Snape was admittedly relieved to get back to Hogwarts, despite the inconvenience of having to pop back to the club to retrieve his things, and despite the fact that he'd wakened quite late (and with an odd crick in his neck) and missed Hermione's leaving for the Ministry. (All right, he was irate that he'd missed breakfast, both hers and Hogwarts'.) He was a bit miffed that she hadn't seen him off, too, but then he'd given her a sufficient farewell earlier that morning, so he supposed everything balanced out.

Felt quite odd when I woke, actually, he puzzled to himself as he trudged up the drive. Very... peaceful, pain in the neck notwithstanding.

He couldn't set it down to anything, though -- it was quite different than straighforward satiation -- and gave up wondering about it, and decided to return to pondering the things he wasn't terribly happy about. Namely, the imposition of over a week of sexual abstinence after the last two weeks' worth of fun.

He supposed that couldn't be helped given certain biological truths, or rather, Hermione's apparent attitude about them.

'Oh, bugger' indeed. I'm surprised she didn't hop up and down for joy at the thought of putting it off....

He had no doubt she would have had a tantrum should he have suggested -- as he'd been tempted to -- that, in theory, menstruation wasn't a great impediment with certain adjustments in locale: but he'd also decided that Bluett had hit the nail on the head with his advice to be supportive, confirming his own suspicion that he shouldn't be so dogmatic about his rights when she was under such stress.

And the bludger was on her side of the pitch at the moment, after all -- firming up the documentation, making arrangements for flight, if necessary -- and he'd best leave her to it, let her concentrate solely on those things for a while, and steer clear of the hormonal muck. Hermione was usually a bit snappish in the best of circumstances: Snape shuddered to think what she might be like immediately before her menses.

He knew from twenty-odd years' experience and observation of his female students that they could be damned irrational and unbalanced at certain times. It was conclusively proven, in fact, to his satisfaction at least: hexing and jinxing of the more obnoxious male students by females often occured roughly every three weeks, and one could fairly accurately predict when a particular dorm of girls were on the same cycle, because the number of incidents shot up proportionately.

He really ought to warn his male students about that. Flitwick always had, because Ravenclaw girls were no more immune to the mood swings than any others: however, it was not only amusing to see the buggers absolutely and indignantly in the dark about it, but served as a warning system of individuals who were likely headed for trouble later on. After two hexings Snape could almost always safely assume the boy in question was an harasser, and give the little shit a talking-to that would put him off abusing females as long as he thought Snape was alive to throttle him or hex his bollocks off (assuming his victim didn't).

In his years as Head of Slytherin, the incidence of harassment had declined markedly -- lower than any of the other Houses, in fact, though of course what might happen after his students Left was another matter altogether, at least while the Death Eaters had still been recruiting. But Snape was proud of the accomplishment nonetheless: it just wasn't done, not in his House. Not upon one student by another, or by anyone else, either. (Thank the gods he'd never sensed any paedophilic tendencies on Lockhart's part, seen them in his mind, or caught him at anything dicey, or the man would have met a very messy end in the depths of the Forest.)

He and Hermione did not fall in that disgusting category of victimiser and victim, of course. They were adults; they had a business arrangement. And he thought he was showing remarkable restraint, considering, and he certainly wasn't harassing her, no matter how she might fuss. She was benefitting too, as it happened -- not only with the protection of his name and the guidance of his counsel with the Ministry idiocy, but in other, more concrete ways. Residential Deluxe service was not cheap, for example, but he couldn't let her sit there in an unsecured Muggle flat: he'd told her it was his job as her husband to protect her, by the gods he was serious about it, and her misplaced pride would have to go to the devil.

I don't begrudge her the expense, he thought bitterly as the doors of the Entrance Hall swung open for him, but a Thank you, Severus would have been appropriate and appreciated.

His rooms, when he reached them, were undisturbed: no House Elf dared enter when he was gone. They smelt musty and damp, and he dropped his valise by the door and crossed the room to open a window. (His knee was already beginning to ache, and he spared a regret for Hermione's electric hot-water bottle.) He couldn't stop to fuss over it or the lack of breakfast at the moment, though -- McGonagall should have already been alerted to his return, and he had no intention of undergoing an "interview," no matter how much his stomach was urging him to order early elevenses. Better to be occupied with work when McGonagall chose to stick her long Scots nose in -- he might put her off with that -- so he ignored the correspondence that waited on the table and went directly to the classroom.

*****

She found him there, of course (the nosy auld bitch) a bare ten minutes after he'd begun to unpack the crates that had arrived in his absence, and she didn't any waste time.

"Ah, you're back! You look well-rested."

"It was not precisely restful," he shot back, intent on his inventory, "but bits of it were certainly pleasant."

McGonagall snorted, and he was forced to look up and glare at her.

"I'm sure 'bits' were," she said, "but I imagine 'pleasant' is an understatement. I may never have married, Severus, but I'm not ignorant of one of the main functions of marriage."

Oh, that deserved a challenge.

"Do enlighten me, Headmistress," he said, voice silky . "Everyone seems intent on informing me what a marriage should be."

"Companionship primarily, of course. I sure you don't need me to point out the more sensual aspects, because you look far too pleased with yourself for me to believe you haven't indulged quite a lot."

He grunted. "You, at least, aren't babbling about cottages and children as Sprout insists on doing."

"Speaking of that, I've had a word, there. Silly woman means well, of course, but she's no idea how badly she put Hermione on the spot. Not to mention poor Vector."

"And what about putting me on the spot?"

"You're perfectly capable of handling it, Severus -- you always were such an easy and convincing little liar. No, don't go all prickly, it's the truth, and we were damned lucky in the end that you are. I'm simply saying I told Pomona she ought curb her enthusiasm, that's all."

"Thank you," he said grudgingly. "Hermione will be visiting on the week-ends, and I shouldn't care to have to restrain her from hexing the bloody woman. Not on a regular basis."

"Is she going to be about?" McGonagall said, and slipped onto a bench behind one of the desks. "That's nice, I shall enjoy seeing her once in a while."

