While he knew he'd done his best to prepare Hermione for what might await her at the Ministry -- short of spending the entire week-end training her in resistance to interrogation, something that would have inevitably backfired if she were subjected to Legilimency -- Snape couldn't help but worry.

He wasn't used to having a junior, so to speak, an agent under him directly in the line of fire, whilst he sat back and waited for reports. He had some inkling now of how Dumbledore might have felt, and began to appreciate the old coot's skill and ability to handle the pressure.

It didn't help, either, that he liked having this particular agent under him. Literally under him. It wasn't done to engage in liaisons with one's co-workers and subordinates.... One kept the demarcations quite clear, to maintain only a dispassionate interest in the well-being of a colleague. It was always best to pigeon-hole things -- and people -- in safe, discrete little boxes, and to keep them neatly classified and inviolate. It should have worked quite nicely, actually, had Hermione solicited his help with the problem directly instead of proposing, or had he forbid her to continue mucking about with it after he'd caught her out -- though the gods only knew how he'd have been able to see that she did, short of locking her in his rooms, bound and gagged.

But Hermione was not just his wife, a sexual and legal convenience: she was his colleague as well. The lines were now hopelessly blurred where she was concerned, and he didn't know how he could begin to re-establish them. He was so distracted Monday morning after she'd left, worrying over her, that he'd nearly missed Phoebus Whortleberry adding dragon's blood to a Soothing potion, an act that would have produced highly toxic fumes.

He was greatly relieved, then, when Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped into his office during his free period: as the man's wand wasn't out, he assumed he had good news.

"Afternoon, Snape," the man said.

"Ah. Official business, I take it?"

"Right. Let's dispense with the formalities, shall we? I reckon your version of the week-end will match your wife's pretty closely, correct?"

"Yes," Snape said, and drew a piece of parchment from the bottom of a stack of essays. "And in the interest of not wasting time for us both, I wrote it out for you earlier today."

Shacklebolt's mouth quirked, and he took the parchment and quickly scanned it.

"Thought it might match up. I need to trouble you, though, for any receipts you picked up while away....."

Snape made a great show of impatience with wiping his quill clean.

"In my rooms," he said tersely, rising from his stool, and Shacklebolt followed him through the side door and into the sitting-room, waiting silently while Snape scrabbled in his desk for all the bits he'd flung there Sunday.

"She did well?" Snape asked softly.

"Very. And my junior was too stupid to check whether the Veritaserum was still good, so as far as Bretchgirdle's concerned, she passed with flying colours. No question of Imperius or Legilimency, not given her Ministry classification and alibi."

"Good," he said, and handed over the receipts.

"And this," Shacklebolt replied, handing off a packet in return, "should prove interesting. What we acquired Saturday."

"Ah...."

"It's already been leaked to the press -- parts of it, at any rate. Some of the more... specific information was withheld. Don't want to act prematurely."

"Right. Thanks," Snape said, wishing desperately that the bloody man would leave so he could read the damned thing. "What was the problem, by the way?"

"Corcoran came in Sunday and discovered it missing. He never does that, blast him -- we thought we had an extra day to muddy things up a bit. Snape, is this as bad as it sounds? Not that I've read that damned thing, but Arthur swore a blue streak when he did."

"Yes, it's quite bad. They're... ready to act, apparently, they have everything lined up. It's a question of fooling people into participating."

"I see. Shall I say something to Arthur?"

Snape shifted uneasily, and said, "As you think best. I don't believe there's much he can do at this point but keep an eye on Corcoran and Fudge. Though if either of you see much traffic between them and St. Mungo's, I would appreciate knowing."

"Shall do," Shacklebolt said, and headed for the main door to Snape's rooms. Oh, and...." he added thoughtfully, hand on the door-knob.

"Yes?"

"The knickers? Nice detail. Embarrassed the hell out of that miserable old sod Bretchgirdle, and flustered her just enough to make the story plausible and not too pat..."

