Chapter Text
The afternoon was waning, and the sun hung low and pale in the sky when Hermione Apparated onto her street after another grueling day at the Ministry. The lingering midsummer heat clung to the air, but as twilight approached, a freshening breeze began to stir—exactly the kind of weather she cherished. She could have Apparated directly into her living room, but she chose to walk, inhaling deeply, letting the familiar scent of sun-warmed pavement and parched grass envelop her. She wanted to draw out the moment, to savor the quiet, but exhaustion eventually won out, and she quickened her pace.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she shed her shoes and accessories by rote. She found herself hoping Ron hadn't returned yet; she craved a few minutes of absolute silence. She collapsed onto the sofa, intending to rest a moment before facing the kitchen to start dinner.
Contrary to her hopes, Ron appeared shortly after. He greeted her with a perfunctory kiss and sat beside her, pulling her legs over his lap. Silence stretched between them for a heartbeat. To an outsider, the way his hands slid over her skin might have seemed affectionate, but Hermione knew better. It wasn't tenderness; it was a restless, telegraphic hum of anxiety.
“So… have you thought about what I said?” he finally asked, his tone hitting a note Hermione recognized with immediate dread.
Inhaling sharply, she withdrew her legs with a controlled movement and sat upright, as if needing to reclaim her center of gravity. It was beyond frustrating—it was soul-wearying—how easily he circled back to this. She had let herself believe she’d dodged it during breakfast, or at the very least, earned a few days of reprieve. Clearly, she had asked for too much.
“Ron…” she began, rubbing a hand over her face. “This again?”
“It’s been a long time,” he cut in, his words tumbling out too fast. “It’s not like I’m pressuring you right now.”
She fixed him with a look of quiet incredulity.
“You said you wouldn’t bring it up again.” Her voice wasn't raised, but it was heavy with a fatigue she could no longer mask. “You said you understood.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione was already on her feet, heading for the kitchen.
“You know exactly how this makes me feel,” she threw over her shoulder without looking back.
They had been married for five years. For the first two, things had been smooth; they were happy, or at least as happy as a marriage defined by inevitable incompatibilities could be. The sex was fine. Ron wasn't a particularly adventurous lover, and neither was she, and after some light research, she had concluded that this was simply the 'norm.'
The shift began in the third year. He started acting differently—always on the verge of a confession, only to retreat at the last second, as if his courage failed him. Until one day, the truth finally spilled out: he had a fetish for seeing her with other men, for watching her be taken by someone else.
Hermione had been blindsided. She had never heard of such a thing—let alone imagined it coming from her own husband, the man who claimed to love her. She had always believed that for her, sex required an emotional anchor; she couldn't just perform for the sake of it. At the very least, she felt that if she were to explore such things, she ought to be single.
She researched the topic extensively and discovered the fetish was far more common than she’d realized. After relentless coaxing from Ron—mostly centered on the argument that it would 'revitalize' their marriage—she finally relented. Twice.
She couldn't lie and say she’d felt nothing. There had been pleasure, of course, but it was hollow, always eclipsed by a gnawing awkwardness and a persistent sense of betrayal. His fantasy found no purchase in her soul, and after several arguments, she made it clear it would never happen again.
Ron had accepted it, albeit reluctantly. But the relationship was fundamentally altered. As time passed, he began to poke at the subject again. And now, more aggressively than ever.
“And how do I feel, Hermione?” he demanded, following her into the kitchen. “Doesn't that matter to you?”
“It’s not about you, Ronald.” She didn't stop moving; her wand flicked sharply, summoning the kettle and cups from the cupboards. “It’s not your body your spouse is bartering away to another man to satisfy some… pathological craving.”
He bristled, coming to a halt.
“So that’s what you think?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave. “That I’m sick?”
Hermione braced her hands against the counter for a beat before turning to face him.
“I didn't say that.” There was a brief, tense pause. “But it isn't normal. And I only wish I’d known about this before we were married.”
“And why?” he snapped back. “So you could walk away?”
“Maybe not.” She held his gaze, unflinching. “But I would have had a choice.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
“So you won't do it.” He reached the conclusion with palpable frustration. “Is that it? Our relationship just doesn't matter enough to you?”