"Not this one, but after.... I suppose I ought ask if I might arrange for Hooch to cover my House duties every third or fourth week-end? Can't expect the girl to drop everything every time."

"Of course you may. I agree that Hooch is best, as asking Vector would be a bit much given the circumstances. Hooch will be more on top of them, at any rate.... Really, Severus, 'the girl?' Your wife, surely."

That deserved nothing but a glare, and McGonagall got it.

"Severus, please tell me you're trying to --"

"Yes," he admitted viciously. (This was precisely what he'd wanted to avoid, this absolutely presumptuous prying into his and Hermione's business.) "Yes, I'm doing my best to be congenial. Have you and Pomfrey decided to double-team me on this?"

"No."

"Then please take your own advice and leave well enough alone --"

He stopped himself quite abruptly -- some part of him recognising that whether it was McGonagall's business or not, she was still his superior, and he owed her more respect than this -- and he quite deliberately laid down the inventory, leaned back against the table, and met her eyes.

"I realise," he said more reasonably, "that you're very protective of Hermione. Of any of your lot in general, rather. And I'm not going to attempt to convince you that our... relationship is anything at all as it's supposed to be, not according to what everyone apparently assumes it should. It is, however, working for us, at least on some level."

"I didn't mean to insult you, Severus," McGonagall said softly. "I don't think you'd intentionally harm her. It's just that you've always been so solitary, and by now you're very set in your ways -- one reason I chose not to accept the offer I had.... Don't look so shocked, boy, I had one, once." Her thin lips twisted wryly at his ill-concealed surprise. "It's very easy to forget that there has to be compromise involved, particularly when the parties come from such different backgrounds."

"Yes I am used to being alone, and no, it isn't by any means the easiest thing I've ever done. And there are... complications which I'm not at liberty to discuss, but which are putting her under even more stress. So I'm trying to give her a great deal of leeway, and I'm certainly not insisting on a strict Pureblood interpretation of a proper marriage, if that's what is concerning you."

"It's not, not entirely. I didn't expect she'd let you get away with that, anyway. She's having more trouble with the Ministry, then?"

"Yes...." Snape admitted quite slowly, and stared at McGonagall: it was an innocuous enough question, considering, but there was the slightest bit of strain in her voice that signalled she was up to no good. "How much do you know?" he finally asked, resigned to it.

"No specifics, but Arthur Weasley keeps me informed as to rumours," she promptly said. "He thought for a while that the old crowd might be useful."

"Has he? And he came to you?"

"I've apparently inherited more than the Headmastership, as far as he and the rest are concerned." McGonagall said dryly. "I can't say I appreciate it -- the one thing is quite enough, and I've no intention of plotting coups or leading any charges. And I don't agree with his estimation of the old crowd."

"Ah. Well, I think you're right in this instance, it's quite different to the old situation. It's a purely intellectual and strategic problem, and most of the old crowd are useless with that. Barring occasional mischief, which I gather Arthur is indulging in anyway."

"Perhaps. Is it helpful?"

"Might be, on the one hand," Snape mused. "As long as Hermione's well out of it and can't be blamed for any of it. Might be a good distraction. I'll keep it in mind, and.... Shall I tell you if something definite is required?"

"Why don't you. It will look far less suspicious if I contact him. And I shall tell you if there's a reason you might want to keep Hermione clear of the Ministry for a bit, to give her an alibi."

"Very well."

"It's something rather awful, isn't it?" McGonagall asked tentatively. "Far more than we suspect, I mean. Arthur's been working on that assumption, given that they haven't been able to pry any information out of anyone in Corcoran's department. He didn't dare approach Hermione, of course. Don't tell me specifics, but --"

"It's absolutely horrid, you can't begin to imagine it. It will suffice to say that Fudge may be taking advantage of the whole situation to re-fashion society into his view of something proper and respectable, and if it meets the ICW goals as well, he doesn't much care how he accomplishes it. Even if it means breaking every rule and law on the books, and ruining many peoples' lives."

McGonagall quite shocked Snape by using some very pungent Scots words. (He didn't understand them, precisely, but the subtext was clear.)

"Well," she finally said as she stood, smoothing her robe-front, "I'm glad I asked. Even if you didn't appreciate the way I went about it."

"Might have got right to it," he muttered. "Don't think I'm not aware there's idle curiosity involved, as well."

"Don't be intentionally dense, of course there is -- it's rather fascinating, in some ways, seeing you cope with it. You do know, by the way, that if it's ever necessary for her to spend more time here, that you may change 'round your rooms if required? Add some space?"

"I assumed so. Not that I anticipate needing to."

"I didn't think you would. Far more intimate this way, isn't it?" McGonagall said primly, ignoring his sneer at her implication. "At any rate, I was far too shocked at the time to offer you proper felicitations, so you have them now."

"Not required, under the circumstances," Snape said through gritted teeth, and buried his nose back in the inventory.

"Nonsense, of course they are," she threw at him over her shoulder as she left the room. "And I'm very glad Hermione has you looking out after her, 'under the circumstances.' Oh, and Severus?" she added, stopping at the door.

"Yes?"

"Do see Poppy about the knee, would you? You're an absolute terror to deal with at this time of year."

Snape quickly decided that while Bundimum scecretion was far more expensive than powdered Bicorn horn, the jar of secretion would shatter far more satisfactorily and messily against the door: but by the time he reached for it, McGonagall had nipped out of the room and was well away.

*****

He was quite busy with the inventory and re-stocking all through the week-end, and with sorting through the inevitable problems that had cropped up among the Merlin's Scholars in his absence; by then it was Sunday night, and he hadn't the energy to do much but collapse in front of the fire with a glass of whisky, girding his loins for the resumption of classes next morning. (And girding was all he did with his loins: he refused to acknowledge any sexual tension, much less do anything about it.)

There was, however, a visitor to his rooms that evening: a runty little owl bearing a packet. As the handwriting on it was Hermione's, he forbore his usual brusqueness with messenger-owls and grudgingly fed it a treat before sending it off.