"Thanks," Snape said sourly as Shacklebolt stepped out of the room.

"...although I have to tell you, mate, I don't think green's her colour." Shacklebolt took off down the corridor at a slow lope, practically daring Snape to hex his back. (He badly wanted to, but managed to stop himself.)

He certainly wasn't going to admit to Shacklebolt that the knickers had not been intended to be either detail or diversion, though he wished now that he'd thought of it at the time: he'd rather hoped Hermione would take the hint and give him the pleasure of removing them himself at some point during the coming week-end.

*****

He settled down later that evening (having restrained his earlier impatience and curiosity) with a small glass of something to fortify himself, and set to reading the papers within the packet: they proved to be memos between Corcoran and Fudge, and while the first several were vague, they became more and more specific as time went on and they became more confident that they might pull it off.

23rd November, 2006
To: C. Fudge, MfM
From: D. Corcoran

Regarding your memo of Thursday last, including your concerns over the projected birthrates and the ICW's likely unfavourable reaction:

I've been thinking on this quite a bit, actually, and I've come to the conclusion that we've been attacking it from the wrong angle -- rather timidly, in fact. And a visit the other night from an old mate of mine put a bit of a flea in my ear.

We've faced this before, you see, only not with wizards. It's elves. They couldn't be produced as a viable commodity for a long time, until Greenaway hit upon a method. And my mate thought such a thing might actually be possible with wizards as well -- any human, really -- at least in theory, and without resorting to any of the currently restricted or forbidden potions or spells.

It's quite a revolutionary idea, actually, and the problem is that certain elements within the government and the public wouldn't see it the right way (you know how they are). But it's become obvious to me that the current 'persuasive' methods aren't working worth a damn, no matter what G. says. (Frankly, I don't think they ever will. Sometimes you lead the horse with a carrot, sometimes by the bridle, and sometimes you have to take the whip to its obstinate arse, begging your pardon, sir.)

At any rate, it's a thought, if all else fails. Probably not worth pursuing, given the Wiz.'s decision to do things by the book. Just thought I'd throw it on the table.

D.C.

c: file

**

25th November, 2006
To: D. Corcoran
From: Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic

Corcoran, I confess that I'm greatly frustrated with the attitude of the Wiz., particularly when it comes to dealing with the ICW and with the rebellious element on the Home Front. I think I could be persuaded to look at other options, no matter how 'revolutionary.' Anything is worth taking a look at, you know; there's no law against investigating possibilities.

I should need a great deal more information, however. And with the understanding that this is purely an exploration of one possible avenue, with no commitment as yet.

Is your friend available to discuss the historical problem a bit further?

C.F.

**

28th November, 2006
To: C.F.
Fr: D.C.

Monday 1st Dec., 8pm. I've secured a private dining-room at Fortescue's.

D.C.

c: file

**

3rd December, 2006
To: D. Corcoran
From: Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic

Well, I have to say it's quite an interesting solution, Dennis. I'm very impressed with Debdale's grasp of the historical problem and its potential for solving our present difficulties.

It is, as you've noted, a rather daring step. Furthermore, I should need the further proof that D. hinted at. If he is able to provide this within a reasonable period, I would be amenable to providing him with funds and resources for further research. I should feel better having the process very strictly laid out, however, so we may evaluate as it proceeds, and call a halt to it if we hit any stumbling-blocks or the results are disappointing.

Be a good lad and see to that bit of it, won't you?

C.F.

**

Snape's hand paused before setting that last aside.

8th December, 2006
To: C.F.
Fr: D.C.

PHASE 1: Discovery. Modern analysis of Greenaway's potion, breaking into constituent parts, and determination of any substances actively harmful to humans. Testing of various like substances for substitutions.

Est. time frame: Dec. 20, 2006 - February 1, 2007
Est. resources: G45,900 (includes laboratory assistant).

