her morning routine by rinsing her face. Nothing to it, really. She’ll just spend the day reading in front of the fireplace.
It’s raining outside, drizzling gently, and a part of her hopes for a good thunderstorm so she can brew some tea and light a fire and curl up in her armchair with a good book whilst lightening flashes outside.
Ron appears to be irritable, undoubtedly from the quantities of alcohol consumed, and so perhaps the day apart will be for the best.
She hears him changing in the next room, the sound of rustling fabric, and now the thud of heavy boots and the soft whistling of shoelaces.
Ducking his head inside the bathroom, he kisses her gently on the cheek. “Be back hopefully early, babe.”
Hermione turns to reply, but… He is wearing black slacks, a white dress shirt, and thickly-soled black boots.
Chills run down her spine, as if small, scurrying spiders are crawling up and down her goosefleshed back.
“Ron. Ron, aren’t those Professor Snape’s clothes?” she manages.
He shrugs. “Yeah. But he was a sharp dresser-wouldn’t you say he was a sharp dresser? And so I figured, why let good clothes rot in some abandoned house? Hmmm?”
Again, he kisses her, this time fully on the mouth, and she tastes something funny on his lips.
It’s only later, when she is squished into her armchair with a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination, that she realises what it was.
Coffee. Bitter, black coffee.
Must be the hangover, she concludes firmly. For she has never known Ron to imbibe coffee.
She continues to read.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
******
That night, Ron comes home, apologetic roses red in his hand. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he whispers. “I love you.”
He leads her to the bedroom and undresses her slowly, and finally removes his-Snape’s-clothes, Ron’s beloved, freckled fingers working over the hard, shiny buttons of his shirt. They make love and Hermione frames his face with her hands, loving his dear, dear expressions.
The next morning, he leaves for work early, while she is still sleeping. Pushing aside her hair, he kisses her and slides ticklish fingers down the nakedness of her back.
Thud, thud of heavy boots across the wooden floor. She looks up in time to see a swish of black fabric in the doorway of their bedroom. And she can smell the bitter aroma of dark, strong coffee in the air.
Too far, she thinks. Have to talk to him tonight. Tell him… he has to stop.
******
Hermione leaves work at six, Apparating carefully to a Muggle takeaway counter where she gets two steaming orders of fish and chips. Best to have his favourite food on hand, when discussing anything remotely unpleasant.
But he is not happy with her proffering, lifting his lips in a moue of distaste that reminds her-God, I’m going crazy-of Snape’s trademark scowl.
Perhaps she is the one taking this too far, seeing her old, dead professor in the familiar contours of her life.
“Don’t feel like fish tonight?” she asks.
“No!” he snaps. “Bloody, greasy fish, I hate it. Can’t you cook something, Granger? Or is that one realm of academia in which you did not excel?”
Funny, how she can actually feel the blood draining from her face. Funnier still, that she is terrified, terrified of her calm, gentle, sweet husband.
“Those words,” she says. “Whose words are you using?”
Ron shrugs. “Yeah, sorry, Hermione. Work’s been rough. I just don’t feel like fish tonight, okay?”
“Fine, hon. That’s fine.”
But now she’s watching him, studying his gestures and facial expressions and even his reading choices.
Ron never reads, she thinks, even though now he is devouring the books on her shelf like candy, quick and sweet.
Ron never scowls, she thinks, although his lips twist into unsettling, familiar sneers much more than smiles, now.
******
Days pass, and although Hermione is still unsettled, she often recognizes Ron in the foolish things he says, or in the width and breadth of his grin.
Until she comes home one day-it is a Thursday, and work has been particularly trying, and she unwards their small flat and steps inside with an overwhelming sense of relief.
Home.
But something lingers in the air.
Something…
The pungent odour of… dragon bile? Or is it Acromantula venom?
And there is Ron, a large, copper cauldron bubbling on their stove. He looks up, a lock of his red hair flopping onto his forehead. He regards her impassively.
“Hermione. You’re home early.”
The files and papers she brought home from work flutter to the floor. “Wh… what are you doing?”
Frowning, he answers, “We needed some Dreamless Sleep. Or, rather, I needed some Dreamless Sleep. You’re free to use it as needed, of course.”
Discontinuity painfully presses against her skull-the sight of Ron freely, expertly brewing difficult potions leaves her queasy.
This is not right.
She peers into the cauldron-a perfect shade of dark purple, bubbling and viscous.
He deftly churns the potion before bottling it into three twisted flasks.
His motions, so fluid, so certain…
They are not his own. Of that, Hermione is sure.
******
Hermione can’t help the suspicions swirling in the back of her mind. Her husband has changed, and it has something to do with that buttoned frock coat and those heavy, black boots.
She takes a day off from work, settling with determination into the Hogwarts library. Mindful of Pince and other nattering students, she hides herself in the Restricted Section, stacks of ancient books littered at her feet.