Hermione didn't answer immediately. She turned back to her tea, using the simple ritual to anchor her temper. She breathed in deeply, fighting for composure. This wasn't the first time he’d reached for this kind of manipulation. The difference was that this time, she saw through it. She only regretted not seeing it sooner.
“Ron…”
“No, Hermione.” He cut her off, his voice rising. “Things always have to be your way. The way you think is right. It’s like you place yourself above everything, the Queen of Morality.”
For a split second, she wanted to scream. She wanted to unleash everything she’d been hoarding, to wound him as effortlessly as he was trying to guilt her. She wanted to point out the staggering hypocrisy of his words, to explain—for the thousandth time—that this was never about control.
But shouting wouldn't be enough.
This wasn't about things being her way; it was about him being willing to use any accusation, any inversion of the truth, to get what he wanted.
She straightened her posture, a cold, crystalline clarity settling over her. If he wanted a lesson, she would give him one. One where, regardless of the outcome, she would be the one to win.
For a moment, she said nothing. With the tea steeped, she leaned against the counter, bringing the cup to her lips as if pondering. Ron watched her, his face flushed, bracing for her reaction.
Finally, she set the cup back on its saucer.
“Fine.” She saw the flash of relief ignite in his eyes. “But on one condition.”
Ron watched her intently, waiting.
“I choose the man.” Her voice was steady, iron-clad. “And I want no judgments.”
He seemed indifferent to the demand. There was a suppressed, almost impatient joy in his expression, as if the condition were a triviality compared to the prize.
“Fine,” he agreed. “When you’ve picked someone, let me know.”
“Snape,” she answered without a second’s hesitation.
Ron blinked, his jaw dropping.
“Snape?” he repeated, incredulous. “Professor Snape?”
“Headmaster,” she corrected dryly.
“Whatever.” He let out a short, nervous laugh. “Are you serious, Hermione? Don’t you think that’s… strange?”
“You talking about 'strange' tastes is nothing short of ironic.”
He remained silent for a few moments, searching her face as if reorganizing his thoughts. Then, slowly, his expression shifted. A smug, satisfied glint took hold.
“I get it,” he said at last. “You think I wouldn't have the nerve to ask him.”
He nodded to himself, convinced he’d seen through her.
“That’s it, isn't it? You don't want to do it. You just want me to back down because it’s an 'impossible' task.”
The truth was that Hermione had harbored conflicting feelings for Snape since the end of her fifth year. His dark, intimidating aura repelled many, but for certain teenage girls, there was something nearly irresistible about it—like watching a favorite male protagonist from a novel take physical form. He was the kind of person who could keep young women sighing for years, wishing they could pull him from the pages of a book.
Of course, it had always been essentially platonic. However, she had been surprised to discover that other girls in her dormitory shared similar impressions. Nothing had ever happened—and she would never have had the courage to vocalize those daydreams in his presence.
But she couldn't deny that when Snape was recovering from Nagini’s bite, and she had spent months by his side helping him, moved by empathy and gratitude, she realized those feelings hadn't entirely vanished. And when he finally awoke, reclaiming his usual persona—cold, acidic, distant—Hermione understood that nothing would ever happen between them.
And even now, some five years later, she harbored no hope that it would.
The issue was something else entirely.
If Ron had the nerve to make such a proposal to Snape, the man would surely refuse—and not without a scathing humiliation. Which, honestly, would be well-deserved. And in the remote, nearly impossible event that Snape accepted, Hermione would at least have something to gain. She would fulfill, however belatedly, an old teenage longing, refusing to let her husband be the only one to profit from the situation as he had so many times before.
“Well...” She brought the cup to her lips, took a sip, and set it back on the saucer with calculated calm. “If that’s what you want to believe...”
She watched the redhead storm off, furious, until the sound of a slamming door echoed through the house. She didn't know what his next move would be—if he would give up, insist, or try to prove a point.
But deep down, any of those options would satisfy her.
Each in its own way.
***
Snape used to believe that failing to take a summer break was a natural byproduct of being a professor, but upon assuming the Headship, he realized how wrong he’d been. The relentless demands of the castle—keeping it functional or at least habitable for the coming term—dissipated any real hope of rest. Not that he could ever truly step away; Hogwarts had been his home for so many years that he scarcely remembered how to exist outside its stone walls.