PHASE 2: Preliminary testing. Separate substances to be tested upon human subjects for toxicity (primarily) and favourable reactions (secondarily). If results are favourable, further testing of the substances in total (that is, in its first full version).

Est. time frame: February 5 - March 1, 2007
Est. resources: G38,500, and access to subjects via the Medical Testing Laboratory at Azkaban.

PHASE 3: Formulation. Based on preliminary testing, D. will develop the potion into its beta (and hopefully, final) version.

Est. time frame: March 10 - March 31, 2007
Est. resources: G24,000.

PHASE 4: Clinical trials. Beta version of potion to be administered to test subjects, which will then be observed for a) appropriate physiological reaction and b) satisfactory outcome (i.e., increase in pregnancy as compared to that rate in the general population).

Est. time frame: April 5 - July 5, 2007
Est. resources: G40,000.

PHASE 5: Production. This will preferably be done by an outside manufacturer, as producing the necessary quantity of solution would be too time-consuming and costly to do in a research laboratory.

PHASE 6: Implementation. D. indicates it would be feasible -- and indeed helpful -- to accomplish this through St. Mungo's.

PROJECT TIMEFRAME: December 20, 2006 - July 5, 2007.
TOTAL EST. EXPENDITURE: G148,400.
15% OVERRUN CUSHION: G 22,260.

GRAND TOTAL: G170,660.*

*Phases 1- 4 only. Phase 5 cost will depend greatly upon the contractor responsible. Phase 6 should cost very little in comparison, viz., transportation and possible publicity/enforcement costs.

Well, that's the bones of it. There are some concerns, of course, that may lead to delays (or, conversely, if D. hits upon an easy solution or spectacular results, a speeding-up):

• Access to necessary substances. Some called for in the original potion are rather rare, and he's concerned about that.
• While he is satisfied that he will have enough test subjects available initially, he is worried about having appropriate numbers for the Clinical Trials (Phase 4). There are, regrettably, far fewer female subjects (any, let alone of of child-bearing age, of course) in Az. than male. (He is factoring in a 10 - 15% acceptable loss from failures during Phase 2.) While he can of course utilise redundant females for the toxicity portion of Phase 2, he must be willing to potentially sacrifice fertile subjects in the secondary part of that Phase, or there will be no reliable data on which to base the beta version of the potion.

So that's that -- please look over it at your leisure, and let me know how you want to proceed. D. is quite excited, and would love to get cracking on it. I know he was pleased with your reaction to his little demonstration.

D.C.

c: file

**

The glass shattered in Snape's hand and sliced it open; he dropped the papers with a curse and hurried to the bath, the blood running quite freely down his wrist and soaking his cuff.

How generous of Debdale, to admit the utility of 'redundant' females, he thought, grim, as he held his hand under the cold tap and let the water wash away the worst of the blood. Not to mention 10 - 15% acceptable loss....

Debdale had not been directly associated with the Death Eaters, but he hadn't gone out of his way to avoid, them, either: Snape knew of at least two instances in which he'd been asked to produce a potion for the Dark Lord -- during the first war -- and he'd done it willingly and to Voldemort's complete satisfaction. Snape had spoken to one of his former assistants once, long after Debdale had disappeared, and even after all that time the man had gone pale and said, "He's not right, that one. I mean, really not right. There's something missing, there, something not quite human, 'f you know what I mean.... Or rather, he's the only human, and everyone else is no better than flobberworms. Didn't dare eat or drink about him, for you never knew 'f he might test something nasty on you."

Snape could well believe it. It was very similar to the Death Eater attitude toward Muggles. The only difference between them that he could see was that Debdale masked his indifference toward human life with the excuse of scientific inquiry, while the others excused their more selective indifference with a twisted version of the Pureblood philosophy.

When the bleeding finally slowed and Snape was certain he hadn't any glass in the wound, he doused it with an anti-sepsis, wrapped the hand, and returned to the documents.