Two Galleons fell out of the wrapper and into Snape's lap when he opened it.

Severus,
I quite forgot about Marsters. When you get a chance, would you see to him? Thank you.

H.

P.S. No progress on our little project, I'm afraid. Better luck next time?
P.P.S. -- XXOO

Yes, he too had forgot about Marsters, and his ridiculous promise, despite seeing the child in the Great Hall every day since his return. He ought take care of that tonight, so as not to excite comment by holding the boy back after class....

He struggled over that for some time, trying to decide if it was some obscure encipherment: he even pulled out his wand and tried various Revealing Charms -- including the one he used on the Map -- to no avail, and finally gave up in disgust.

On the whole, though, he deemed it probably unimportant; and while his initial reaction was to toss Hermione's note into the fire -- as he did with most non-essential correspondence -- he had second thoughts and tucked it away with his personal things, the better to provide evidence for any investigators as to the validity of their marriage. Then, with extreme ill-humour, he dressed fully and resorted to visiting the Hufflepuff Common Room (disgustingly 'cosy,' as McGonagall would no doubt call it -- Snape called it stifling and twee) to track down Marsters and pull him out and into a nearby classroom.

Marsters looked terrified: best to get it over as quickly as possible, while impressing the little bleeder with the need for discretion.

"Do you know what a Patron is, Marsters?"

Marsters shook his head and mumbled a nearly voiceless "No, sir."

"Before the Merlin's Scholarships were established, students in need would have to be supported by a patron. Fees, uniforms, books -- all paid for by the patron. Now, however, the scholarship covers these necessities. It does not, however, cover items like pocket-money." Snape did his level best not to sneer through the next bit, not entirely successfully. "Madam Snape.... My wife has taken an... interest in you, and has provided two Galleons a term for you for Hogsmeade week-ends --"

Marster's jaw dropped, and Snape held up a hand to forestall any questions.

"-- and you alone, which puts me in a somewhat difficult position, so I am setting some terms. You will not divulge the identity of your benefactor -- her, that is, and certainly not me -- unless asked by one of the teachers. And you will restrict yourself to one Galleon per quarter-term, no asking an advance on the remainder should you splurge well before quarter-day. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't care how you spend it or what upon, though I should suggest avoiding restricted items as being a total waste, and I don't require an accounting. You will present yourself at my office just before curfew on quarter-days to collect the next allowance until I am satisfied you can be trusted with the entire amount. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Snape pulled the Galleon from his watch-pocket, and then thought better of it: a hitherto penniless student suddenly possessing a Galleon would excite comment, and possibly put the child under suspicion of being a thief. (Snape knew this from sad personal experience.) So he rummaged in his other pockets and carefully counted out the proper amount, in knuts and sickles, into Marster's grubby little palm.

"All accounted for?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go on, then. And don't blab or flash it about."

Marsters shot off for the door, and only barely managed to remember a "Please thank her for me," before taking off.

When Snape returned to his rooms, he decided to offset the indignity of dealing with Marsters with an exercise in getting a bit of his own back.

Sunday 8th Jan.

My dear wife --

He stopped to bask in the glow of that deviltry a little: not that he took any pleasure from it in and of itself, but because it served a dual purpose of misdirection to snoopers, and should probably put Hermione's nose vastly out of joint as well.

Marsters is sorted. If he spills any information about the allowance, however, I shall decline to participate further. He said to thank you.

While I am just as anxious as you that our little project come to fruition, we ought to be patient: the literature suggests to me that it isn't nearly as easy to achieve as some authorities claim. It may take as long as a year, especially considering our current living arrangement and the stress that blighter Corcoran puts you under at work.

I can't say that the trying is terribly arduous or that I'm not enjoying it immensely, either. And I am looking forward very much to your visit next week-end. (Please do bring that short, clingier night-dress, rather than the flannel one. I shall see to it that you're warm nonetheless.)

Severus

That should get her good and proper, he thought, quite unaware of the feral grin on his face as he folded and sealed the note. And I'll wager that when she shows up she's flannelled-up head to toe and twice as prickly as usual.

He continued to grin unconsciously well after the owl had left with the letter.

*****

Getting a bit of the middle-aged wizard spread, Snape thought critically as he stared into the mirror. Ought to do something about that.... He'd thought he was getting enough exercise over the holiday despite the Hermione's agreeable cooking (especially the sausages), but perhaps not.

He gave himself another critical stare, checked his chin for smoothness (he's actually shaved again as soon as he'd cleared away from his last class, something he never ordinarily bothered to do), picked a bit of non-existent fluff from his waistcoat, and sauntered out into the sitting-room to wait for Hermione to show up. He was quite looking forward to her arrival, although he knew that, realistically, she probably shouldn't have had a chance to accomplish much on the documentation end of things.

At the moment, however, he didn't give a fig about the Ministry situation. The Slytherin Trouser-Snake had been giving him hell the last few days (the spoilt beggar), and Snape had every intention of seeing to its care and feeding first before attending to any other business. (After a private dinner, that is. He'd decided to try a more seductive approach for once: suavity and a good meal had seemed to put her at ease that first day in London, at the club; and he'd begun to regret his nasty little note about flannel night-dresses, as he wasn't in the mood to waste time struggling with getting her out of said ugly flannel gown.)

He settled himself in front of the fire to begin an exhaustive pouring-over of the trade journals -- he hadn't been able to all week, given the press of classes and largely successful attempts at keeping the little shits from blowing themselves up -- and looked for any hint of Ministry mischief, any sign that they were close to implementing their plan. It was all he could do, really, much as he hated to admit it.

He only woke from sleep when the mantel-clock chimed two o'clock in the morning to find his whisky-glass upended on the floor, Potions Today crumpled on his chest and slightly sticky with what he suspected was sleep-induced drool, and absolutely no sign of Hermione anywhere at all in his rooms, much less in his bed.

