Hermione's flat
Friday, January 20th

Good gods, I had no idea she'd anything other than plain, serviceable cotton, Snape thought, and ran the satiny and faintly intriguing knickers over the back of his hand once more, before tossing them back in the drawer and rooting about for something more her usual.

He'd stolen from more than his fair share of desk drawers, trunks, potions cupboards, and poorly-tended Hogsmeade market-day stalls (the latter only as a penniless student, of course). But nothing in his recollection -- with the exception of a bottle of butterbeer lifted from a boozy and inattentive Hog's Head patron, again when a student -- came close to the illicit thrill of pillaging Hermione's lingerie drawer: it seemed equal parts guilt, fascination, and anticipation of her horror when she realised what he'd done. (He was also a bit indignant that she'd been hiding more attractive items than she wore when he was visiting, but he reasoned that was understandable, given the circumstances. He couldn't expect her to go out of her way and actually encourage him. He regretted, however, that he'd probably never feel what those silkier things felt under his fingers when warmed by her body, but chalked it up as a lost cause.)

He did remember -- despite his distraction -- to toss her tooth- and hair-brush into the valise along with the other things he'd selected; and he congratulated himself on remembering to chuck anything from the refrigerator which looked as though it might turn noxious, before droppng the ward and Apparating from the flat.

*****

Hermione was surprised to see him waiting for her among the crowd in the Atrium, and none too pleased (the corners of her mouth tightened, though Snape was pleased that she otherwise controlled her expression). When she reached him she stood on tiptoe, unbidden, to kiss his cheek.

"Didn't trust me to show up tonight, did you?" she muttered under her breath before stepping away.

"Of course I did, or I would have should you known where we were to meet," he said, and drew her arm through the crook of his elbow as he pulled her toward the Departures floos. "But as you didn't --"

"What do you mean, where we were to meet? Where are we --"

"You'll see," he interrupted smoothly, hurrying her onward. "As we couldn't afford much time for honeymoon, I though we could do with a week-end holiday."

He had an inkling that he'd hit a snag when she began to drag her feet.

"A --? Not at Hogwarts? But, Severus, I don't have... I've got to pack a few things --"

"Already done," he shot back, and tried to look as if he weren't actually hauling at her arm. (He was.)

"You went through my things?" she said, voice rising.

"Of course, why shouldn't I?" he said, beginning to panic. He'd thought she'd wait to lay into him once they were safely at their lodging, but, judging by her expression and the fire in her eyes, he'd miscalculated badly. He dropped the valise, tossed a knut at the floo attendant (who threw a handful of powder in the floo), and told Hermione, "Whitemarsh."

"Where the bloody hell is --"

"You'll see," he said through gritted teeth. "Go on."

With a final, nasty glare at him, Hermione stepped into the floo, snapped out "Whitemarsh," and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"Try to do something bloody romantic...." Snape muttered for the attendant's benefit, wincing at the soppy word as he fumbled for another knut. (Intentionally fumbled, as it happened. He reckoned the time he could kill before actually flooing would be the last peaceful seconds he'd have all week-end.)

The attendant chuckled. "Hven't been married long, have you. Wanted to surprise her, eh? Don't work, mate. Next time, drop hints. Lots of 'em."

"Not much of a surprise then, is it?"

"Naw, but they like to pertend as it is. And don't buy 'em nothing practical for Yule or birthdays or aniversaries, either. Early on, my Gertie went on as how she wanted one of them automatic carpet-beaters, so I got 'er one for her birthday...." The attendant's voice trailed off, and he shuddered.

"What happened?" Snape asked as he handed over his knut.

The man leaned toward Snape and he confided, "She hexed my little wizard limp for a week. Stick to pretty stuff -- jewelry and gee-gaws -- for the important dates, mate. Don't try to cheap it out. And drop hints."

Even though he knew it was very unlikely that Hermione would resort to such nasty tactics, Snape made certain he held the valise squarely in front of his delicate bits, at what he judged maximum hex deflection angle.

*****

Hermione had wandered away from the Wizard's Metropole Hotel floo by the time he arrived, and her wand wasn't in evidence: she was leaning against an iron support and staring through the lobby plate-glass at a distant, gaudily-lit pier further up the beachfront from the one the hotel occupied.

"You didn't," she said, accusing, when he joined her.

"Yes, I got into your bloody bureau drawers," he hissed. "I had to -- I need to prove we came here directly from the Ministry."

"I don't mean that. Really, Severus, Brighton?"

"Whitemarsh," he corrected her irritably. "What's wrong with it?"

"But the Muggle city's Brighton, and it's about as clichéd a holiday-spot as you could have picked, in-season or not."

"I've no bloody notion of the place's Muggle reputation -- Whitemarsh was recommended to me. Been here forever, since before the Normans."

"Who recommended it?"

"Wizards' Wonderful Week-Ends," he blurted out truthfully before he thought to fudge the answer.

She stared at him, and then started to snigger.

"I don't arrange things like this every day, you know," he snapped. "Hooch recommended the bloody agency, and it suits the purpose."

He resolved to hex Hooch's broom on his return to Hogwarts. Blasted witch must have known the bloody agency would sell me a hackneyed package....

"And the purpose is... ?"

"Our little project, of course, since we're having trouble conceiving," he said with more than a little malice, and added in an undertone, "Later."

"Oh. All right, sorry," Hermione said, and tried to compose her features. "Room? I'm dead tired, and I need to put my feet up."

"Not here, unfortunately. Security was far too lax."

"Oh, for God's sake, Severus --"

"Not that way, I mean.... Just wait, would you?"

"Fine," she said, sighing, and pushed herself away from the windows. "Where to?"

"A few streets inland, I was told."

They made there way over to the lobby doors and exited -- earning a snobby and disapproving glare from the Manager, who'd expected them to pay his exorbitant nightly rate, and whose outrage Snape was counting on to impress them in his memory -- and Snape led Hermione along the pier toward the beach.

"Hang on," she said halfway across the delicate ironwork of the pier, and stopped dead in her tracks.

"What?"

"If that," she said, stabbing her finger in the direction of the gaudy pier, "is the amusements pier, and that," (another stab at a closer pier) "is Palace Pier, then this is...."

She went very pale indeed, the wind whipping the looser bits of her hair free from its clasp.

"For Merlin's sake, what is it?"

"Is this West Pier?" she demanded.

"I don't bloody know, Hermione, I don't know a damned thing about Whitemarsh."

"Brighton. Because it's gone. Kaput. There shouldn't be anything here at all -- it was all swept out to sea not too terribly long ago. Not even enough left for wizards to build on."

"Obviously not," Snape said, attempting patience. "We're here and it feels remarkably solid."

"But --"

"We'll go into the history later, shall we? Perhaps when we're off the bloody thing, and you may question its identity and reality in safety?"

The silly chit apparently concurred, for Snape had a difficult time keeping up with her once she could get her legs moving again.

The agency representative had lied about their hotel being 'a few streets inland': it was far inland in a much less fashionable part of Whitemarsh, quite inconvenient to the beachfront and shops, and they had to detour throuth many cramped little passaged jammed willy-nilly between Muggle streets and structures. But eventually they located it -- a rather shabby, mock-gothic establishment huddled on the side of a hill, and bearing the sign "Foybel Spires."

"Should've guessed the honeymoon was over," Hermione muttered through chattering teeth, and pushed irritably at her wind-blown hair.

"Not for the reason you think," Snape shot back. "I told you I'd done with sub-par lodging. I'm making an exception for a practical reason."

He ushered her in out of the wind, toward the concierge's desk, and pinged the bell: and after a moment, a frowsy-looking witch popped out of the office.

"Yes?"

"Snape. We've a room reserved," Snape said, drumming his fingers on the desk.

"Oh, let's see, let's see...."

The woman peered short-sightedly at her ledger, and then shook her head. "No Snape, I'm afraid. Are you quite certain you --"

"Yes, I am," Snape said through his teeth. "I made the arrangements through Wizards' Wonderful Week-Ends on the fifteenth."

He ignored Hermione's sniggering for the time being, though he resolved to make her pay for it later.

"Oh, did you? Oh, you poor man, I'm so terribly sorry. My husband probably frightened off their owl or mucked it up, he's quite useless when it comes to keeping track of things -- BASIL!" she shrieked across the lobby.

"So you are telling me that we do not have lodging for the week-end, is that it?" Snape said; his ears were beginning to burn (never a good sign).

"Well, as I don't have it in the book, no, not here. But I think.... Yes, we do have one room available, two-person with an ensuite bath, sea view, very nice, one of our cosier rooms. Should you like that?"

"It will have to do. Through Sunday afternoon, as was already arranged."

"Very good! There are a few little peculiarities of the establishment. Doors are locked at warded at 9:30 p.m. precisely," she gabbled, "and the public floo -- just there, in the corner -- is for floo-calls only, I'm afraid, the floos just can't handle full-body insertion. We have first-quality Anti-Apparition wards for the security of our guests, as well. Let's see, three, no two nights, that would be... ...thirty-two galleons, twelve sickles, seventeen knuts, please."

Snape winced. He might as well have paid for the more expensive hotel and have had done with it.

"Is that your regular rate, or the package-rate through the agency?" Hermione interrupted.

"Oh, the regular, of course -- we can't possibly extend the package-rate if you haven't actually gone through them, you see. Not fair to anyone who comes in a tick or two later looking for a room. BASIL! GUESTS IN THE LOBBY!"

"My husband did make the reservation through them, though -- did you pay them directly, dear, or was it to be made here?" Hermione said serenely.

"Directly," Snape said, keeping it as short and civil as possible. (Short, yes. Civil.... Well, as civil as a snarl can be.)