The greatest advantage of the position, at least, was not having to deal directly with dunderheads.
That, however, did not prevent Ronald Weasley from appearing in his office.
It was a deeply peculiar visit. Snape had already managed, with significant effort, to rid himself of Potter and his eternal gratitude. He had no intention of letting another member of the Golden Trio infiltrate his routine.
The young man entered the office visibly tense. He offered a formal greeting but avoided eye contact—a behavior Snape would have expected from Longbottom in his first year, not from a man in his twenties who had earned a fair share of detentions for insolence.
The ensuing silence quickly grew uncomfortable. As he had foreseen, it would be up to him to take the reins of the conversation and put an end to this waste of time.
"I imagine, Mr. Weasley," Snape said finally, making no effort to hide his boredom, "that you haven't come here moved by nostalgia or a sudden appreciation for my company."
The boy shifted in his chair, clearly unsettled. "I… well… could we perhaps talk with a bit more privacy?"
Oh, the portraits.
None of them would breathe a word of what was spoken in this room; they were loyal to the current Headmaster. For that reason, he saw no point in going to the trouble of dismissing them. Besides, he couldn't imagine having any business with a Weasley that would warrant such fastidious care for privacy. "I don't see why".
"We’ll see…" Ron muttered, squaring his shoulders. "Actually, Director, I’ve come to make you a proposal."
Snape looked up with calculated disinterest. "I cannot conceive of any circumstance in which I would find a proposal from you remotely interesting."
"It’s… it’s quite embarrassing to say," the redhead hesitated.
"More so than this conversation already is?" Snape countered, his patience fraying.
Weasley took a deep breath, his irritation palpable in the gesture.
“Hermione and I are married,” he began, his voice far too rigid. “And we usually… well… open our relationship.”
Snape took a beat longer than he would have liked to process what he had just heard. The absurdity of the statement unfolded in layers, each one more improbable than the last. He straightened in his chair, more out of reflex than genuine interest.
“What a fascinating bit of intelligence,” he remarked, irony dripping from every syllable. “I am certain Rita Skeeter would pay a small fortune for it. However, I fail to see at what point, exactly, this is supposed to concern me.”
“The proposal is that you…” Weasley started, his words hurried.
At that moment, one of the portraits cleared its throat loudly, as if choking. Snape shot a lethal look over his shoulder, only to find Dippet—and several other former Headmasters—staring at him with wide eyes, a collective expression of absolute disbelief.
The realization hit him instantly.
He turned slowly back toward Weasley, who was now so flushed that it was hard to tell where his hair ended and his face began.
For a brief moment, Snape was genuinely speechless. This could only be a joke in extremely poor taste. He could live a thousand years and still never have imagined himself facing a situation like this. He took a deep breath, seeking to contain his incredulity before it transformed into something more dangerous.
“Mr. Weasley…” he began, his voice perigously low. “Do you truly presume me stupid enough to fall for such a prank?”
“This is serious, Snape,” the young man said in a single breath. “I wouldn’t subject myself to this level of embarrassment even for a joke.”
“If it is so embarrassing,” Snape countered coldly, “then why exactly are you here?”
Weasley hesitated before answering, as if this were the most difficult part.
“Hermione,” he sighed, resigned. “It was her demand.”
A murmur of surprise rippled through the portraits.
That only made everything even more confusing. Granger had demanded his participation in something of this nature? And so suddenly? The conversation was taking on increasingly surreal proportions.
“Explain yourself,” Snape ordered, having no patience for dancing around the subject.
Taking a deep breath, like a man preparing for a deep dive, the redhead replied:
“Look, Snape… it’s not that hard to understand,” he said, forcing a casual tone that didn’t even convince himself. “We want you to… participate actively in our relationship.”
Rare as it was, the Headmaster felt the heat rise to his face, accompanied by an unwanted acceleration of his breathing. What kind of conversation was this? How did that boy dare say such a thing? He had been his student. His student. And Snape was definitively not a fan of any kind of involvement with other men—even if there were a woman involved. Even if that woman were Granger.
Furthermore… how had she accepted such a thing?