*****

He was in the middle of marking papers when the ward-chime on his rooms pinged (he hadn't reset the ward, so she could enter at will), and he shot up from his desk, raced to the connecting door, and flung it open.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" he snarled.

Hermione blinked in surprise as she stood from a crouch: he'd caught her in the middle of setting down her bag. "I've only just got here --"

"I know that. Where were you last night?"

"Home," she said as she shrugged out of her coat. "I'd had a long day at work, and --"

"Do you have any notion how.... You might have owled or flamed, damn it. I had no idea if you'd been discovered, or if you might have been attacked --"

"Severus, we didn't set an actual day," she protested. "And week-end usually means... well, the week-end. Saturday."

He watched her face carefully -- or as carefully as he could given his irritation at being made to worry about her, at the ruination of his plan for a long, leisurely seduction-by-fine-dining (or as close as one could come at Hogwarts), and at the delay in obtaining his satisfaction -- and found nothing but bewilderment and indignation, and not one whit of caginess or intent to put him off deliberately.

"Next time," he said, stalking toward her, "use the bloody flame. I'm sure Aga can manage if you'd only resort to a bit of bloody charming."

He decided to demand a promise of her that she'd do so in future -- later.

*****

Eleven thirty-four a.m.

Snape was totally unaware that there was anyone else at all in his rooms -- much less in his bedchamber itself -- until Hermione (who, after a few minutes' verbal wrangling over his single-minded exuberance, had finally shut up and allowed him uncontested rights) suddenly clutched at his forearm and whispered an urgent, "Severus."

"What?" he mumbled against her torso, not quite registering the difference between her usual, irritated 'You're an unreasonable and randy bastard, Severus' or 'I really wish you wouldn't do that, Severus,' and this (which was, on later reflection, most definitely 'We have a problem, Severus').

"You'd b-better.... We've c-company," she stuttered, and he finally understood that she was panicking. And not from anything he was doing.

He froze, mind racing (as much as it could, considering the circumstances), and realised with horror that technically he held office hours on non-Quidditch Saturdays, he'd probably left the connecting door to his office open and unwarded, and that, moreover, it wasn't unlikely that one of his more stupid or driven students might have got nosy about his rooms, since the connecting door was standing wide and was probably quite tempting.

"Whoever you are," he growled, lunging up Hermione's body and groping for his wand on the nightstand, "you have two seconds to get the bloody hell out."

"It's only Pinky, Professor sir," squeaked an Elf: he halted and glared over his shoulder at it, and at the ridiculous pink ribbon it always tied about one ear as an identity badge. (He hated this Elf. It couldn't learn to leave his rooms as he liked them, was particularly dense and resistant to his attempts to put it off, and he'd told it time and again never, ever to come back.) "Professor sir's rooms were very messy today, and Pinky was worried about the ladies' clothing." She held up Hermione's blouse in front of her -- the one Snape vaguely remembered ripping a few buttons off of, in his haste -- and added pridefully, "I fixed the buttons for Professor sir --"

"Fine, get out --"

"-- but Pinky is so happy that it really isn't Professor sir's, is it? It's hers," Pinky said, trying to peer past Snape for another glimpse of Hermione. "Pinky didn't think peach was Professor sir's best colour."

Snape's fingers fumbled the wand, and it slipped off the edge of the nightstand out of easy reach: so he picked up the next available item, twisted to face the door, and heaved it at the idiotic Elf.

*****

"Severus!"

"Gods-damned bloody little sneak --" he snarled, hauling himself over the edge of the bed to retrieve his wand once the stupid creature had popped out.

"She didn't deserve to have glassware chucked at her head," Hermione said indignantly, clutching the bedclothes to her chest. (Snape was extremely narked at that. He'd just managed to get the blasted covers off her so he could explore to his heart's content without squirming about under them, like a hog rooting about the undergrowth for truffles.)

"They are supposed to knock in Faculty and Staff rooms," he said, narrowly avoiding treading on the shattered carafe as he hurried out to the sitting room to ward the office door itself against any students, and to close the connecting door as well. "In everyone's, but I've told them quite particularly that they must in mine," he added in a bellow for Hermione's benefit.

"Another 'Get out' would have done just as well," Hermione retorted in a yell. "Besides, if you didn't ward the door to the bedchamber it's partly your fault."

"No, it's not," he shot back as he returned to the bedchamber, muttered an ill-tempered Reparo at the shattered carafe, and returned it and his wand to the nightstand. "They can pop through the standard wards if they're so clueless as to try it -- and that one is. I suppose you shouldn't have minded had she popped right into the bed with us, would you?"

"Don't be stupid -- but I wouldn't throw things at her, either. It's not her fault she's been assigned to you."

"She isn't. They draw bloody straws every week among the junior ones for who gets me, when what I need is an older, more sensible one, damn them."

"And they've probably rigged it so she gets the short straw because they know she irritates you no end. That's what you get for being nasty to the help.... Oh, for God's sake, Severus, don't take your anger at me out on the scouts," she said wearily, and collapsed back into the pillows.

Snape halted, half-in and half-out of the bed, and stared at her. "What in bloody hell do you mean?"

"Just what I said. You're angry at me for being late -- even though I didn't know I was -- and you're taking it out on anyone in chucking distance."

"I am most certainly not," he said distinctly, one foot still on the floor. (Part of his brain told him he must look ridiculous, and he hastily climbed the rest of the way into the bed.) "I am angry with the bloody Elf for not knocking. I am not angry with you."

"Really? 'Where the bloody hell have you been' sounded angry to me."

"I was... concerned, I told you that."

"Not enough to Apparate to the flat," she said stubbornly.

"Of course not, it was two in the morning by the time I'd realised you weren't here, and --"

"And you'd decided I was standing you up," Hermione interrupted, and fixed him with an even gaze that was quite unnerving. "So you bloody well weren't going to be seen dead coming to get me, because you wanted to see my reaction this morning. And if that meant not checking on my safety, so be it."

He really would have liked to refute the statement. The problem was, it was very accurate.