"Ah. Well, that's that, I'm afraid. You can't expect us to pay twice for the same service, and at a higher rate to boot," Hermione said, and slipped her arm through Snape's elbow. "Come along, dear. I'll wager that nice place we flooed into has rooms available, and I can have Ermentrude look into this first thing Monday morning, get it straightened out and our account credited --"

A quite extraordinary look crossed the frowsy woman's face -- something between fear and revulsion -- before she stuttered, "Erm- Ermentrude?"

"Ermentrude Montescue-Wiggins, yes -- I work with her in the Ministry. Quite the go-getter, Trudy, I understand she's the foremost expert on the Wizards' Fair Lodging Act. Let's go, dear," Hermione added earnestly to Snape. "I'd rather like to get settled in for the night."

"Oh, really, there's -- BASIL! -- no need to walk all the way back, my dear, really, I'm sure we can -- BASIL! -- can come to some compromise...."

A dour-faced wizard poked his head into the lobby from what appeared to be the dining room and hissed, "Yes, dear?"

"Basil, you quite forgot to add these poor people to the reservations list, and now I can't give them their package-rate."

"I most certainly did not, you -- What's the name?"

"Snope --"

"Snape," Snape muttered.

Basil loped behind the desk, stared at the ledger, and jabbed a long forefinger at one line. "There."

"That says Snike."

"No it doesn't, you bat-blind old --"

"Basil!"

"No problem, no trouble," Basil assured them, smiling toothily and insincerely at Snape through what appeared to be a catepillar along his upper lip, but was in all likelihood his idea of a respectable moustache. "Package-rate assured, room available, all that -- what number, dear?"

"301."

"301, jolly good, just sign the register, sir," Basil said as he grabbed for the huge, old-fashioned key, scurried around the end of the desk, and wrestled the valise from Snape's hand. "And this way --"

Snape scribbled his signature in the register and they followed Basil up three flights of eccentrically-twisted stairs, Basil muttering under his breath all the way: Snape was certain he heard the words "vain," "bint," and "vicious addle-brained viper," and decided that he concurred completely.

"There you are," Basil said after struggling with the sticky lock and shoving the door open. "Ensuite bath, all mod cons, do let us know if there's anything you need. The dining-room closes in a half-hour, so perhaps you'll want to go down straightaway. Needn't dress, under the circumstances," he added with a leer at Hermione, who'd crossed the room to look at the view as she shed her coat.

Snape found he didn't appreciate the leer much. "That's all, thank you," you said icily, and plucked the valise from the man's hand.

"I thought this had a sea view," Hermione said. "I can't quite --"

"Is. Just there to the right, between the Muggle Chinese Take-Away and Squigglecombe's Magical Squid Hatchery. Little week-end getaway, eh?" Basil continued sotto voce to Snape, oblivious to the ice. "Nice, relaxing few days with the secretary away from, er, humdrum obligations? Away from the old ball-and-chain?"

The man did everything but a nudge-nudge wink-wink, and Snape was only prevented from reaching for his wand by Hermione -- whose hearing was, obviously, excellent -- who contributed an equally frosty "Actually, I am the old ball-and-chain. Does one tip the proprietor, dear? I admit I'm not well-versed in the customs at this class of establishment."

The catepillar-moustache on said proprietor's lip bristled, and then with a muttered "Have a good stay," he handed the key to Snape, slunk from the room, and shut the door with a bang.

"I'm gratified," Snape said as he dropped the valise to the floor, "to learn I'm not the only victim of your more acid comments. In fact, I think you were sharper with him than you've been with me...."

"He deserved it, the nasty old lecher. 'Needn't dress,' indeed, or as if I'd bother in this kind of place. Not that I have anything, anyway."

"You have a change of clothing, and two of underthings," Snape said to mollify her. "Not anything formal, so it's just as well."

"Oh. Good," she said, and plopped down in a grubby chair by the window, shivering: the bloody room was freezing, even to Snape's dungeon-hardened senses. "I suppose we ought to head back down, or no dinner...."

"I need a moment to recuperate," Snape said, unclasping his cloak. "Who the dickens is Ermentrude Montescue-Wiggins, is she real, and if not, why was our hostess terrified of her?"

"Commerce and Measures Department," Hermione said. "She is to lodging and fair business practise what Percy Weasley was to cauldron thickness. Worse, really, an absolute dragon. I don't actually know her, but her reputation's legendary."

"And the Fair Lodging Act?"

"Real. Couldn't have fudged that -- the nasty cow knows of it, I'm sure. That sort always do, so they can wriggle through the loopholes. She hadn't lost the bloody reservation, of course -- it's the off-season, she just wanted to make a bit extra."

"Ah. To answer your earlier question," Snape said as he straighened his cuffs, "I chose the place quite deliberately because --"

"Nothing but public floo-calls, no Bodily Flooing off-premises, no Apparating, and the doors are locked at 9:30 sharp," Hermione shot back. "Not to mention that odious idiot who'll probably have his ear pressed to our door to get a thrill, but you couldn't anticipate him. The question now is, why did you want to make certain we're accounted for every minute?"

Snape reached for his wand to cast Silencio over the room, and then hesitated: it might be considered suspicious when they didn't need privacy for more... intimate matters. So he crossed to Hermione (not a great effort, as the room was abysmally small), bent, and whispered in her ear, "I was advised to have you clear of London this week-end, and Hogwarts as well because an alibi from the faculty mightn't be trusted. There's an action planned at the Ministry."

"What?" Hermione gasped and jerked upright, nearly bashing into Snape's nose.

"Hush. Corcoran's office," he said. "I fully anticipate that when it's discovered you'll be called in and interrogated. So we shall simply have to put up with some discomfort this week-end."

"How did you --?"

"I didn't. Someone else arranged it, but they were concerned for you and contacted me." He straighted and inspected his cuffs a final time, and then said, with little enthusiasm, "Shall we dine before you tell me what you found this week? If the food is totally inedible I suppose we could resort to the Muggle Chinese Take-Away, if it isn't too late."

*****

The food wasn't quite inedible, but there was no doubt the Chinese Take-Away would have been better.

Basil seated them at the worst possible table (near the kitchen door) despite the dining room being empty; he then airily informed them that the kitchen was out of both the vichyssoise and cream of asparagus soups only after they'd chosen those things, and foisted the remainder, a lobster bisque, upon them; the Andalusian squib of a waiter stumbled during the serving of the soup course, the bisque nearly landed in Snape's lap, and he was only saved by Hermione's quick and wandless charm which froze the clotty mess in mid-air (she seemed more surprised at that than he -- she mustn't do wandless magic often, if at all), which wouldn't have mattered much in any case, as once the waiter had brought a replacement the soup proved only lukewarm; Hermione's broiled sole was over-cooked to an India-rubber texture, Snape's lamb rare to the point of tartare, and the dessert mousse obviously owed far too much of its consistency to the hoofs of many long-dead hippogriffs.

The wine might have been acceptable, had it not already begun its transmutation into vinegar.

*****

"Good gods," Snape groaned from the chair by the window, and tried to ignore an ominous squelching from his stomach (the damned lobster bisque had turned, he was sure). "Before you say anything, we'll dine at the other hotel tomorrow if I can manage a reservation. And if I'm not in St. Mungo's by then."

Hermione left the bath and stepped directly in front of him, glaring: he'd thrown the shorter and far more flattering night-gown onto the pile in the valise, and she already had goose-flesh rising on bare arms and legs.

He managed a half-hearted smirk when she wailed, "I'm freezing."

"Good thing the bed's on the small side, then. We'll conserve body heat.... Oh, stop snivelling and transfigure it, woman. My stomach's in no shape for activity tonight in any case, so it's wasted on me."

"Wish I'd known a dicky tummy would put you off. Wouldn't have cooked so nicely for you before," she muttered as she pulled the gown off and transfigured it into long, sensible flannel one. (Snape was rather surprised that she didn't retreat to the bath, but she merely turned her back, chastely, and then struggled into the longer gown she'd charmed.)

Snape pulled his wand to cast Silencio and she halted him with a quick "Wait -- let me," and did it herself, muttering something extra that he couldn't catch; and when she'd put her wand on the night-stand, he asked, "What, if anything, did you discover in the Records Room?"

"Nothing absolutely definitive," Hermione muttered, and cautiously lifed the covers from the bed and leant over it, scanning the sheets.

"For the gods' sakes, woman, it's not that awful an hotel." (It wasn't quite as irritable an observation as it might have been: even swathed in flannel Hermione's bum was rather attractive, and Snape's libido was all too willing to war with his indigestion, despite his earlier promise.)

"I don't see any bed-bugs, true.... But," she said, and pounced on something down at the foot of the mattress, "there is something."

"What?"

She stood and examined a little pill-like object in her palm before handing it off to him. "A dream-beetle, I think. It's the only one."

Snape nudged the dry husk with a finger. "Hah. Predictable -- something decent about the place after all, but dead and useless." He risked opening the window against the horribly cold sea-wind that managed to make its way that far inland, and flung the carcass outside.

"Isn't there a potion you can use them in?"

"Not a legal one," he said as he latched the window. "And it takes an entire colony, at any rate."

"Oh."

"Well?" he demanded as she climbed into bed.

"Not much," she admitted. "They seem to have accepted the French coroner's report without question. Flaherty did receive an injury -- probably blasted against a wall, at one point -- but self-administered poison was definitely the cause of death. Some of the council tended toward Suicide, possibly the result of mental imbalance. Report from the company -- Binglewort, I presume -- is that he was an exemplary employee, and no problems found in their records.... I really wonder about that, Severus. Who got the bloody documents to Flaherty?"

"Never mind that now, keep going."

"There's not much more. I couldn't get to the actual minutes as they're in a sphere, so I had to go from notes on the French report. Fudge seemed keen on the Suicide explanation, but directed that the verdict should be Misadventure instead, supposedly out of compassion for Olivia Flaherty. Bollocks says I -- I think he doesn't want her taking offence and kicking up a fuss. But I didn't see anything else suspicious."