11th December, 2006
To: D. Corcoran
From: Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic

Dennis:

It looks promising, very promising. And yes, the demonstration was quite persuasive. Wherever did he find wild elves? I thought they'd died out in nature. (Vicious little beasts in their natural state -- it would probably be no loss if they were extinct.)

I believe we should proceed with Phase 1; please inform D., and see to it that he's allowed to draw on the funds I've provided -- Gringotts' head clerk should give you access to Vault 937. Don't set D. loose on it, of course.

We shall not, however, make any rash decisions no matter how effective the procedure proves. The people do have a way of surprising one, you know, and the numbers may improve drastically before July. (We'll certainly know by then, won't we? You've the conference coming up at that month's end, so I assume you'll have all the latest figures tallied by mid-month.) In the meanwhile, we should proceed with the other voluntary measures. I don't want us set back on that front if this goes south.

It behoves us to make certain there isn't a breath of this in the media, of course -- Merlin only knows what the rags would make of it. I think, too, that it ought be kept from certain subordinates in your department. (I think you know to whom I refer.) If a trained monkey had applied for that position we should have done better to hire it....

Keep me current on D.'s progress.

C.F.

**

27th January, 2007
To: C.F.
Fr: D.C.

Well, sir, Debdale's done it -- ahead of schedule! He's ready to begin Phase 2 as soon as his equipment can be got to Azkaban. Shall let you know as soon as I hear anything.

D.C.

c: file

**

10th March, 2007
To: C.F.
Fr: D.C.

Sir,

Slight setback. D. feels perhaps a slight over formulation; he lost more male subjects than anticipated, but feels that can be easily adjusted. (Not due to toxicity, apparently, but to the, erm, randier portion of the solution.) I've enclosed the latest budget details.

In other news, I've hit a bit of a snag with G. Asked her to prepare a report to back up your upcoming presentation to the Wiz., and she seems to have cottoned on to the purpose.... Trotted out all the civil liberties nonsense. I shall deal with her, of course, but as you've stated on occasion, she's terribly tenacious.

No matter -- sure it shall all go right in the end!

D.C.

c: file

**

12th March, 2007
To: D. Corcoran
From: Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic

I do hope D. doesn't run out of subjects. What a pity, to have come this far, have promising results, and be stymied.... I suppose they can be got somewhere else, however. Must use the imagination!

In re: G.: in my considerable experience, the more a body has to do, the less time they have to meddle in things which are not their concern. Perhaps that's the wisest course to pursue for now. The ICW might possibly be persuaded to take her off our hands, however, given good enough reason. Stay on the look-out for an opportunity, there.

I think perhaps I might toddle up to A. for Phase 4 -- be sure I know when D. is ready to begin with that, will you?

C.F.

**

1st June, 2007
To: D. Corcoran
From: Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic

Dennis --

My boy, I wish you'd been there. Miraculous, utterly miraculous. I can hardly believe he's done it without any of the usual restricted bits. In fact, I shouldn't believe it had I not seen it with my own eyes.

I think, in short, that our little problem is solved.

I don't wish you to think you alone have carried the burden of this.... I had a little talk with an old school chum of mine -- he's CO at Mangel & Mortars, now, good old Bingey. Company's been a bit strapped recently -- all these new, trendy upstarts competing with them, it's taken a good chunk out of their profits. He was quite interested in an opportunity to sign a government contract: I don't think we should have a bit of trouble as regards the necessary secrecy clauses. (I only spoke in generalities, of course, told him it was a therapy. To be frank, though, he was far more interested in the financial end than the human factor.)

I'll set up a meeting with him for sometime next week, I think, and I should like you and D. there (if you can drag him away from his laboratory, of course).