“I sincerely have no idea where you hit your head, Mr. Weasley,” he said, his voice perilously controlled. “And while this is none of your business, let me be absolutely clear: I have no interest whatsoever in relations with other men. On any level.”
Weasley took a few seconds to process the answer, distaste spreading across his face.
“What? No!” he rushed to correct. “I won’t be participating. I mean… not actively.”
Snape slowly arched an eyebrow.
“Then allow me to rephrase,” he said with a sharp calm. “Are you telling me that you wish for me to engage sexually with your wife—Hermione Granger—while you watch?”
The portraits began to whisper among themselves, the murmur growing. Weasley swallowed hard.
“Yes,” he confirmed, embarrassed. “That’s exactly it.”
Snape let out a short, incredulous laugh. If all of this were true, then the world was even worse off than he had imagined—and the youth, even more so.
What kind of man would want to watch his own wife with another? Someone completely unbalanced, with a fetish poorly disguised as humiliation. Snape simply could not conceive of that desire. To him, a relationship was between two people. If a woman were his, she would never be shared. Under no circumstances.
Especially Granger.
Recalling her from the last time he had seen her, the previous year during a Ministry reception, the realization came with uncomfortable clarity: she had become a very attractive woman. She had gained a bit of weight, enough to soften the youthful features she still carried, and her dress that night had made that impossible to ignore. Her posture had changed as well—more secure, more self-aware. Her intelligence had always been undeniable, though he had never shown her any appreciation for it. He only lamented her excessively tamed hair; its rebellion suited her better.
In any case… all of this was madness. And an embarrassment. Had he known the conversation would reach this point, he would have made the portraits disappear without ceremony.
“And… what does Granger think of this?” he asked, finally.
“Hermione accepted,” he replied too quickly. “She was the one who suggested it.”
Weasley had already mentioned that it was Granger who had asked for him. The idea returned with nagging persistence. Was this some kind of game? Was she hoping her husband would expose himself to ridicule by making the proposal, certain that he would refuse? Or, worse, was she truly the type of woman who agreed to be shared?
Snape had never noticed such a trait in her personality. From Weasley, idiotic ideas were predictable. From her, they were not.
“What I still do not comprehend, Mr. Weasley,” he said at last, his voice low and controlled, “is whether this desire to share your wife stems from some distorted ideal of freedom… or pure inadequacy.”
Weasley frowned, clearly irritated.
“I didn’t come here looking for a sex therapist, Snape,” he shot back, sharply. “I just want to know if you accept or not.”
Snape knew he should kick him out of his office that instant, perhaps accompanied by insults so elaborate the boy would take days to process them. But that felt like too little. Unsatisfying.
He could do worse.
He could allow the boy to believe—if only for a moment—that he held some control over the situation. He could impose his own terms and, under them, involve himself with this man’s wife in ways that would leave him far too uncomfortable to sustain the fantasy.
The idea of exposing himself before another man did not appeal to him. And yet… the fact that the woman in question was Hermione Granger made the proposal dangerously less absurd.
After all, she had been the one to choose him. Hadn't she?
He exhaled slowly. Perhaps he could make this sacrifice. Perhaps he could even extract some amusement from it.
Of course—if everything Weasley said was true. And he would make absolutely certain to verify it.
“I… might do you this favor,” Snape began, after a brief silence. “Provided everything occurs under my terms.”
Weasley blinked, surprised. “And what would those be?”
“I intend to discuss them with Mrs. Weasley present.”
“My mother?”
Snape shot him a glacial look. “Your wife, you idiot.”
Weasley cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “If you think it’s necessary…”
“Obviously,” Snape interrupted dryly. “Considering she is the one who will… suffer the consequences of this decision.”
The young man’s expression darkened for a moment. The conversation, it seemed, had not pleased him as much as he had imagined. It was likely he wasn’t quite so comfortable with Granger’s choice of a partner for this fantasy—which made everything even more interesting.
Snape straightened in his chair, his decision made. Before anything else, he would need to speak with her personally. Confirm that she was truly in agreement, that there was no coercion, spells, or miscalculated games.
And, should everything go according to plan, certain old daydreams involving Hermione Granger might finally leave the realm of imagination.
A rising murmur began to form among the portraits—throats clearing, indignant whispers, expressions of absolute scandal.
He didn't bother to turn around.