"Inconclusive, in other words," Snape said. "More or less a wasted effort."

"Yes, it's not terribly useful -- I admit it, you were right. Except that I think it proves the Wizengamot don't know what Fudge is up to. Why not speak of it openly, otherwise? And why allow dissention and disagreement, or not order a more thorough investigation at Mangel and Mortars?"

"And how is that significant?"

"The whole government isn't corrupt. There are some who'll be horrified if the mess is exposed. And even if the ICW is aware of the plan, if the majority of the Wizengamot doesn't support it they can chuck Fudge and the ICW. It's been done before, during the Napoleonic --"

"Yes, I know, that Muggle war with the Frogs -- I do remember bits of Binns' tutorials, unfortunately."

"Well, it is important. The French wizards had no business mucking in the Muggle situation, and the ICW had no business trying to pressure the Wizengamot into supporting them," Hermione argued, brow furrowed, as she arranged her pillow and pulled up the covers.

"At any rate.... Is there anything else?"

Hermione shifted restlessly, but didn't say anything: Snape felt compelled to stare at her for a moment before she admitted, "No, not about Flaherty." He felt his eyebrow creep up (the left one, the one allied to his more benevolent sceptical look which he reserved for the Slytherins, as opposed to the disbelieving sneer for all else), and he waited until she finally said, "I did... look at Lavender Brown's file. And Skellington's, the man who assaulted her."

"Why on earth?"

"Because I.... It wasn't that I didn't believe you, Severus -- I know you wouldn't lie about that, or at least I've realised since October that you wouldn't. It had always bothered me that she disappeared after the Hogsmeade raid, and it was never explained to any of us why exactly. So when I started really thinking about what you told me --"

"You should have asked, and saved yourself the trouble and the danger. Yes, she was harmed, physically and mentally -- not as much as the Longbottoms, but she was in far too fragile a state to return to the school and the Seventh-Year curriculum. And of course the student body wasn't told,even the Order members, to protect her privacy and reputation."

"Oh, Severus.... You weren't --"

"No, I wasn't there. I was often excused from actions too close to Hogwarts, presumably in the event I might be recognised, but in reality because they didn't quite trust me not to tip their hand to Dumbledore. Her case had to be discussed among the faculty, of course."

"Oh."

"For what it's worth, she continued studying from home and eventually took her NEWTs -- a year later than the rest of you, and privately, but she did well enough, considering."

"Oh, good."

He turned back to stare out at the darkness beyond the window-glass, unsettled at the thought that Hermione had snooped in something absolutely unconnected to the Flaherty business -- he should have to set her straight on that, it was far too dangerous, and if she intended to continue she required more self-discipline -- and it was nearly a minute before he sensed that her eyes were still on him.

"Yes?" he said, not bothering to turn.

"Are you coming to bed?"

"Not yet, I don't dare without a tonic. I shall have to sit up a while until that muck settles. Congratulations on having a cast-iron stomach, by the way."

"Not my doing, but thanks. D'you want the light on?"

"No, you may --"

He waved a hand at her, still intent on the darkness, and she extinguished the light; he heard her burrowing deeper into the covers, and they stayed silent for a few minutes until she asked, hesitantly, "But who do you think passed the documents to Flaherty in the first place?"

"I don't know," he said. "And you're not to meddle in that, because you have no good reason whatsoever to deal with Mangel and Mortars or their employees. Leave that to others."

"Very well, Severus. Good night."

Snape waited until she was safely asleep, the cadence of her breathing slow and steady: and then he unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat, slid down in the chair to relax both churning stomach and mind, and watched the tiny, visible sliver of the winter sea wash against a pier. It was far easier to see a night-time, with the room light off and the moon glinting off the surface of the waves, than in the daytime; and the very monotony of it was quite surprisingly soothing.

He was more than a little surprised, too, at Hermione's meekness at his admittedly sharp instruction to leave well wnough alone, particularly as she must still be upset with him; but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Snape knew he wasn't a patient man; and he had avoided being placed in the circumstance of having to defer to someone else since the end of the war and the disbanding of the Order. (McGonagall, for all her faults, let him well enough alone when it came to matters pedagogic, and was a surprisingly sensitive superior in terms of the Deputy Head's duties as well.) He doubted whether, had Hermione approached him with this whole bloody problem directly, he should have taken it on: but she'd quite effectively made him responsible for her, and he couldn't ignore that.

All the more reason she ought bloody well listen and obey him in things like this, then.

He'd been quite reasonable, really, giving her permission to investigate the Records Room, and it had proved as pointless as he thought it would. He wasn't about to have her risk herself -- and, consequently, himself -- at the potions manufactory.

It was just possible that he might be able to identify who had leaked the documents to Flaherty: he had his suspicions. It was exceedingly risky to try to deermine even without actually setting foot in the place, because his bargaining-chip might no longer have the blackmail potential it once possessed..... But it might, in the long run, be worth it.

He was doing something, though: he was protecting her as best he could, and advising her, even when she acted like a stupid little cow about it and argued with him. (Or, worse, when she disobeyed the spirit of the advice while accepting the letter of it.)

Far too many, actually. 1981 had been fraught with situations in which he'd pushed the sensible limits of his job, and in the end it had hardly paid off. Dumbledore had said otherwise, of course: the boy had survived, and that had been the saving grace of the whole bloody mess -- that, and Voldemort's disembodiment. He'd behaved more sensibly the second time around, despite the sneers of idiots like Black and the poorly-concealed disdain of Potter's whelp.

He scratched thoughtlessly at his left forearm, and then caught himself and deliberately clamped the offending hand about the chair-arm. The mark didn't burn any longer, of course, but it irritated him nonetheless, like the pain and sensation that amputees experienced that he'd read about somewhere -- phantom limb syndrome they called it, he remembered.

There'd been some talk of the syndrome in the trade journals, of the therapuetic potions that might help treat it, just after the war, because it was regrettably necessary. (But for Poppy Pomfrey's skill and swift action, he might have truly needed something for it himself....)

A noise in the hallway disturbed him -- faint, but it sounded like a muffled yelp -- and Snape carefully pulled himself up from the chair, reached for his wand, and trod soundlessly over to the door: hearing nothing else he unlocked it and cracked it open, and scanned the hall for any interlopers, but found none.

He locked the door (leaving Hermione's Silencio in place), put his wand on the night-stand next to hers -- he hated not having it next to him, but there was only the one stand, and she'd taken her usual side of the bed -- and undressed as quietly as he could so as not to wake her, despite some residual grumbling from his gut.

Too chilled to sleep only in his skin (which he preferred when with Hermione, the better to be ready for any early-morning activity), he wound up transfiguring his underclothing into his usual, nondescript grey nightshirt, and slipped into the bed: he nudged her over just a bit to steal a few precious inches of already-warmed mattress, and earned a sleepy mutter and a gentle kick from one of her ice-cold feet.

That sparked a memory -- not entirely welcome, but useful: something his mother had done on the winter nights when the flat was all too frequently freezing-cold.... He rose from the bed and finally settled on an object to transfigure, turned it into a brick, cast several warming spells on it, and wrapped it in a bath-towel before wriggling it down to the foot of the bed, dead centre, where it would warm their feet.

He finally slept, propped bolt upright as much for the shortness of the bed as for the indigestion, and not at all well.

*****

Hermione, both conversely and perversely, apparently had slept quite well: she looked much less frazzled and tired, and seemed totally unaffected by the previous evening's horrid meal.

"What do we do today?" she said brightly. (It was an unfortunate choice of attitude on her part. Snape fought the urge to snarl, and then reminded himself that it was far preferable to her being miffed over his rifling of her clothes-drawers.) "Besides the obvious," she added hastily, he guessed to forstall any lascivious comment on his part.

"No idea. Nor do I particularly care, as long as it's public and traceable," he muttered, and winced as his hip protested as he rose from the bed.

"I suppose we ought hit all the public venues, then, silly as they are. Make a few purchases, things like that.... Oh, damn," she added. "I've got a streak of that wretched mousse on my skirt. And where's my other --"

"Foot of the bed. Under the covers," he grunted, and brushed past her on the way to the loo. "Another pair in the bottom of the valise, and other clothes."

"Oh. Than- "

He closed the door so he could pee in peace, cutting her off in mid-thanks; and he managed a quick bathe, with a pass on his hair. (He'd just washed that three days ago, at any rate.)

She was dressed when he left the bath. And she looked distinctly grumpy.

"What?"

"This," she said, hefting the brick in one hand. (She didn't quite look as if she wanted to bash his head in with it, but he was acutely aware that the situation could change within a breath or two.) "This was one of my only pair of Italian shoes."

"Transfigure it back, then," he said irritably, and pulled a fresh shirt from the valise.

"Can't. You did it more than six hours ago, didn't you?"

"What the bloody hell does that --"

She lay the brick on the bed, pointed her wand at it, and transfigured it back -- or tried to: while it had the shape of a shoe, it certainly didn't resemble leather in the least.

It looked, in fact, like a shoe made of brick.

"Are you certain you paid attention in Transfigurations, Severus Snape?" she said. "If you had, you'd have remembered that it takes a highly-talented Transfigurationist to keep a transfiguration between two such different materials stable for longer than six hours. Then it reverts to one or the other, usually the less intricate object. You can get away with underthings to night-shirt because they're both fabric, but this...."

"All right, the score so far is one electric alarm-clock, one piece of beefsteak, and one pair of most likely ridiculously over-priced Wop-made shoes," he said, buttoning furiously to cover his embarassment, "or at least over-priced in all likelihood, as I'm willing to wager their Muggles aren't any less fanatical and pricey than their wizards. Not that you're without, as I packed you another pair. Anything else to put on the account?"