On the other hand, the way the schedule's been pushed forward, it puts us in a bit of a bind with the other voluntary measures. What say you to moving that up a bit? I dare say the ICW's reaction at the conference would be excuse enough. I'm a bit worried about the 'voluntary' aspect though, and I have considered your remarks about leading with the bridle.... I don't think we're ready for the whip, not quite yet. But perhaps it's time to really consider mandatory exams and testing. Or do you think we should give it some time? After the lottery's in place, perhaps? Do let me know after our meeting tomorrow.

C.F.

**

3rd June,, 2007
To: C.F.
Fr: D.C.

Sir,

So sorry to have missed you after the meeting -- called home by the wife on an emergency with our youngest.

I do think we want to proceed with caution on the voluntary measures -- better to wait on the new project than jump into it, particularly with certain people about here. (You're quite right about keeping her busy, by the way. Works like a charm most of the time.)

I would advise the Mixed-Marriage mandate for shortly after the conference, and when that doesn't show good results (and we both know it shan't), then we can proceed to the lottery at the first of the year for unmarrieds, and the potion for non-producers shortly thereafter. If there are few takers, we can always propose re-assignment -- that should put a fire under a few bums. (Begging your pardon, sir.)

Timing would be terrific that way. Plenty of pregnancies to announce at next year's conference, and plenty of time after that to deal with any unpleasantness or failures before the next.

D.C.

c: file

**

The memos ran out there, but Snape could easily reconstruct what had happened from then on. Fudge and Corcoran had met with Binglewort, and had come to an agreement; a contract had been drawn up, and plans to make massive quantities of the potion; Corcoran would already have had the mandatory mixed marriage legislation ready to go even before he'd skived off the conference and sent Hermione in to face the ICW wolves alone, damn the man. (They must have expected her to fail miserably.)

Of course, that might have been a good thing in the long run, at least for her. No more Ministry, no obligation to remain in Britain, no temptation to put herself in such peril.... No need for her to be a bloody fool and to propose marriage, a false one no less, to a man of his age and temperament....

He shoved the thought away, and concentrated on the questions raised by the memos.

That was an avenue worth exploring, with the potential to get some information -- if the damned fool was still alive. Snape was certain it would be a younger man (or woman), for anyone who'd reached their majority about the time he had, and probably up to a decade younger, would steer clear of someone as notorious as Debdale. No-one who'd worked with Bluett would work with the man, certainly -- Bluett, like Dumbledore, had a very accurate sense of his apprentices' characters, and should have dismissed anyone he felt capable of such unethical behaviour. He very nearly had Snape. (Probably should have done, without Dumbledore's recommendation.)

No, it was probably one of his own students of the past ten years -- someone who'd managed NEWT-level Potions but wasn't bright or skilled enough to work on their own, really only good for scut work.... If it were a Briton at all, that is. Debdale might have picked them up anywhere, really.

He mulled over these questions for a very long time, and finally gave up and went to bed, oddly satisfied. As disgusting as Fudge and Corcoran's callous and self-congratulatory back-pattings were, the memos did tie all the disparate threads together: Greenaway to Debdale, Debdale to Corcoran and Fudge, a mysterious potion with a 'randy' aspect, the Azkaban trials, Fudge to M&M -- 'good old Bingey,' indeed -- and, finally, a potential connection to St. Mungo's....

Snape grudgingly admitted that Hermione's instinct had, in this instance, been correct. And he was bloody grateful that he'd kept her out of this particular mischief, even as his unease with her continued employment at the Ministry increased.

He didn't give her good odds to stay on much past the implementation of the potion.

He was unprepared for the classroom door to bang open: he started, flung the mop-handle away from him, and fumbled for his wand with clumsy, glove-clad fingers.

He snarled when he recognised the intruder.

"Have you seen these?" Hermione demanded, pulling a sheaf of newspapers from her bag and waving them at him.

"What?"

Only then did she notice the shattered glass and twisted bits of cauldron that littered the room, and the horrid red streak along one wall that most people would guess -- correctly -- was blood. (Snape hadn't had the heart to address that yet, and now, given the look of horror on her face, he wished he'd got it over with first thing.)