He'd known rationally that she was probably fine; had he not had Harrison install the ward, or had he suspected she'd do something stupid like intentionally disabling it, he should have gone to check on her, Hogwarts duties be damned. But he'd assumed that she was simply being obdurate and avoiding him, rather than considering that she might have been tired and hadn't thought he expected her immediately.

The look on his face must have given it away, for Hermione nodded in satisfaction and settled back down, staring at the ceiling.

"That's all this morning has been about, in fact," she said softly. "Teaching me another lesson. And it's not fair, Severus, because it was an honest misunderstanding. I'm not trying to cheat you out of anything -- not any longer, at least -- even if I can't pretend to be happy about it."

Well, she was wrong about one thing, and he needed to set her straight on it. "I have not touched you in anger since... I haven't touched you sexually in anger since that first time. I've gone to some trouble not to do so, in fact," he said carefully. "I know you were truthful earlier, and I'd quite set that aside. I was simply... over-enthusiastic."

That was as far as he could bring himself to go. It simply wouldn't do to admit Bloody hell, I've looked forward to bedding you for over a week, and I've gone so far as to ignore every discomfort -- and they've been many, considering how much I've anticipated this....

No, that gave her entirely too much power in the situation. Sexual politics were very delicate, and it was far too easy to tip one's hand: once she had the idea that she might have the advantage, this would become even more a tussle and a bother than it already was.

Hermione was silent for a while, and then said, "I see. It's very easy to misunderstand you, you know, because you don't tell me, and it's usually very hard to read you visually." (He snorted -- of course it was, that had kept him alive more times than he liked to think -- but she apparently decided to ignore his commentary.) "I can't always tell when you're angry as opposed to simply irritated. Or not irritated at all."

"I admit to frequent irritation. Not necessarily with you, not always, but with the situation in general. Life in general."

"Why is that?" she asked softly, and rolled to her side to face him when he again snorted in derision. "No, I'm serious, I really want to know. I think we eventually find ourselves on the same side of an issue or a problem, but we lose a great deal of time arguing because we've arrived there by separate paths. And I don't think we have the luxury of that any longer, do you? It was different when you weren't part of the muck, but if we're going to work together effectively, we've got to cut through all that. We mayn't have the time in future."

That made a great deal of sense, blast it. They did seem to spend a great deal of time second-guessing each other and quibbling over reasoning and methodology. And while that was acceptable in the planning-stages of a campaign -- was, in some respects, necessary and helpful -- it would be a tremendous disadvantage when they were required to act quickly and decisively as a whole. As a single, cohesive unit.

And it was possible -- just possible -- that if he were forthcoming with Hermione she would learn to trust his judgement, to defer to his greater experience more than she had hitherto.

"I hate waste, for one thing," he finally said. "Wasted time, wasted effort. I don't particularly care for people who squander their potential, either, but that's a personal decision. As long as they stay out of my way, don't hamper my own efforts, and don't bother or slight me, I don't give a damn what they do to themselves, really."

"Do you think I've squandered my potential?"

"Why should you?"

"You went on about me avoiding magic the other night."

He stopped to consider it a while, and then admitted, "I think it's deplorable, but it doesn't precisely bother me. It has little bearing on the matters that directly concern us, other than often being a generally inefficient way of living one's life. That is, however, your prerogative. I was more concerned with what seemed like a completely idiotic decision in working with the Ministry, but you had a very good reason for staying, if not for the initial choice. It was fortuitous, if not prescient. Why did you join?"

She shifted uneasily, but finally said, "It was a bit prescient, I think. After the war, everyone was convinced that everything would be wonderful. No more Voldemort, blue skies, no worries.... I couldn't quite believe that. I mean, the very fact that Fudge turned his back on Dumbledore and then actively opposed him, opposed us, when we had such clear evidence of what was happening, was just.... It was arrogance of the highest order. And I was gobsmacked when the bloody man came out of the whole thing squeaky-clean and managed to stay in power.... I got the feeling something was up, too, with all those stupid attempts to turn the school into some kind of marriage-market. Trying to brainwash people into doing what someone else knew was right for them, whether they wanted it or not."

"So when you saw the consultancy, you jumped at it because it might put you in a position of influence at best, or enable you to do precisely what you're doing, at worst."

"Something like that, yes. It wasn't nearly that clear or conscious a decision at the time, I'm afraid. It simply felt right."

"Instinct. I'm the last person to sneer at that, provided it's coupled with logic and common-sense."

"Really? You've always impressed me otherwise."

"You haven't seen me work in circumstances which require it, although there's a certain amount involved in Legilimency. It's a question of balance. Take Black, for example," Snape said cautiously, because he wasn't certain how much loyalty and sympathy she had felt for the bastard. "Much as I hated the man -- for purely personal and justifiable reasons -- I will admit that he was a better-than-average duelist. Had he leavened his skill with common-sense, he might have survived that jaunt into the Ministry. Instead he gave in to his natural tendency to behave like a bullying fool, dropped his guard, and died for it."

"How do you know what happened? You weren't there."

"I got the story from both sides. And of course I wasn't there -- how could I be? I should have been exposed to one side or the other. I should have had to fight for the Order and be branded as an outright enemy of the Dark Lord, or for the Death Eaters and thrown away my cover as their agent here. Useless to them, in other words, and entirely expendable. And in any case, I was de facto head of Hogwarts at the time. Dumbledore had been relieved, McGonagall was in hospital, and Umbridge missing in action through someone's agency.... I could not leave the school unprotected."

"Wouldn't Flitwick have been Acting Head? I know he'd been here quite a while longer than you."

"Good gods, yes. Which is why every year since I came to teach, he'd regretfully hand in his resignation at the end of Spring Term to Dumbledore, who more regretfully accepted it, and who then never quite managed to fill the Charms position before Autumn Term -- so he had to ask Flitwick back as a new hire. Filius was junior even to Hagrid, at one point...."

"Oh, bloody.... To have a good excuse to keep you here, you mean?"