Hermione gawped at him in outrage -- why, he couldn't tell -- and then snapped her mouth shut, picked it up the idiotic shoe, let it drop, grimaced when it dented the mattress, and then grinned wryly at him.

"They were my one stupid, girly extravagance," she explained. "Some time in her life every woman ought to own a pair of Italian shoes."

"Oh, for the god's.... There ought to be a bloody cobbler in the Muggle town, oughtn't there? It can't possibly be that small a backwater. I've little Muggle money with me, of course --"

"No, it doesn't matter. They pinched my toes, anyway, totally impractical."

"Nothing better to do," Snape muttered as he shrugged on his coat.

(There was, actually -- he'd have liked to work a good shag into the afternoon: but he wasn't certain he wanted to risk another failure after beginning the day in so humiliating a fashion.)

*****

They elected not to inflict the hotel breakfast upon themselves, and determined to find something better elsewhere. As they made their way across the shabby little lobby, they caught sight of Basil behind the desk: one side of his head was bandaged and the hair on that side singed. He shot them a baleful glare and dodged into the office to avoid them.

"What the devil... ?" Snape said under his breath as he held the door open for Hermione.

"I do believe he's scorched his ear," Hermione said as they stepped out onto the uneven pavement. "I wonder how that might have happened?"

"Shrew of a wife probably knocked him about with a...." Snape slowed his step, and then glanced at Hermione. "You did actually cast Silencio last night, didn't you? And forgot to undo it."

"Oh, yes, but I didn't forget -- I let it stand as you weren't likely to want exercise, given the tummy trouble. I gave it a little extra adjustment. My speciality isn't fire-related charms for nothing, you know."

Snape found it very hard not to smile at the innocence with which she'd announced her deviousness, given that there had been nothing of a prurient nature for Basil to overhear anyway: it very nearly made him forgive her the embarassments of the holiday hitherto.

*****

He managed to remain civil through breakfast at a cafe, Hermione's pointless attempts at conversation, and most of the morning's stupid activities (wandering about "admiring" the ludicrous Wizarding resort architecture, interspersed with small, idiotic purchases simply for the receipts). There was also, however, a foray into Muggle Brighton, starting off with an excruciating fifty-minute visit to a Muggle shoe shop -- which did, unfortunately, have several pair of ready-made Italian shoes, but all of which (given their cost) Hermione thankfully deemed too ugly or too impractical by virtue of their spindly heels. After that horrendous experience Snape deemed it wise to take a breather, and steered Hermione toward the most reasonable, discreet, and Muggle-ish restaurant he could find. (Hermione would blend in perfectly; he would do well enough, having sacrificed his pride enough to ask Hermione to glamour his clothes; but any wizard other than another Muggleborn would stick out like a sore thumb in their surroundings.)

"What have you been doing all week, then?" Hermione asked after they'd placed their order. "Besides planning this week-end, of course."

"The usual," Snape muttered, "and watching the Prophet and the bloody journals. Nothing useful, nothing at all."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" she countered. "A new medical treatment's not the kind of thing they can spring on everyone, particularly as they're going to tout it as some kind of miracle cure. They'll have to build it up a bit."

"Not necessarily. Kept under wraps so as not to disappoint people if it didn't prove effective, it has been, and they're ready to implement as soon as people can sign on. Which is more or less the actual case."

"Oh, damn it. Do you really think people will flock to St. Mungo's if they don't have actual proof, though? Surely they don't intend to trot out the trials."

"Falsify the subjects. Bribe or Imperio people who haven't actually had the treatment, but who've recently produced healthy children.... The Purebloods will be anxious to believe it's possible in any case, as they've got the most to lose if a lottery or re-assignment is instituted."

"But they're the group who shouldn't --"

"Exactly, but it will produce a rise in birthrate, and at least some of those children will be healthy. That would, of course," Snape said delicately, "require the collusion of the healers or you, or both, to fudge the numbers -- which does not make me optimistic about your chances of remaining in the Ministry long, at least in your present position."

"Sod my current position --"

"It's how they'd choose to dispense with you that has me worried," Snape retorted. "Fudge was perfectly willing to send Dumbledore to Azkaban, if you recall. I'd wager you're rather lower in his estimation, and he needn't worry about an uproar if you were to simply disappear as you're far less visible and famous than Dumbledore was."

Hermione wilted visibly: Snape almost regretted his sharpness, but the impulse was balanced by his belief that she still didn't truly understand the dangers.

"Do you think, er, they're done with the investigation?" she asked after a bit.

"Don't ask me that. The less you know, the less you can give away," Snape said, and repressed a sigh. "I shouldn't have told you that much, because you might implicate yourself as it is."

"Yes, but --"

"No buts. I shan't know myself until tomorrow night at the earliest. I hope you've made your... arrangements with the Frog," he added, to change the subject.

"François," Hermione hissed. "Why do you.... You're so enthnocentric and prejudiced sometimes, I just don't --"

"And you think centaurs and trolls are lower forms of life," Snape said coolly. "What's the difference?"

"Oh, come on. Calling someone 'frog' or 'wop' simply because they're a different nationality to you is, is simply ignorant -- I'm sorry, Severus, but there it is. I suppose you trotted out 'wog' for Shacklebolt and the Patils."

"That's roughly analogous to calling a centaur 'horse.' As for Shacklebolt and the Patils, of course not -- they're as British as you or I. Although I might have done once, to Shacklebolt, early on," he said thoughtful. "I'm quite certain he put paid to that, though, and rightly so."

"The point is --"

"The point is, I despise foreigners because I can't tolerate their attitudes and national characteristics, not because they appear different to me. You deplore many magical creatures because they are distinctly different to you -- because they aren't human, in other words, or fully human. And if you expect me to allow you your prejudice while you won't tolerate mine, you're badly mistaken."

He had her well and truly flummoxed on that one: she stared at him, gape-jawed, and only managed to close her mouth when the waiter brought their meals.

Hufflepuff: unaware of their attitudes, publicly repentent when called on them, privately entrenched, but manipulable, Snape thought grimly as he tucked into his entree. Ravenclaw: unusually sensitive, and when error found, intellectually shift to the correct attitude, particularly when one finds the right argument. Slytherin: bloody well don't care what others think, but know when to keep their mouths shut for diplomatic reasons. Gryffindor: absolutely bloody-minded in asserting that their attitude is the right one while totally oblivious to double-standards....

He should have to revise his opinion of Hermione's educability. Given an intellectual or strategic problem she usually came 'round: but in matters emotional, she was 99.9 per cent Gryffindor. Hopeless, in other words.

She was sulking now, picking at her food, and looked keen on staying sulky: so he resorted to a rare and sincere attempt at diplomacy with a quiet, "I'm not saying I'm better than you, my dear, I'm saying you're as bad as I. The difference between us is that I can accept that and you cannot. It's not the end of the world, it's a simple disparity in self-knowledge."

She actually considered that for a moment, and then mumbled "Doesn't hurt to be politically correct."

"I'm not familiar with the term.... Lying, you mean?" he said lightly. "That's what it is. If you believe something you should accept it, say it, and live it. Unless to do so in certain company would put you in danger, of course."

"It's polite."

He snorted, and she wryly added, "All right, that was a rotten justification to use with you...."

She thawed a bit through the rest of luncheon, and by the time they were ready to leave she was nearly back to normal, though still subdued.

*****

"Wait just a moment," she said when they stepped out of the restaurant. "Just look over there -- the pier with that awful roller-coaster, you see?"

"Is that what that monstrosity is? What of it?"

"And the one in the middle is Muggle as well. West Pier," she said, pointing, "is that one."

"And?" Snape said irritably. "The Wizard's Metropole Hotel. Nothing wrong with it."

"No, no, don't look at it as a wizard does, suspend that for a bit if you can. Try to see through the glamour."

Snape squinted at it a bit -- it was difficult, as they were quite far away from it -- but finally he noted a shimmering about the wizarding structures, and then it all seemed to fall away: all that was left were some odd, skeletal bits sticking out of the sea, and one lonely island of platforming at the far end, totally separated from the mainland, inacessible.

"Bloody fucking hell," he blurted out, and glared at two Muggle blokes who passed and ogled at his words. (Poofters, he could tell -- the one had his hand on the other's arse, a shamefully public display. There seemed a lot of them in Brighton....)

"Exactly. Incredible, isn't it? It usually takes a great deal more structure to build onto or adapt," Hermione whispered, voice admiring. "They'd have had top-notch Transfigurationists and Arithmancers on that job, and it must have cost a packet...."

It certainly was incredible, and he could see now why she'd been panicked the night before: and he didn't fail to observe an note of wistfulness in Hermione's voice that she couldn't quite conceal. But she shook it off quickly, and they went on their way.

The afternoon involved much puttering about the Muggle town, including a tour of an execrable structure -- the Royal Pavilion, Hermione called it -- which convinced Snape that Muggle royalty could be every bit as eccentric and mad as wizards, though even in winter the gardens were lovely: and then they returned to Foybel Spires, where Hermione nipped upstairs to deposit the packages while Snape made a public floo-call to Hooch, to check on his students. (Basil's wife eavesdropped, the nosy wench, which suited Snape admirably.) His second call was to the Metropole to secure a dinner reservation, which was only possible as it was out of peak tourist season; and so they left Basil's ratty establishment and braved the winds once more to dine in some actual style and substance.

They only just made it back to Foybel Spires at 9:28.

"Missed dinner, I'm afraid," Basil said as they entered, and pointedly locked and warded the door behind them. "So terribly sorry...."

"Oh, we had a lovely one at the Metropole," Hermione said cheerfully. "My husband wagered there wasn't a decent restaurant to be had in Whitemarsh, but I told him he shouldn't be a pessimist just because of our first experience."

"I think you've quite put him off between that and the scorching," Snape said under his breath as they started up the stairs. "Not certain that was wise -- I'd have liked him to know we were otherwise engaged tonight, with no intent of nipping off through the window."