"What the bloody hell happened? And why are you cleaning up that way?"

"Deduce it yourself," he muttered, and picked up the mop-handle.

"Explosion, certainly, but.... A NEWT-level class? Must have been, for this much damage."

"Of course. Or have you forgot everything else, along with Advanced Theoretic Arithmancy?" (He knew he sounded particularly vicious, but after the day he'd had, he really couldn't be bothered to care.)

Hermione reddened, took a deep breath, and then surprised him by letting it out slowly and without retaliating: she observed the room some more, and then said, "The Propulsive Potion. It has an extremely unstable catalyst if mishandled."

"And what is the catalyst?"

"Fire lizard bile. Which is why you're mucking it out manually, because Fire lizard bile continues to react poorly when exposed to further magic, and becomes very corrosive."

"Quite. Full marks but with a two-point deduction for asking a stupid question with a self-evident answer," he muttered, eyes on the still-bubbling puddle of acid-green ooze on the floor.

"Who was hurt?"

"You'll appreciate this -- Caldwell."

"Why should I appreciate it? You think... ...hell, I don't remember her name -- the girl caused it?"

"No, not directly, she's not in Advanced Potions. I wouldn't put it past one of her friends, however. I haven't had time to investigate who's responsible."

"Is he badly hurt?"

"Yes, enough for St. Mungo's rather than the Infirmary --"

An overly-aggressive swipe of the mop sent a spot of the ooze flying: it landed on his left boot and began to eat through the leather.

"-- oh, fucking --" he blurted out.

"Hold on, I'll --"

"No, just stay there. These are a loss anyway, and your legs might as well be bare," he ordered; and he took more care with the mop until the puddle was nothing more than a smear across the floor. Hermione waited quietly until he looked up: she'd taken herself off to the far corner of the classroom, and sensibly tucked her tight-clad legs up behind a desk.

"Caldwell went flying," he explained tersely. "Hit the wall before I could stop him, and cracked his skull open. This spattered all over too, of course, and then half of the idiots lost their heads and tried to charm it off while I was busy with him..."

"So it went from mildly corrosive to vastly more so," Hermione concluded. "Will he be all right?"

"Eventually. He's probably out for several weeks. The others simply have acid burns. Bloody hell," he said tiredly, and shoved the mop and pail into a corner. "All these years, and I've never had to send a student St. Mungo's. Not even the worst of the dunderheads."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Indirectly, yes. Inattention, not anticipating some kind of retaliation. It almost certainly had to be someone from Slytherin, as well -- they were clustered together. That's worrying," he admitted, stripping off the dragon hide gloves and swiping at his forehead. "Even at the worst times the House have never turned on themselves."

"Why now?"

"It's been a bloody free-for-all lately. Lack of self-discipline, general stupidity.... I don't know. The idiots are so inarticulate I can't get a rational explanation out of them or the prefects," he said, and eyed the mop and pail warily as they fizzled away in the corner. "At any rate, no time to read the papers earlier, and certainly not after this. What's the bloody problem now?"

Hermione opened her mouth to tell him, and then went still and shoved the papers back in her bag.

"Never mind at the moment, it can wait," she said. "Dinner's already half-over in the Hall. Let's ask the elves to bring something to your rooms, and we'll talk it over later."

"It will take me another hour to clean this muck up. Go ahead."

"Leave it, Severus," she said brusquely, and shrugged when he stared at her. "It'll still be here in the morning, and be less reactive by then. I'll help -- it's not like I've anything better to do. And you'll feel better with dinner in you now."

Under other circumstances, her bossy-boots manner would have brought out the worst in him: but he reckoned the ooze had nearly eaten through the boot-leather by now, and would then commence on his sock and toe (the latter of which he rather hoped to keep intact). And, all in all, it was a sensible idea. The bloody stuff would have lost a great deal of its potency by morning, providing Peeves didn't arse around with it.