With a simple flick of his wand, sharp and precise, the sound ceased entirely. The figures froze in absolute silence, mouths agape, gazes fixed, condemned to their own incredulity.
Only then did he stand.
His week had taken a rather… unexpected turn.
***
Hermione had nearly choked on her tea when Ron delivered the news: he had spoken with Snape—and, more shockingly, the man had accepted. A sudden heat flushed through her. She’d been certain he would refuse. After all, the Headmaster had never seemed the type inclined toward such exhibitionism.
But the die was cast.
Whatever his motivations, one thing was certain: Hermione would finally manage to unsettle Ron. And perhaps, in the process, satisfy some long-dormant fantasies. She was nervous, of course. Having known Snape for years, first as her professor and then as a teenage crush, the impending awkwardness was palpable—likely as intense as the very first time she’d agreed to such an arrangement. Yet this time, she clung to the subtle comfort of knowing she was reclaiming her power, even if it meant a small act of vengeance against her husband.
The day finally arrived.
Hermione rose early, too restless to remain in bed. A lingering hum of anxiety kept her moving. She spent most of the afternoon focused on herself—meticulous grooming, skincare, and ensuring every detail was perfect. These were rituals she had performed before, though the stakes felt different now.
Ron, meanwhile, lacked his usual enthusiasm for such occasions, though she didn’t bother to ask why.
The meeting was set for Spinner’s End—a Muggle industrial neighborhood. The streets were desolate and silent, providing the perfect veil of anonymity. For three war heroes, passing by unnoticed was a welcome convenience.
Upon their arrival, their host received them without fanfare. The moment Snape’s gaze locked onto hers, Hermione felt a spark of heat climb her cheeks. This was no ordinary encounter, and the weight of that realization made every breath feel heavy.
The house was austere, its rigid order layered with a fine coat of dust that suggested infrequent use. Before she could take in more, he led them upstairs to the bedroom. Her heart hammered against her ribs as they crossed the threshold.
They had barely settled in when Ron’s impatience broke the tension.
“So… what are your terms?”
“Firstly, Mrs. Weasley,” Snape began.
“Hermione, please,” she corrected firmly.
“Hermione,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. “Are you in full agreement with what is to take place here?”
“I am,” she replied without hesitation. “Do not worry.”
“Is this of your own volition?” he pressed, his voice low and measured. “You do not feel coerced?”
Ron muttered something under his breath, but Snape dismissed him entirely.
“It is my choice,” she said, holding his gaze. “I am not being manipulated.”
Snape studied her for a moment longer, searching for the conviction behind her words.
“If you will permit me…” he said at last.
He raised his wand, performing a series of precise, silent incantations.
“What are you doing?” Ron demanded. “Do you think I’ve put a spell on her?”
“Calm yourself, Ronald,” Hermione snapped. “This level of precaution is only sensible.”
Snape finished his meticulous diagnostics and turned back to her.
“My only requirement,” he drawled, letting the words linger, “is that your husband keeps his distance. It is regrettable enough that he is here to observe; I will not permit him any form of participation.”
“I’ll accept that, provided you accept mine…” Ron interjected.
She felt the urge to cut him off but stayed her hand. She had expected Snape to set boundaries—in fact, she had hoped for them. Unexpectedly, she found herself feeling more at ease. For the first time, the terms were being negotiated directly between the two people actually involved. In the past, everything had been handled by Ron.
“Speak, Mr. Weasley,” Snape sneered, not even deigning to look at him. “Grace us with your indispensable contributions.”
Hermione fought back a laugh.
“No kissing on the mouth,” Ron said, averting his eyes. “And… don’t finish inside.”
It was obvious Ron realized his grip on the situation was slipping. This new set of rules felt like a desperate attempt to reclaim control—limitations he had never bothered to impose before.
Snape looked to Hermione, waiting for a reaction. She offered none. She didn't nod, didn't protest; she simply let Ron believe what he wished.
Snape didn’t bother responding to him. It seemed he and Hermione were already playing by the same unspoken rules.
“Very well,” he said finally. “If there is nothing further…”
With a sharp flick of his wand, he gestured toward an armchair in the far corner, distancing it even more from the bed.
“Enjoy the view, Mr. Weasley."