"Precisely. The Death Eaters assumed it was enough of a sop to my vanity and ambitions to explain why I stayed, and gave me high enough standing to be able to spy on Dumbledore.... At any rate, Black died because he had, as usual, to lord it over someone, and that someone was quicker and more intent than he. He wasted his opportunities -- what he had left of them -- and for nothing but a chance to belittle someone." He shot a glance at her. "You aren't objecting to my view of him."

"It's skewed by your animosity, of course. But I.... After I'd been at the Black house for a while I'd begun to form my own opinion of him, and it wasn't positive. There was just something there that made me terribly uneasy. The way he egged Harry on to be reckless, I suppose -- I nearly backed out of the independent Defence classes simply because he thought it was a wonderful idea.... I felt sorry for him, certainly, but I didn't think all his problems were because of Azkaban."

"Too bloody right," Snape muttered, and resisted the urge to tell Hermione precisely how fucked-up he thought Sirius Black had always been: he was by no means the only student who had suffered at Black's hands, though he was the most visible and favourite target.

"I see. So, back to the main problem.... You're sometimes frustrated with me. You assume, because we've started out on the wrong foot -- to put it mildly -- that I'm not trying to be fair and that I'm wasting time intentionally, if not slighting you outright," Hermione said carefully. "But as you don't ask me, and as you've been very good about not resorting to Legilimency, your interpretation of my actions is, perhaps, a bit off at times. Do you think that's possible?"

"Yes," Snape said grudgingly.

"Well, for what it's worth, I have tried to avoid you. Tried to avoid holding up my end of the bargain. I admit that, and it's just as bad as my original intent. I'm not going to lie and tell you that I'm thrilled with much of our... our interactions, either. But I've faced up to the responsibilities I owe you, I'm not intentionally avoiding you, and I wish you'd ask me about it in future rather than jumping to incorrect conclusions."

Damn and blast.

He hated that. He hated the idea of having to solicit information -- of having to ask up-front about it, because it went against his nature and nearly thirty years' training and conditioning. Moreover, women were... well, they always insisted on dragging their feelings into everything, and he didn't do well with those. Cold, hard facts, yes: those couldn't be denied, though they could be manipulated or ignored. And he certainly didn't want to know about Hermione's feelings and emotions (not beyond a certain superficial knowledge that was useful for his own purposes), because he suspected she didn't understand why she did acted as she did at least half the time. He was by no means the most emotionally adept person in the world, but at least he admitted that: she didn't, and he thought she had a very steep learning curve to master before she could even face that fact.

"I can ask what your intentions are," he finally granted. "Why you choose to act as you do is your business, as long as it doesn't put either of us in danger or violate our agreement. Is that acceptable?"

"It's better than the way we've been muddling through, yes."

"Fine, I shall attempt to do so," he said, and self-consciously pulled the covers futher up above his waist. (This was definitely business-business, not sex, and lying nude in bed was a very odd circumstance in which to be carrying on a negotiation of this sort.)

"Good," she said, and lay silent for a while, still watching him. (He tried to ignore her, but it was unnerving.) "Well, do you want to...."

"What?"

"Do you want to continue with what you were doing? I'm here, after all. And if you weren't angry with me, then you were certainly, ah... looking forward to it. I didn't mean to put you off it, it was just a good chance to bring the subject up."

"Unfortunately, my enthusiasm has been dampened, if you hadn't noticed," he said dryly. "More trouble than it's worth, at this point."

"Oh." She was silent again for a while, and then cautiously asked, "Totally dampened, or only somewhat?"

He glanced at her, suspicious. "Somewhat."

"Ah. Well, I'll take a ten-minute nap, shall I? And knowing you, by then you'll be back at top form. Wake me when you're properly enthusiastic," she said levelly, and settled back down.

Was she offering herself? She certainly wasn't offering to help re-awaken his enthusiasm, but she wasn't saying 'Too bad, sod off, then,' either.

While it couldn't be taken as an expression of actual interest -- in either the act or in him -- Snape decided it was a bit of a thawing-out of her attitude... and, that being the case, that the experience might not be as one-sided or require quite as much work on his part as it had to this point. That she might, eventually, even begin to respond on her own behalf and start to actually enjoy the proceedings. Perhaps.

He wasn't certain why that seemed important at the moment, and set the thought aside for the time being: while it bore some thinking about, his 'enthusiasm' was beginning to urge him to consider the fact that he had an intelligent, attractive, and relatively unobjectionable female in his bed who a mere hour ago he'd wanted to shag senseless.

Hermione's nap lasted only five minutes before Snape decided it was worth the effort.

*****

"I take it," Snape asked Hermione over their late -- very late -- luncheon, "that you had no success on either front this week?"

"Why?"

"Because you would have blurted it out immediately as you know damned well that's the one thing that would have slowed me down this morning. Lack of opportunity, or do you think you're being watched?"

"Opportunity, mostly," she said mildly. "People have been putting in long hours after the holiday. And I'd, ah... I'd rather ticked off Corcoran my first day back, and I've had to be careful about his response."

"You did it intentionally?"

"Yes. He ripped into me for wanting to take the half-day, and I let him know I didn't appreciate it. Also that I'm aware what a bloody slacker he is. And that I'd file a report on him for being a bully. And that he really ought be more understanding, as my husband was intent on impregnating me --"

"Good gods, girl, there's such a thing as subtlety. Did you really need to go that far? "

Hermione stared at him, fork poised above her salad-plate. "This from the man who twitted him about his adolescent acne?"

"Totally different. He's not my superior, is he?"

"He's had it coming for a long time. He threatened to file two separate complaints against me, but he shut up when I said I'd file a Pensieve record of the meeting that would have the accountants on his back. I haven't had any reprisals, so I think I scared him rather badly."

"That is not necessarily a good thing, you know. The more unprincipled ones can become very dangerous when they're frightened."

"He's not that kind of frightened, not yet. And I made it clear I'd do my job, but that I wouldn't be as whole-hearted about it -- that was a definite plus of the encounter. Don't worry, I've taken some pains to secure my office from meddling."