"Bluett would have my hide," he muttered in a last-ditch effort to assert himself.

"Well, he's not here, is he? I suppose he always made you clean up his messes," Hermione said, and the scathing tone with which she voiced her opinion of Bluett -- an opinion which was entirely accurate, damn the wretched old man's bones -- surprised Snape enough that he only just suppressed a laugh, and managed a snort instead. "And last I'd heard, this was your classroom, not his," she added. "Let it go for now, Severus."

For the first -- and, he hoped, the last -- time in his life, Severus Snape wondered if perhaps women were the more practical and sensible sex. Even, possibly, when the woman in question was an annoying know-it-all who was both many years his junior, and his wife. (He refused to include "logical" on the list -- that was far too revolutionary an idea.)

"Fine," he granted ungraciously at long last, and slouched toward the classroom door, tossing his gloves on one of the desks. "But you'll regret it tomorrow. That the bloody stuff's harder to shift than troll mucus once it's set."

*****

Things did look a bit brighter when one was wearing another pair of boots (second-best, but free of nasty corrosives) and had a decent piece of beef on one's plate. Snape hadn't realised how hungry he was, having forgone lunch by choice and dinner by necessity, until he was well into the meal: it helped, too, that Hermione hadn't peppered him with questions, added extraneous commentary, or sulked about his bad temper, but had got on with her own meal and left him in peace.

"Shacklebolt said you did well on Monday," he finally noted when the silence went on too long even for him.

"Mightn't have, if his idiot junior had actually given me Veritaserum.... What was that muck, Severus? I assume he got it from you."

"No, the Ministry uses its own supplies, and one can't easily smuggle things in. I might have told him once that it degrades over time. I suppose he's laid down a good vintage."

"Well, it was awful, it turned the milk in the tea."

"Would do at any rate a few weeks after it's decanted -- any self-respecting brewer or auror knows that. But did you learn anything?"

"From the interrogation? Nothing, other than not to lose track of you while shopping. It's what Harrison said to me when I got home that was most interesting," she rattled off, so fast he didn't have time to decipher that odd bit in the middle. "He said there'd been an increase in aurors' raids on ordinary peoples' homes. Possibly for illicit potions, though he didn't know the particulars --"

"Hang on, what was Harrison doing at your flat?"

"Nothing at the time. Sunday they'd answered the alarm when the aurors broke the ward and searched the flat, and reset it when they left."

"Bloody -- you might have told me! They didn't find anything, obviously...."

"Haven't had a chance to tell you, have I? And Shacklebolt did find things, but he didn't take them. Unlike...."

"What? Who?"

"Never mind," she muttered, and stabbed at her rarebit. "Anyway, I don't think that's a good sign. The increase in raids and arrests, I mean."

"They've been doing it for months," Snape said dismissively. "At least to the black-marketeers. They're simply widening the net."

"How do you know that?"

"Bluett told me of a raid in Knockturn Alley in December. The aurors made arrests, and Weasley's department confiscated a batch of Muggle French letters, I think it was."

She choked a bit, and hastily put her napkin to her mouth: while that seemed suspiciously like a juvenile reaction, she quickly composed herself, and Snape settled for a glare at her as he freshened her water-glass.

"I got everything sorted out," she explained after she'd taken a long sip of water. "The contraceptive's in a better place, and I got the stuff to François that I needed to. The Ministry document copies.... Those were a bother, so I sent paper copies to François as well, and my computer geek has the hard drive."

"If you might care to translate that last, it would be appreciated," Snape said dryly.

"What? Oh. The hard drive is where the computer stores all the information. A computer geek is... well, nerd won't help. Erm, like that Ravenclaw in my Form, what was his name.... Bailey. The one with thick glasses who could bore you to tears with the minutiae of the Goblin Wars and do practically any charm straight off, but who was hopeless at everything else... especially with girls and not falling over his own feet."