Magic, she discovers, powerful enough to transform a person’s character, is ancient and Dark and rare. And impossible to undo.
But she will. And even if she is crazy, and it is all in her head, she will burn those clothes with Fiendfyre. She will kill whatever essence of Snape still lingers in those folds of fabric.
Lay to rest, peaceful rest, rather. Not kill, for how can she kill someone long dead? But if it comes to it, she will destroy him, for he is not taking Ron from her.
The next night, she kisses her husband, not focussing on the way the depths of his eyes glitter strangely. Up to bed he carries her, rough and exotic and not the Ron she knows. He strips them both of their clothes, entering her quickly and fiercely. Their fucking is hard, angry, and she clutches him and closes her eyes.
He is snoring next to her now, the force of his exhalations fluttering the sheets of their bed. Quietly, she moves, inching her right foot to the edge of the bed. Out of the blankets, onto the floor. The rest of her body follows as slowly as she can manage.
Please, please don’t wake, she thinks. Terror pounds her heart and heightens her senses. Moving now, he is moving, oh God! But he just shifts to his side, and the snores resume.
Naked in the moonlight filtering through their thin curtains, she collects the trousers, the shirt, the coat, and the boots and slips soundlessly out the door and into the sitting room. She deposits the garments in the middle of the room.
“Okay,” she breathes unsteadily, clasping her wand in a shaky grip. “Dangerous, this is dangerous.” But she has studied Fiendfyre, and can stop it, she thinks. All theoretical, but it should work. Her research is solid.
“F-” she begins, but can’t finish because she can’t speak, can feel a pressure tight around her throat, as if some invisible hand is strangling her.
“What,” comes a voice, deep and dark and angry, “are you doing out of bed, Miss Granger? It’s past curfew, now.” And he laughs behind her as she struggles to breathe.
Choking, she is choking, and she can see little black spots in the periphery of her vision. She is going to…
But then the pressure is gone, and she is on the floor, gasping for air. Her wand clatters uselessly to the ground.
He comes up in front of her, squatting to the floor, lifting her chin roughly with his fingers. “Hermione,” he says. “Why are you trying to destroy my things?” It is Ron’s lips that form the question, but it is Snape’s voice she hears.
Jerking her face away from him, she can feel tears running down her cheeks. “Where is Ron? What have you done with him?”
“Oh, now,” he says, collecting her body and crushing her against his chest. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”
She twists her body, pummelling his chest with her fists. “I want my husband back, you fucking bastard.”
“Hermione,” he croons. “That is what I am trying to tell you. I am your husband.”
“No,” she sobs, though she ceases resistance and slumps, weeping, into his arms. “You’re not. You’ve… you’ve killed him. And I loved him.”
Standing, he scoops her easily into his arms and turns toward the bedroom. “Come now, Hermione. I’ll show you. You’ll like being married to me, in the end.” He pins her with his gaze, and his eyes are no longer friendly and green, but dark as the night around them.
He trails a finger across her cheek. “I’ll love you, you know. More than he ever could.”
Placing her gently on the bed, he spoons against her, holding her as if she is something precious.
“We can discuss books and Potions journals, Hermione,” he promises, trailing kisses along the back of her neck. “And our children will be brilliant.”
“Fuck you,” she whispers. “Just let me go… to sleep…”
******
**Five Months Later**
Ginny pats the back of her brother’s hand.
So unfair, life, she thinks. And he loves her so much.
“I don’t know what else to do, Gin,” Ron says, his voice cracking at the admission. “What else can I do?”
Tears leak from her eyes, and she gathers him into a tight hug. “Ron, I swear, we won’t give up. Never. Not until she’s better.”
“I’m not putting her in an… institution or anything,” he says, and she can feel the warm wetness of his tears seeping into her shirt.
“No,” she agrees, eyeing Hermione through the glass. Poor Hermione. Poor Ron.
“Maybe these anti-psychotics will work,” he finally says. The hope in his eyes physically hurts Ginny, nauseating her stomach.
“I hope so,” she says. “You can go get her now.”
Ron nods and exits into the next room, holding up a quelling hand to his wife. Ginny watches sadly through the window.
“NO!” Hermione screams, wrenching away from him and curling into a ball. “Ginny, PLEASE! That is not Ron, not my husband. PLEEEEASE!”
Ron sooths her hair, drawing her thin, pale form into his arms. He lifts her easily, and Ginny once again feels a stab of nausea at how much weight she’s lost recently. Hermione looks like a bird. A frail, terrified bird.
“Let me go, Snape,” Hermione cries. “Please, please…” Her pleas fade out as her tremblings and spasms subside, and she is crying weakly into the buttons of his chest.
Ginny touches the glass in sympathy as her brother tightens his grip and kisses the top of Hermione’s head.
And her fingers clench hard against the glass, and her heart pounds in her chest.
Was that…
Was Ron… sneering?
Ginny laughs and shakes her head.
Imagining things now, like Hermione.
How silly.