"I'm sure I haven't. It takes a great deal to put that kind off for good," Hermione said. "Besides, the bandage is off and the ear's only pink now. And he has another one to risk, anyway."

Snape took that as a good sign (perhaps she intended to actually help him do something about satisfying Basil's lascivious interest). He considered hinting that cooperation would be welcome, and then discarded it: she'd been in an unusually good mood most of the day (with a few bobbles), and he was far too tired to try to talk her into being creative, or to risk putting her in a foul mood now.

Probably couldn't fake an orgasm to save her life at any rate, he thought as he closed and locked their door, and tried to dampen the more predatory, immediate impulses of his libido as it was so soon after dinner.

That unfortunate, derogatory thought was, undoubtedly, why he was surprised to the point of losing his concentration when she began moaning in the midst of their encounter later that night.

"What's wrong?" he hissed in alarm, instantly stilling, and focussed on her face (she'd not attempted to douse the light, for once): her face was flushed and her brow furrowed, but she didn't particularly look as though she were in pain.

"Nuh- nothing," she gasped.

"Nonsense, you sound like I'm hurting you."

"No, you're not," she muttered in his ear, "keep going -- Ohhhhhhhh....."

"Hermione," he said desperately (the little wizard wasn't appreciating the cessation of combat whether she was in pain or not, and was threatening a retreat), "you sound like a wounded hi- hippogriff."

"How would you know -- have you wounded many?" she countered in a whisper, and managed a glare at him through her fringe. "Basil's outside, I charmed an alarm ward while you were in the loo -- Oh, don't stop --"

Torn between the ignominy of little wizard deflation and a sudden spike in his arousal at that last, loud command -- and it was a command, and Snape was amazed not only that she was capable of it, but that it actually sounded sincere -- he thrust again, and shuddered when she tilted her pelvis upward and ground it against his in response.

That was new, and totally unexpected; so was the way her thighs tightened about his legs, and then, after she wriggled an adjustment, about his hips; and, lastly, when -- moaning away each time he thrust -- she scrabbled at his arms for purchase, and began thrusting upward to meet him (or to oppose him -- he wasn't sure which, or when it had become a contest between the two of them, and he bloody well didn't care). He managed to draw it out for a respectable though not outstanding length of time despite the distraction of her moans and the pain of trying to hold back, but finally and irretrievably lost control when she wailed, "Oh, God, Severus -- Ohhhhhh --"

He thrust forcefully twice more, and came so unexpectedly and with such relief that he collapsed atop her, stunned motionless.

*****

"Are you still alive?" Hermione asked and poked at his shoulder, provoking a shiver from him. (He was still sweating quite a bit, the covers had slipped all the way to the foot of the bed, and he'd subsequently begun to notice the chill in the room again.) "Sorry, but I can't quite breathe."

Alive, but you've given me cerebral haemorrhage....

" 'M Fine," he muttered, rolled ungracefully off her body, and couldn't muster the energy to pull the covers up for decency's sake.

Hermione propped herself up on one elbow (he'd a lovely, seldom-seen display of her breasts if he could only be bothered to appreciate them, and he couldn't at the moment), peered over his shoulder, and smiled.

"Alibi guaranteed," she confided in a whisper as she settled back down on her pillow.

"How --?"

"You left the key in the lock, and he's poked it out to try and get a view as well."

"Good on him," was all Snape could manage verbally. "Hope he enjoyed it."

"I imagine so," Hermione retorted, and stifled a yawn. "Good Lord, you didn't even let me brush my teeth...."

She slipped from the bed -- a little unsteady on her feet, true, but far more steadily than Snape imagined he'd be at the moment -- and he thought it a great pity that he couldn't appreciate the view of the back, either, as she unselfconsciously walked naked into the bath and quietly closed the door.

It was the best bloody fuck Snape had had in his life is what it was, he was sure. And the fact that Hermione had been faking it was quite off-putting....

It was a depressing truth, though.

Snape's sexual partners had not been the vocal type, nor was he himself. One's time was limited by one's resources, it had been all too often rushed, and vocal gymnastics weren't required as it was a simple transaction (physical gymnastics were another matter, on occasion). He'd always been uncomfortable with noise at any rate, particularly when it was obviously insincere, and had once slapped a whore quite sharply when she'd assumed he'd appreciate the blatant lies she was whispering.

He had occasionally moved Hermione to unwilling, stifled moans; he could now tell from the hitches in her breathing when she was fighting a genuine arousal, and had got used to that and to deciding on the spur of the moment whether to pursue it and push her over the edge, or whether to sod it and satisfy himself alone. He hadn't realised, though, that she was capable of sounding like that -- even when acting, and with such ridiculous words -- and he was alarmed that it had aroused him so.... That it had made him lose control enough to make some rather disgraceful, appalling noises himself, at the very last.

He wondered if he could make her sound like that again -- truthfully, next time -- and nearly despised himself for the thought. That wasn't what their arrangement was about: it wasn't what they'd agreed to. And while he was intrigued with the challenge it presented, he was wary of the origin of the impulse.

Ego, perhaps? he thought as he drew the covers up, shivering. You've proven you can make her feel something whether she wants to or not, though. Why this sudden caviling over sincerity? Over a stupid demonstration of abandon?

The bath door opened, and he snapped his eyes closed so he shouldn't see Hermione cross the room toward him.

"Cripes, it's bloody cold. Light on or out?" she asked: he heard her cross to the door, then back to her side of the bed, and the faint chink of metal on wood. "I've taken up the key, don't worry, but d'you think he'll want to snoop later?"

"Sod him," Snape muttered. "He's seen enough, light out."

She doused the light, clambered into bed, and gently pulled her share of the covers from his grasp. "You'd think for what they charge they could be bothered to actually heat the room."

He didn't answer her, or respond to her "Good night, Severus," and within a few minutes she was asleep, curled up on her side, facing him.

Snape was left awake, acutely aware of her by smell, if not sight: the mint of her tooth-paste, her own scent still faintly overlaid with that of his sweat (she hadn't bathed this time as she often did afterward -- probably too cold, so she must have settled for a quick wash-up), and, consequently, she still smelled of sex, something that disgusted him in whores, but which he didn't seem to mind of Hermione at all. The bed smelled of it as well, and that also was odd behavior from her: it wasn't unusual for her to mutter a quick charm to cleanse the worst of it from the sheets before sleeping.

He wasn't happy with this particular development at all, this internal debate over her motives, when all he usually bothered with was a quick and self-satisfied survey of the encounter before he dropped off. It wasn't Hermione's fault, certainly: he'd insisted on more than one occasion that she learn to dissemble more easily, and she'd just proved to him that she could, in spades.

He rather wished, now, she'd behave this way for him as a matter of course. Accept his touch willingly, open herself to him without demur, allow her body to respond to him without such a bloody fuss every time; to touch him as well, and encourage him, as she'd unintentionally done tonight, with hands and voice....

No, the fault was, apparently, with him. In his estimation there was a very strict demarcation between deciding what you wanted and doing your damndest to make it so, and dithering about wishing for it. Dithering and wishing were weak; they were un-Slytherin and unmanly. They put you at the mercy of the person who could grant you what you wanted -- the Dumbledores and Fudges of the world (as he'd learned to his cost and humiliation) and the Hermione Grangers. The Hermione Granger, as there was, thankfully, only one.

Snape was terribly afraid that he might be crossing that line, if he hadn't already. Lust was natural and understandable, a normal function of the male body and psyche: it could be controlled and harnassed through willpower, or allowed free rein as one chose. But to wish for something one knew was bloody well unobtainable -- to desire.... Well, one was back to wishing again, wasn't one? And that gave the grantor all too much power, whether they knew it or not....

He might well have lain awake all night, had the day's walking and the glorious-deplorable sex not totally exhausted him.

*****

Hermione seemed oblivious to his discontent next morning. It occurred to Snape that there was a great deal she'd been unaware of (or deliberately ignoring) all week-end: they'd had fewer verbal spars than usual, excepting at the very start and the outburst at the Muggle restaurant, and he had a sneaking suspicion that it might have something to do with her responsiveness in bed as well.

He bloody well wasn't going to ask her about it, though, and as asking her was presently the only way of deterimining for certain (short of Legilimency), he set it down to his normal, overly-cautious speculations into others' motives.

Basil smirked when he took their breakfast-order: Snape was tempted to transfigure the bloody sneak's moustache into an actual catepillar, and to make it stick longer than six hours. Hermione, on the other hand, ignored the unpleasantness, and nattered on about the histories of Whitemarsh and Brighton, consulting a tatty little guide-book she'd picked up somewhere the day before.

"It's not bloody Hogwarts, A History," Snape muttered at last to shut her up: he couldn't quite stand listening to her and trying to ingest his terribly runny egg-cup at the same time. "You aren't to be marked on knowing it all."

"Of course not. It's just.... Well, it was a nice surprise, going someplace new, and it does have an interesting history," she said as she laid the pamphlet aside. "I apologise for being a nasty little cow about it at first. It was a very handsome gesture on your part, even if you felt it was a necessary one."

Snape looked up from his egg, astonished by the apology, as she serenely tucked into her grilled tomato.

She'd slept well again. The enforced inactivity and freedom from her concerns at the Ministry did wonders for her: gone were the dark half-moons under her eyes, and Snape had determined that her chipper behavior first thing in the morning was not a put-on, not when she'd had a good sleep. And even though she'd not a bit of cosmetics or scent on -- for he'd neglected to pack any of those feminine fripperies, sneering at the thought of picking through all those idiotic toiletries on her dressing-table -- she looked bloody wonderful, her nose and cheeks a bit wind-pinked. (Very much as she had last night, in fact, flushed in the midst of sex.) A top specimen of witchly health, in short: bright-eyed, intelligent, delicate English compexion blooming, attractive though not stunning, glowing with natural health and youthful vitality, and... potentially quite fertile. What every right-thinking wizard intent on procreating could wish for in a wife, pureblood or no. What every right-thinking wizard could get quite a good bit of procreation out of, in fact, and in the process of which he could anticipate more than a bit of pleasure, given the right inducements -- unstressful surroundings, a more congenial relationship, perhaps a bit more dedication to encouraging a certain wantonness that would benefit them both....