"Good."

"And I've acquired an orb and put my memory of the meeting in it, so if anything happens to me for a stupid reason -- I mean, if he tries to sack me for insolence or something -- you or I can pull the bugger out and show it to him or the Board of Inquiry. It's in a box of christmas ornaments in the hall cupboard, by the way."

"How the bloody hell did you get your hands on one of those? They're restricted to official use."

"Fred and George Weasley. Don't ask me why they wanted them or how they got them, but they've got loads. They swore they hadn't 'fiddled' with this one yet, so I know they're up to no good. But beyond that, I didn't think I ought to ask."

Snape filed that information away for later potential use, and turned to other matters. "And no progress on your Plan B?"

"There I have got something done. You won't like it, though," she said, and tucked into her salmon. (Snape had ordered the aborted Friday dinner for Saturday luncheon, instead. The Elves had gone to some trouble to find everything he'd requested, and he'd made other plans than a leisurely dinner for the evening.)

"Go ahead," Snape said wearily, and prepared to restrain himself from shooting out of his chair and hitting the ceiling.

"I've forged some incriminating documents that I can forward to François now. If we're in danger from the Ministry we contact him, he turns them over to the ICW, and they arrest us and send us to Liechtenstein for prosecution."

Snape dropped his fork and buried his head in his hands.

"It really is the only thing I could think of," Hermione said apologetically. "After all, the point is to get out of the bloody country, and who better to do it than the ICW? And if the ICW is involved with Fudge we're in for it anyway, aren't we?"

"Not only in for it, but totally and absolutely fucked," Snape muttered into his palms.

"I really couldn't see any way around it. We're going to have to testify in any case, and this way François can back us up."

"If he does. He might let us hang."

"Oh, I doubt that. I'm not saying it's impossible, but I doubt it. I can get him into a great deal of trouble because he passed on the Twenty-Year Plan, after all."

"Unless they know he did. Unless that was precisely the point."

"Why? Really, Severus, I... I understand your caution, I do. But that simply doesn't make sense, that the conspiracy extends all the way upward. There are other countries just as badly off as we, and there's nothing of the sort going on there."

"That you know of."

"Well, I'm in a better position to know than most, aren't I? We've got sort of an unofficial network of sorts, we share ideas and strategies -- stupid, useless stuff, mostly, but it's fairly obvious whether someone's upset and whether they're witholding information about what's really going on."

"Let's... hope you're correct," Snape said, mentally wincing at the word. (One had no business hoping for anything in war. And this was war, never mind that it was being played out on a purely intellectual battlefield.)

"I might have a good opportunity to snoop about next week," Hermione offered. "Corcoran is scheduled for a few days' leave, so I need to decide whether it's worth breaking into his office."

"For what?"

"Any supporting evidence of the plot."

"I should be very careful," Snape said: even to himself, his voice seemed as tense as the aching muscles of his shoulders and neck. "He'll expect something like that, or he should."

"Are you saying you don't want me to?"

"I'm saying... I should prefer if someone else did."

"Who the bloody hell else is there?"

"There are possibilities," Snape said firmly. "I oughtn't tell you, so you can deny any hand at all in it. When will he be gone?"

"He won't be in from the evening of the eighteenth -- the Wednesday -- until the next Monday."

"Let me check and see if something can be arranged."

"All right. I'm wondering about something else as well, though...."

"Yes?"

"Do you think the Wizengamot will have ordered an inquest on Flaherty's death? I know there was one in France, but the record's been sealed -- François can't get at it. Don't you think it likely there would be one here as well?"

"I've no idea. Why?"

"There would have been questions asked about why he was over there, for one. And I'd be interested in seeing if Fudge made any attempts at misdirection. It might be a good indication if he suspected Flaherty, and if the Wizengamot knows what Fudge is up to."

"Hermione, what earthly good would that do?"

"I don't know, not yet, I've just got a feeling.... I only need to get into the Wizengamot Records Room, just for a few minutes."

"A feeling's not quite good enough, I don't think."

"What about Bingelwort and Cunningham, then? Why were they willing to go along with the plan, and to lie to their own Board about the potion?"

"You think Fudge has something on them? It might simply be for the profit. Or something illegal, true, but nothing that's come before the Wizengamot."

"Possibly. We won't know unless we check, will we?"

He had to resist the urge to throttle her. "It's a bloody great risk for potentially no payback," he said through gritted teeth.

"I know. But I really don't have any other avenues open, at the moment, not if you don't want me searching Corcoran's office myself."

There was absolutely nothing to do but forbid her outright, at this point. Except....

"Again, let me check with my contact," he said, sighing, and thanked his stars for McGonagall being a nosy and interfering bitch.

"So you'll --"

"If it can be managed without putting you at risk, yes," Snape said, and tried to salvage what was left of his appetite.

*****

He managed a half-hearted attempt to exercise his rights early in the evening, with rather less of the intensity that had apparently shocked Hermione earlier: true to her word, while she wasn't precisely enthusiastic, she seemed to make an effort to relax and to follow the few directions he gave her. (Contrary to what most might think of him, he found resistance more than a little off-putting. Brute force was a sordid tactic, and, given the human male's general physical strength in comparison to the female's, utterly predictable and despicable. He preferred to exhaust all other avenues before resorting to that.)

Afterwards (while in some respects it was quite pleasant to lie abed with Hermione dozing beside him) he had to accept that he'd pulled monitor duty that night, and rose for a quick bathe.

"Where are you --?" Hermione mumbled through her hair as he quietly pulled on clean clothes.

"Patrol duty until midnight," he informed her. "Feel free to choose something from the bookshelves if you're so inclined, but do stay here -- I shall worry if you go wandering."

"Too tired," she muttered. "I'll probably just sleep tonight."

Well, the afternoon wasn't wasted, then, he thought as he slipped out of his rooms, warded the door, and strode off down the corridor.