Snape felt, at the moment, every second of the twenty-one year gap in their ages, and for once admitted to himself that he didn't feel up to such a challenge, even if he wanted it.

He most certainly didn't want it, did he?

"What's on the schedule today, then?" Hermione asked, and resorted to the decidedly second-class sausages on her plate.

"Stay in Whitemarsh, I should think," Snape said. "Must check out in a few hours, anyway. A bit more walking about will probably do."

"That's fine with me," she said, and finished her breakfast with a final, appreciative swipe with her toast at the juice left on her plate.

"You are, ummm.... That is, you had taken your potion this week before I abducted you, hadn't you?" Snape asked in an undertone.

"Yes, Friday morning. Why?"

"Nothing, I just.... It occurred to me that perhaps you'd put it off until evening, not expecting me to be at the Ministry," he said, relieved.

Whether he wanted it or not, Severus Snape had no intention of impregnating Hermione by accident. For good or ill, and no matter the consequences, it would be -- if it happened -- a deliberate decision.

*****

For all the flash of Muggle Brighton, Whitemarsh was decidedly quiet, having stayed far closer to the spa model than amusement-park. Like the Muggle town, many of the shops and more ridiculous attractions were closed for the season: there simply wasn't much to do but browse among those shops still open, and to walk along West Pier.

Hermione fidgeted on and off, and Snape knew damned well she was worried about what was going on at the Ministry: while he appreciated that she'd managed to restrain herself from speaking of it, he was concerned.

"Put it out of your mind," he murmured, eyes fixed out to sea, which was proving just as soothing close-up as it had the other night, from the window of their room. "If you worry about it so, it will imprint on this week-end's memories and they'll see it right off."

"Do you think they'd --"

"Check your mind? If it's been mucked up royally, yes, almost certainly. If it's only suspicious, you might well pass with a good questioning, or Veritaserum at worst. Do you remember how it felt?"

"Yes," she said, and gripped the rail more tightly as a particularly strong wave hit the pier, shaking them ever so slightly. "Of course I do -- you administered it, after Dumbledore said --"

"And how do you avoid repercussions?"

"Never try to lie," she said quietly. "An oblique answer is far better than a yes or no, and a partial truth that can be misinterpreted is preferable. Don't try to qualify verbally, but you may do so in your mind once they've gone on to another question."

"Full marks. But then I expected no less, from you."

"Why didn't you try it, that night?" she asked him suddenly. "When I proposed. You couldn't know for certain that I wasn't an Occlumens."

"Because certainty is a fine thing in life-and-death matters, but it takes quiet a bit of the challenge and... entertainment value away from an enterprise, if not."

"And I was entertaining?"

"The proposal was. Seeing how far you'd go with the whole silly plot most certainly was."

"And you were just offended enough to hope I'd go through with it all, weren't you?"

"More that just enough," he admitted.

"Yes, well, I've said I'm sorry for bits, but never for that, I don't think," she said steadily, "and I am. Not this, not the way it's worked out, but for getting you chained to me in the first place, even though I'm grateful for your help."

"Hermione, what is this about?" he asked, suspicious.

"What?"

"The sudden... affability, the apologies -- this is two in one day, which is a record for you so far --"

"You're right, that's all. I hadn't quite got the measure of how dangerous this all is until very recently, and I should hate for it to go south before I've had time to... to settle the reckoning, no matter that it's very inadequate repayment. I shouldn't worry, I'm sure I'll put my foot in it many times before it's over," she added, and smiled wryly. "Many more opportunities for apologies, most of which I'll ignore." She shivered in the next gust of wind, and then said, "Do you feel up to walking some more? I've got quite chilled...."

Snape wanted very badly to press her on the issue: he felt certain there was more behind it, but he was damned if he could pin it down. It was possible that she was simply coming around -- that she was beginning to realise just how mucked-up everything was, and to take it seriously....

He sincerely hoped so, because the longer it dragged on, the more danger they were in.

"Given the stakes," he murmured as he took her arm, "it isn't entirely... objectionable, in the end. But for Merlin's sake, Hermione, never foget that the decisions you've made in the past affect the people you associate with in future, whether you're aware of it or not."

She nodded soberly, and they left West Pier for the last time, passing the occasional out-of-season tourist or native; they toyed with the idea of a tour of the squid hatchery for the sake of acquiring the ticket-stubs, but Hermione backed out at the tour guide's cheerfully oblivious offer of calamari at tours' end. (That brought up the subject of lunch: but as they were both bored witless, it seemed best to leave Whitemarsh a bit early and head straight for Hogwarts, where they were assured of something palatable. If the Ministry business hadn't been finished by then -- and it should have been -- it was too bloody late to worry over it.)

There wasn't much to do in the end but to return to Foybel Spires, pack, and Apparate to Hogwarts.

*****

"My word," McGonagall said, eyebrows shooting upward, "where did you go? You're both quite pink in the face."

"Whitemarsh," Hermione volunteered as she slipped into the visitor's chair at the High Table. "And Brighton -- Severus actually let me drag him about, and we got loads of sun, considering."

"Oooooo -- is the Muggle concert hall still there?" Sprout interrupted, eyes shining. "I had a beaux who loved to go there...."

"Gone, I'm afraid," Hermione said gently, quite surprising Snape: he'd got the impression Hermione was ready to take Sprout's head off after the last two times they'd had to dine with her. "All that's gone. There's a wizard hotel there now, but nothing as spectular as the pictures I've seen."

Sprout wilted, and brightened again with a "But you enjoyed yourselves?"

"Yes," Snape murmured. "Very relaxing."

It was a far more relaxing week-end than Hooch had had, apparently: she entered from the Anteroom looking fit to be tied, and glared at Snape as she took her chair.

"Hope you're happy," she growled. "Two hexings, one bout of hysterics, and Caldwell is, apparently, an Animagus. Congratulations, and good luck."

"How did you determine that?" Snape asked, secretly quite pleased that she'd had a bad time of it: it served her right, the sly boots, for putting him on to that agency.

"Because he's a bloody garter-snake, and he managed to slip past the wards and into the girls' dorm. Into Cecily Bingham's bed, actually. She was the fit of hysterics."

"Good gods," McGonagall said. "When did you find this out, and how?"

"This morning. Shrieks from the girls, something slithers down the stair past me as I run up, Bingham babbles about a snake, and that she'd broke her hair-brush trying to give it a good cosh.... No snake in evidence, and Caldwell unable to satisfactorily explain why he looks as though he's been bashed about the head with a bludger-bat, the lousy little liar. He's in the Infirmary. She got a few good licks in, and I think she's fractured his arm in a few places, if not actually broken it."

Snape groaned -- Caldwell, in addition to more worrisome problems, was the best Keeper Slytherin had had for several years: McGonagall was uncharitable enough to snigger, and Hermione was doing her best not to. (Her best wasn't very good, unfortunately.)

"What?" he hissed.

"Oh, just --" (chortle) "the House mascot, more or --" (snigger) "less, being coshed over the head with a hair-brush...."

There were few things in life more irritating than a tableful of women sharing a joke at one's expense, especially when it also involved one's House and gender.

"Come now, Severus," McGonagall finally managed. "It is funny."

"I'm sure it is to you," he muttered.

"He'll be ready for the next match, I'm sure."

The biddies collectively decided Snape had had enough, and everyone changed topic.

"Come and see me after you visit Caldwell," McGonagall said in an undertone. "Some, erm, school business came up while you were away."

Good, he thought. It's over and done with. Now to avoid any repercussions.... And to deal with bloody Caldwell.

*****

Snape made straight for the Infirmary after luncheon.

"Severus, I admit that it isn't that funny, but you needn't be so grim," Hermione protested, trotting along beside him. "And it's only a few fractures, he shan't miss any matches."

"Oh yes, he will," Snape corrected her, and didn't bother to hide a scowl. "I've got to suspend the little bastard myself."

"What on earth for?"

Snape stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, Hermione collided with him, and he had to grab for her arm to steady her: and then he drew her over to one of the windows overlooking the Quad, and explained.

"He's one of the problem boys," he said quietly. "I know it seems a minor incident on the surface, but he... terrorises the girls, and I can't abide that. It's not always overtly sexual, but he's been warned, and he must have done it to take advantage of my absence. Hooch is right and he's a lousy little liar, and I shall have to be forceful -- it won't be in the least amusing, so you might as well go to my quarters and wait for me."

"If that's what you want, of course I shall," she said, taken aback. "Not that I expected it to be amusing, but if you're more comfortable without me there...."

He very nearly sent her on her way, and then thought about it again.

"On the other hand," he said slowly, "an audience might be useful...."

*****

Caldwell's face paled when Snape entered the Infirmary -- and went even paler when he saw Hermione, except for the bruises about his eyes and temples; and Snape, who was determined to cut through any idiocy the boy might attempt, left Hermione at the door, strode directly to the boy's bed, and straddled the chair next to it.

"Yes, Caldwell, I'm back a bit early," he said, voice low. "While in other circumstances I'd require a full accounting of you I find I don't have the patience today, as you've ruined what was an otherwise quite pleasant week-end with my wife."

Caldwell's eyes darted over to Hermione, and then back to Snape.

"Sir, I --"

"I warned you last term," Snape said, staring the idiot down, "that I wouldn't tolerate any further misbehavior involving the girls -- particularly the girls -- and I have to assume you didn't take me seriously."

"Sir, does that Gr- Does she have to stand there and --"

"Shut -- up. 'She,' and I take it you intended to say 'that Gryffindor,' is my wife, and I may require her expertise in a moment. Now, I doubt that Madam Hooch's eyesight is so bad -- some of her calls on the Pitch notwithstanding -- that she wouldn't see a snake take off down the stair past her, or that she's so dense that she can't put two and two together. You were out of bounds, badly," Snape continued, leaning over the back of the chair. "You chose a very... ill-considered method and place to pull your little prank, ones which verge on the suggestive and lewd. You're old and intelligent enough that I shouldn't have to spell out the specifics for you, so I must assume that you did it deliberately and with malice, and specifically to be suggestive and lewd."

"But I'm not an Animagus, and nobody can prove otherwise," Caldwell said, all innocence.

"Is that true, Hermione?" Snape asked her, tone light, his eyes never leaving Caldwell's face. "I assume you know the procedures, as a Ministry employee."

"I'm afraid it's not true. A suspected but unregistered Animagus may be placed under arrest and forced into their Animagus form, either by Imperio or, if they prove resistent to that, to Trial by Fire and Water."

Caldwell paled again.

"I hear the Trial is quite barbaric," Hermione continued dispassionately, "but very effective, once the subject has been restrained from casting any mitigating charms."

"So, Caldwell," Snape said, "I think we should take it on trust that you are a bloody Animagus, since you won't admit it and as I don't fancy seeing any of my students undergo that unless you make it necessary. You shan't, shall you?"

Caldwell shook his head.

"Very well. Once the arm has healed we will be visiting the Ministry, where you will be registered. Furthermore, you are suspended from any extra-curricular activities -- including Quidditch -- for the remainder of Term. And if there are any further incidents of any kind, I shall have you sent down after I've done with you. Understood?"

Caldwell reddened and looked likely to spit nails -- at both of them -- but he nodded dumbly, and stared out of the window.

"Don't test my patience again, Caldwell," Snape said, and added even more softly, so Hermione shouldn't hear, "I warned you that I would make you pay if harm came to any of the girls.... You've come very close, today, and as far as I'm concerned your luck's run out. There won't be a third chance, not matter how harmless or stupid the incident."

*****

"What on earth did you threaten him with?" Hermione asked when they'd left the Infirmary.

"What makes you think I did?"

"The look on his face when you turned to leave," she said matter-of-factly. "You terrified him."

"Oh, good -- he remembered what I said last time. Pity he didn't before he pulled today's little stunt."

"Severus, you wouldn't actually harm a student, would you... ?"

"After he's sent down, he's no longer officially my student, is he? Trial by Fire and Water was a nice touch, by the by," Snape added to change the subject.

"It wasn't a touch, it's what they really do."

"Really? How... old-fashioned of them. Look, I must see McGonagall on school business," he said. "I should only be a half-hour or so."

"I'll just fetch my things and Appa--"

"No, I want you to --"

"-- to stay put until tomorrow morning," Hermione finished for him wryly. "Fine. I'll just go pillage your book-shelves again, shall I?"

"That will do," he said approvingly, and left her at the entrance to the Dungeons.

*****

McGonagall got straight to the point as soon as he'd stepped into her office, occasionally glancing upward at him as she continued to scribble on a parchment.

"They got something yesterday, it looks interesting, and they shall have it to you later this week," she said. "It didn't go off without a hitch, though...."

Snape swore under his breath, but for once McGonagall didn't chide him for it.

"Don't tell me what happened, not yet -- I don't want Hermione prising anything out of me."

"Very well. Not that I know, as I didn't want to know either. Good thing you took Hermione away," McGonagall added. "She looks far happier than she did when last I saw her, but I think she should anticipate some trouble tomorrow."

"We have plenty of alibi," Snape assured her. "She wasn't exaggerating about dragging me about."

"Severus, you've gone soft in your old age -- allowing a slip of a young witch to run you ragged?"

He sneered at her for the jibe, knowing that was precisely the response she expected of him. (Unfortunately, however, he'd begun to think exactly the same thing, and he was entirerly serious about it.)

"Go on," McGonagall said, waving him off. "I'll quite understand if you're not at table tonight."

Snape turned to leave, and then thought to tell her, "Caldwell is sorted, for the time being."

McGonagall peered at him, surprised, and said, "Of course he is. You always handle those things admirably in your own House, Severus. I've never thought otherwise." She returned to her writing, and Snape quietly closed the door as he left.

Caldwell doesn't quite believe me, though, Snape thought as he rose the stair down. Pity I can't show him what I did to Malfoy....

Draco Malfoy had paid in the end for what he'd done to Hermione in Autumn Term of seventh year: Snape's only regrets were that he'd been obliged to wait until that last, nasty battle to actually do it, and that Draco hadn't survived the rest of the muck, so he should have had to live the rest of his life with the consequences. It would have killed Lucius Malfoy -- had he not already been dead a year -- to know that Snape had quite effectively and without remorse put an end to the legitimate Malfoy line by making his son an eunuch.

Snape was tempted to tell Hermione that hitherto he'd only had to threaten his students with it: but he rather doubted she'd appreciate the gesture.

*****

The barkeep was surly as ever, but nodded to Snape when he entered and poured him an Ogden's straightaway.

"Haven't seen you about," the man muttered. "The new wife keeping you busy?"

"How did you hear?" Snape demanded.

"Never you mind. Business, I take it?"

"Yes," Snape said, and lowered his voice. "Is your floo still untraceable?"

"Yeah. They find the connection every once in a while, and I bugger it up again," the old codger said. "Fixed it again just yesterday, so they can't have cottoned on yet. Travel, or a call?"

"Just a call."

"Finish your drink, then, and go out and nip up the back stairs," the man said, and slipped a key across the bar, under a filthy napkin. "I'm sure the hag in the corner's a watcher for them, but I'll keep her busy."

Snape spent an interminable twenty minutes sipping at his Ogden's, alternately staring at the moth-eaten goat's head on the wall and fending off the attentions of the bar slut; and then he checked the clock in the corner, made a bit of a show of resignation, left the pub, and detoured through several streets before doubling back and entering the upper floor through the back stairs.

"Ambrose Forsythe," he directed the floo once he was certain he was alone; and after a few moments the connection cleared, he stuck his head into the fire, and found himself nose-to-nose with Forsythe, an unhealthy-looking specimen in a shabby bed-sit, clutching a fly-specked glass of inferior whisky, who went pale when he realised who his caller was.

"S- Snape," he stuttered. "Haven't s- seen you for t- ten years --"

"Eight," Snape corrected him. "How is the business-partner, Forsythe? Still biddable? Still paying your gambling debts?"

Forsythe went even paler, and he snarled, "He cut me out, damn you, five years ago. You must have heard...."

"No, I hadn't. I did warn you that the potion would only work so long, and there were limits to what you could induce him to do. I don't suppose you admitted it to him, did you? I imagine he'd do you a serious injury if he heard what you'd done to him -- Jarvey always was a vicious sort."

"What do you bloody want? If it's m- money, you're out of luck."

"Don't be stupid, Forsythe. The question is, what have you done for money?"

"Don't know what you mean," Forsythe grumbled, and took a swig of his whisky.

"I happen to know," Snape said, quite thoughtfully, "that within the last six months or so, someone leaked very sensitive documents -- documents to which I suspect you, as a high-level secretary at Mangel and Mortars, might have access -- to an executive in that firm."

Forsythe choked on his whisky.

"Now, on the face of it, that seems a very stupid act," Snape continued. "If the documents were that spectacular, why not try to sell them to the Prophet or Quibbler? Why not go straight to the Ministry and collect a handsome reward? But no, this individual, who shall remain nameless -- for the time being -- approached an executive in the company, presented these documents, and sat back to wait for the Galleons to roll in. Except they didn't."

"Don't know what you're implying," Forsythe managed through his choking. "That is stupid. They'dve offed the bloke. Chucked him in the Big A, at the least."

"Not necessarily," Snape said, rolling his eyes at 'the Big A.' "Not this particular executive, who was known as a fine, upstanding person with great loyalty to the firm. I have two hypotheses on this, and perhaps you can tell me which is the more likely....

"First, the executive would protect the firm's interests by paying off the provider of the documents, lest they find their way out into the world, and given the executive's character it is quite unlikely that the provider... shall we call him 'the blackmailer?' ...would be harmed. Nice, tidy, all kept in-house, and the blackmailer would probably not be asked to leave the firm, as he would be more dangerous when loose. He might even get a promotion out of it, as well as an exorbitant rise.

"Or, second, the executive -- who, again, was a fine, upstanding person -- might choose to go to the media himself, as a credible authority on the issue. He might even go to the Ministry. And in the end, the provider -- let's not call him 'blackmailer' now, shall we? it's such an ugly term -- would receive accolades and a sizable reward, for helping expose such a terrible act as might be outlined in those documents."

Snape allowed himself to smile -- really smile, something he seldom did, but which he knew had a terrific intimidation effect upon certain persons -- and asked, "So, Forsythe, which do you think more likely? Hypothetically speaking, of course?"

"No idea," Forsythe whimpered.

"Oh, I think you do, Ambrose. I know you have a very, very good idea."

"You don't know anything, you fucking arsehole," Forsythe snarled with a sudden show of spirit. "Why're you fishing about? I told you I don't have any money -- can't you see that?"

"I don't want money, you stupid sod, I want information.... All right, I'll tell you what I know, Forsythe. The executive is dead. The blackmailer -- let's call a spade a spade -- is frightened, because he doesn't know if the executive was killed for trying to release the documents. I know he can't find the documents he gave to the executive, and the reason he can't is that the executive hid them, along with very specific notes as to how he acquired them and from whom," Snape said, the last bit -- the lie -- rolling smoothly off his tongue.