He was worried, as it happened. She still looked as tired as she had after their foray into Arden Forest: probably back to her routine of long work hours and ridiculous, unhealthy avoidance of good, solid meat-and-potatoes fare, so to speak. But there wasn't a thing he could do about that while she was in London: at least he could chivvy her into eating properly on her visits, so that would have to do in future.

It bothered him nonetheless and he should have welcomed any distraction from the thought, but for once the idiot students seemed content to stay out of mischief. (He didn't even catch either of the married student couples mucking about in the darkest corners, as he'd half-expected.) He had plenty of time to worry over how to approach McGonagall about arranging mischief at the Ministry on such short notice: and then, motivated by an odd prickling of his senses at the thought of McGonagall, he detoured to the Headmistress' office.

She was already there, dressed in a revolting tartan dressing-gown, hair in a long plait down her back, a mug of whisky-laced hot cocoa in her hands, and looking quite irritable.

"Up this late so early in term?" Snape asked.

She glared at him. "Your fault. Albus put in a charm and now the blasted castle knows when someone's looking for the Head and wakes them. I can't break the bloody charm and neither could poor Filius. I'm sure Albus thought it useful, but I call it bloody annoying."

"Ah," Snape said, resolving that if anything ever happened to McGonagall that he should resign immediately rather than put up with Dumbledore's idiocy. (He might have guessed the bloody old coot would manage to make a nuisance of himself even from the grave.) "I did need you, actually, but I was going to wait until tomorrow. It's not quite that urgent."

"I'm up now," McGonagall said, sour-faced. "Go ahead."

So Snape told her of Hermione's ridiculous idea to pillage both the Wizengamot Records Room and Corcoran's office -- both actions against his wishes and best judgment, but particularly the former -- and wondered if anything might be arranged for the coming week....

"Perhaps," McGonagall said cautiously. "I shall have to consult Arthur, of course. Severus, do you really think she ought?"

"No. No, I don't. But she's convinced it might be useful, so...."

McGonagall's eyebrows shot up at the admission, but she managed to hold her tongue.

"I do wish, however, that Corcoran's office were done by someone else," Snape said stubbornly. "She's far too close to that situation -- she's probably the first person he'll think of, in fact."

"And what are they looking for?"

"Memos or other documentation on a proposed... well, a proposed genetic treatment, a prophylactic treatment that would fix genetic errors in offspring before birth. That's not what it is, of course, so the agent should look for anything about genetic treatments or fertility potions."

"Oh, Merlin's beard --"

"Yes, my thought exactly, rather more politely phrased. Next week-end would be far better for that work, when Hermione's here."

"Or elsewhere, somewhere quite visible," McGonagall murmured. "Cornelius Fudge and I are not on the best terms any longer, of course, and if something goes wrong I'm not certain Hogwarts would be an acceptable alibi."

"I'll think on that," Snape muttered. "After Wednesday would be best for the Records Room, I think. She'll have to do that one -- she's the only person who might make certain important connections."

"I'll let you know as soon as I hear, then," McGonagall promised, and heaved herself out of the chair. "Go to bed, Severus -- I am. I'm too old for such late nights."

"I've patrol until --"

"Oh, never mind that," she said dismissively, waving him off. "I'll wake the portraits and have them keep an eye out. They can't take points, but they'll certainly inform me if anyone was about tonight. Go on, get some sleep."

Despite a nagging sense of neglecting his duty, Snape was too tired from the day's activities to argue or to disobey, so he returned to his rooms and did just that.

*****

The morning passed very quietly. Hermione was, surprisingly, not at all a bother, leaving him in peace during their breakfast in his rooms, and curling up with a Potions journal afterwards while he marked essays; he made good progress until luncheon, when he felt obliged to take her to the Great Hall to dine with everyone. A certain amount of lurid speculation regarding the intensity of their private activities was fine in terms of their cover (and accurate, at least for this week-end), but it wouldn't do a bit of good if no-one even knew Hermione was about.

Toward the end of luncheon Marsters trotted up to the edge of the dais, and Hermione left the table to speak with him. (Good, Snape thought, the bloody little fool won't feel obliged to pass messages through me.)

McGonagall leaned in to Snape's shoulder and whispered, "Someone will come for her at her office late Thursday night -- tell her to wait for him. And someone very skilled in disguise will handle the other matter on the Saturday."

Snape suppressed a groan: it had to be Tonks. Again. He'd bloody well better come up with a damned good alibi for Hermione, then, because he thought it likely Tonks would manage to set off every alarm on the premises.

*****

He made certain he took advantage of Hermione's company in the way he felt best spent the time before sending her back off to London quite late in the afternoon, despite some physical discomfort on her part (and, if truth be told, his as well -- he wasn't used to such frequency either). But he decided it was better than sitting about doing nothing or listening to her speculate over next Thursday's events, once he'd told her about the arrangements. Seven years' experience of her in his classroom had taught him to nearly dread that intense and excited gleam that lit up her eyes....

He couldn't deny once he'd seen her off, however, that he was very worried (less so about Thursday than Saturday). While he believed Hermione was now attempting to do right by him, he wouldn't put it past her to try to skive off her visit for the week-end: not to avoid or enfuriate him, but out of a misguided and foolish wish to hang about the Ministry in case there might be trouble.

Something should have to be done about that, to nip any little plot of hers in the bud.

Unfortunately, making certain that she kept well out of it required him to get her not only out of London, but out of Hogwarts as well in the event that McGonagall's fear was well-founded. He should have to speak to Hooch rather earlier than he'd hoped, muck about with his schedule, and plan something rather more spectacular than he'd acticipated. It would likely be something rather more expensive than he'd thought as well, and considering the hit his bank account had taken from the payment to Harrison, he wasn't well-pleased.

So, immensely irritated, he left his rooms to try to track down Hooch, and on his return (with Hooch's eventual, grudging consent and some pertinent advice), he grudgingly initiated a floo call to the agency Hooch had recommended.

He tried not to snarl or reach for his wand when the representative actually squealed at his admission that he and Hermione were still, technically, newlyweds.

*****

No Chapter 12 Footnotes.