Forsythe finally gave up any pretense at facing Snape down, and started sobbing: Snape let him wear himself out, waiting until he was merely snivelling, and then asked, "Where are the documents kept, Forsythe?"

"I don't know," Forsythe wailed. "I can't bloody find them --"

"I don't mean the copies, you idiot, I mean the originals. Where are they kept?"

"In the -- in the vault, in the cellars," Forsythe said. "The third-level cellars, where they keep the proprietary potions receipts. Top-secret stuff."

"Any chance that they've been moved, or that they'll be moved in future?"

"I don't know that. Or leastways, I know they were still there as of last week. The white coats have to go down there to consult the receipt."

"So they're working on it now?"

"Yes. Masses of it. We've had lots of deliveries from the Ministry, the last two weeks. I've been checking the log-books to see who enters the facility."

Bad, very bad, Snape thought, immensely worried. Either the shit has a long shelf-life, or they're preparing to implement it soon....

" 'Zat all?" Forsythe asked, shivering.

"Not quite. You might be useful, Forsythe...."

"Ohhhh, no," the man jabbered. "No, I'm not mucking about with this any more, Snape. They killed him, I know it, and I'm not putting my neck out again."

"You don't have much choice, really. Here are my terms -- let's see which you like best. When all this hits the news -- and it will, Forsythe, it's already set to, any day now -- one of two versions will be presented to the authorities. In Version One, my first hypothesis, the blackmailer is exactly that, and he is indirectly responsible for the executive's death, and he pays the penalty for that."

Forsythe sneered at Version One, but looked suitably cowed.

"In Version Two he is a concerned but ultimately powerless individual who goes to the one person he can trust, who he knows can do the right thing, and he is understandably frightened when his ally is... removed from action. However, when other concerned individuals contact him, he does the right thing and tells them exactly where the incriminating documents can be found. Furthermore, he alerts them in the interim -- carefully -- if he sees or hears any suspicious activity, whether it involves moving or destroying the documents, or whether it involves harm against them. Laudable actions in the end, if a bit craven in the middle bit."

Forsythe's shoulders sagged, and he nodded. "How?" he whispered. "How d'I get hold of you?"

"Send something to your old school chum Steven care of the Hog's Head, Hogsmeade -- something innocuous, a product sample or something. 'Steven' will contact you."

"All right."

"I should be ill for a few days if I were you, Forsythe," Snape advised. "Things might be a bit hot for the next day or two, as there was some activity recently. Acquire yourself a nasty case of elf-flu, and make sure you don't hang about this disgusting room, it's the first place they'll look. It should be safe to go back in a few days, provided you've a healer's excuse."

"All right, Snape," Forsythe said, sweat beading his brow, and he took another swig of whisky.

"And don't even think," Snape said deliberately, "of grassing on me. I don't have the documents, I don't know where they are now although they're in safe hands, and if you go to them they'll kill me first and you second -- unless, of course, they decide to kill you first. I imagine those brewing vats can reduce a body to bone in a matter of days."

Forsythe was still blubbering when Snape withdrew his head from the floo.

Cowards make rotten blackmailers, he thought as he made his cautious way down the back stair, but what wonderful sources of information....

He managed to restrain further gloating until he was safely on the verge of the Forest: then he collapsed against a tree-trunk and pounded at it with one fist out of pure exuberance.

He'd forgot how satisfying that could be: to accomplish something, acquire some bit of vital information, that no one else had the stones or wherewithal to get. Even Flaherty's potions puzzle (so to speak) had come to him through Hermione, but this was something all his own.

*****

She hadn't buggered off, as it happened: she was curled up in a ball on the settee, sleeping soundly, when Snape entered silently by the office door. She'd accidentally creased one page of Philtres and Potions for Philandering Past-times (odd choice on her part, that) when it had fallen from her hand, but Snape was too grateful that she was still at Hogwarts to care much.

"Hermione," he said, and shook her shoulder: her eyes shot open, and she seemed confused for a split second.

"What? Why is it dark?"

"Because it is. I was detained, I'm afraid, and we've missed dinner. Shall I ask the Elves to bring something?"

"Better," she said, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "I don't suppose you'll give me time tomorrow for a full breakfast."

*****

Thank the gods there wasn't much left in the evening, because they'd apparently exhausted their stock of small-talk well before their late dinner arrived. (Or to be more precise, Hermione had exhausted hers. Snape had none to begin with.)

She did, however, bring up the one subject he wanted to avoid.

"Have you heard anything?" she asked. "Have they got --"

"Don't ask that, Hermione."

"But I --"

"Hermione --"

"Look, what am I walking into tomorrow?" she said, indignant. "Do I need to worry, or not?"

Snape tossed his fork onto his plate and buried his face in his hands.

"It's done," he said carefully. "It's likely it's been discovered, or will be by the time you're there tomorrow. I really don't want to tell you more than that, Hermione -- I don't know anything else, at any rate. And I'd feel a damned sight better if you'd leave some things here in my Pensieve."

"Absolutely not," she said. "What if --"

"Hermione, I can't Obliviate you of the conversations we had. Even if I were skilled enough to be that selective, they'd find the holes. If bloody... ...if the agent mucked it up badly enough, they'll certainly call in a Legilimens."

"I fooled one of the best living before," she said matter-of-factly. "Why shouldn't it work with them?"

Well, that was that. He'd definitely have to give her something to think about before she left in the morning....

...but not until morning. Between the stupid mucking about on holiday and the excitement of dealing with Caldwell and Forsythe, Snape was ready for nothing but sleep.

And to think that a few months ago I was complaining of boredom, he thought muzzily as he dropped off.

*****

He got the "something to think about," begun in an interesting fashion, by carefully unbuttoning the front of Hermione's night-gown and nuzzling at her breasts; a sound sleeper under most circumstances, she didn't wake for an amazingly long time.

When she did, he already had his hand well into her knickers.

"What.... Bloody hell, Severus, what do you think you're --"

"Enjoying myself," he mumbled around the contents of his mouth, smacked at her knee when she reflexively drew it up, and put his hand right back where it had been.

"But I'm going to be -- eep! -- be late again," she complained, squealing when his hand found her sex.

He didn't bloody care how late she was today, actually. Besides his ulterior motive this morning, he'd suspected Hermione was actually quite responsive to him, physically speaking, if only her brain were disengaged from thinking about what he was doing: and that sneaky foray into her knickers was proving him right -- for she was aready moist, a state he normally had to work quite hard to get her to.

"You're going to get me -- uh, get me sacked for tardiness, I hope you --"

His fingers twitched.

"Ah, I hope you realise that, and then -- oh -- stop it, Severus! -- and then where will we be? I don't mind you enjoying yourself at a sen- sens- sensible hour --"

More finger-twitching, and another jerk of her knee -- deliberate, this time, to try to trap his hand, which he fixed by nipping at a very sensitive bit.

"-- OW! -- Damn it, Severus! -- but seven-something in the morning --"

"Shix orty-ive," he mumbled to correct her, and set to something a bit more intense than mere finger-twitching.

"I don't bloody care, I have to be at work aaaa- at eight-thirty, you randy son of a -- a -- "

She never did finish the phrase; or if she did, it was so garbled that it made no difference.

He gave her just enough time to gather some wits about her (but not enough to catch her breath to lay into him) and raised his head, stared into her eyes, and softly commanded, "Remember this, Hermione. When they ask what we were doing, remember this, remember all that glorious noise you made Saturday night, remember the places we walked all week-end. Don't think of our discussions, whatever you do -- except the ones about how bloody awful the food was."

"Do you r- realise how bloody embarassing that will be?" she demanded.

"Quite, I'm sure. And hopefully as much or more for them as for you," he said, and began re-buttoning her night-gown, one-handed.

"You're not the one who has to.... What are you doing?"

"Oh, quite right, you're only going to be getting dressed. Sorry."

"But aren't you...."

She only then seemed to notice that Snape was in trousers and shirt, and stared at him, indignant, when he rose from the bed, fetched his boots, and sat in the chair across the room to pull them on.

"It won't work, you know," she said. "Not if they use Veritaserum."

"Of course it will. What were we doing in Whitemarsh? A small holiday for the express purpose of fucking each other silly --"

"Severus!"

"-- so we can do our duty by the Wizarding World. Did we ever leave Whitemarsh by any means? No. Did we talk much? No, my husband isn't a talkative man.... You may elaborate on what he does care to do, if you like."

"Severus, be serious -- "

"Did you talk about the Ministry? Yes, of course, it's your workplace, and you're so terribly upset by the way your horrid, incompetent -- etcetera, etcetera -- superior, Corcoran, treats you, but of course you wouldn't dream of discussing confidential information. Note, please, that 'wouldn't dream of it' is quite different, if you take it literally, to trying to deny that you have. Metaphors and idioms are your friends when under the influence of Veritaserum," he added as he rose, turned away from her, and reached for his wasitcoat, "so use them."

Turning his back was not, perhaps, a good idea, for in the midst of buttoning-up, something walloped him squarely between the shoulder-blades: he staggered and nearly fell before he caught his balance, and twisted to find one of the bed-pillows lying on the floor.

The bed was missing one. It was also missing Hermione, but a flash of bare leg caught out of the corner of his eye, and the banging of the bath door, made it clear where she'd got to.

"I believe the Elves cleaned your skirt," he called through the door.

"Pissovandie," was all he could hear over the running of water into the tub.

It couldn't possibly be the advice she was upset with. Good, solid, sensible suggestions, every one of them. And he hoped she didn't need to use them.

If she did, then of course her interrogator -- possibly even Corcoran, who without doubt would insist on being present -- would certainly have the impression that Severus Snape was, indeed, a randy son of a bitch.

Snape pulled a fresh neck-cloth out of the bureau, set to tying it, caught his own eyes in the mirror, and shrugged.

*****

Chapter 14 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 15