"Ah, now I understand. The Intellectuals' equivalent of a Gryffindor Quidditch idiot."

She didn't appreciate that. In fact, judging by the look on her face, Snape reckoned he had blown any chance of easily finding out whether she was wearing the silk knickers.

"I bloody well hope that --"

"-- that my faith in François isn't misplaced, I know, I know. I'm sure Corcoran got a reprimand from Fudge, and the department's warded-up tighter than a drum, and other than that, nothing.... Don't you want to know what they asked me in the interrogation?"

"Why? You're here, and Shacklebolt told me you did well. I don't need a blow-by-blow account."

Hermione stared at him in frank astonishment: then she shook her head as if to clear it, and started her own questions.

"All right, I know they sent Tonks in, and I know she got something. I'm willing to wager Shacklebolt brought it with him."

"Correct."

"...Well?"

"Memos between Fudge and Corcoran, dating from the inception of the potions idea. Corcoran's a bloody fool, he kept file copies of everything."

Hermione snorted. "Probably thinks it'll be written up in the history books, and wants documentation to prove he's responsible."

"I imagine so. Except that he's not, not really. Neither one of them actually came up with the idea."

"Who did, then?"

"A very nasty character whose name I shan't tell you, I think. The less you know of specifics --"

"All right, all right, go on," she shot back irritably, and pushed her plate away from her.

"He planted the idea of Greenaway's potion in Corcoran's mind, and he's the researcher responsible for developing it for human use."

"Must be good."

"Brilliant technician and theorist, utterly lacking in morals and ethics -- an incredibly bad combination. You are not to muck about trying to --"

"I won't, Severus. If it eats at me that badly, I'll try to pry it out of you instead, all right?"

That was surprising, never mind that there was no bloody way he'd ever tell her.

"The memos are vague at first, and then it's obvious that they're talking about the testing. They hint about implementation, but aren't that specific -- I suppose they're leaving the mechanics up to the brewer, M and M, and St. Mungo's. And they do prove the connections between all the organisations and individuals. But not, however," he added, watching her closely, "enough to put a stop to everything now. They are useful to prove complicity after the fact, not to derail anything beforehand."

She was clearly disappointed: it was just as he'd thought, then, and she was hoping to blow the conspiracy wide open before they'd got to implementation.

"May I see them?"

"Already out of my hands," he lied. "I couldn't be certain the aurors wouldn't be in, not if they didn't accept our alibi. I can retrieve the memos before they're needed, but it's tricky."

"Oh. Damn," she said.

He hadn't been certain at first why he felt such a strong need to keep the memos from Hermione: he'd excused it at first as not wanting her to see Debdale's name, and then gave up the pretence and admitted that it was the oblique references to her, instead. He didn't think that she could maintain her composure around Corcoran, not after reading that -- it was one thing to suspect that people despised you, and another to know they were sniggering about you behind your back; and he doubted that she could brush aside the thought that a trained monkey should have been preferable to herself, no matter how idiotic and hyperbolic a statement it was.

"What were you trying to shove in my face earlier?" he asked.

"Oh, right. Hang on," Hermione muttered, rose and retrieved her handbag, and pulled the papers from it and handed them over. "The Prophet first -- that's the official version."

Snape scanned the front-page article, snorting at Corcoran's ridiculous spin on the lottery, and then went on to The Quibbler: he couldn't help but whistle midway through, in admiration of the attack. Lovegood had, for once, managed to write a cogent and entirely reasonable summation.

"He's in for it."

"Already done. Arrested this afternoon, and everyone at the paper suspended."

"I wondered if that was the best decision...."

"What, the article?''

"No. Well, that too. Certain parties slipped some of the info from the memos to the media.... The Prophet didn't bite, obviously, but Lovegood couldn't resist hinting that he knows something. And now, as you suspected would happen, that's one less voice to get the important information out when it's really needed."

Hermione looked absolutely miserable. "I'd really hoped they might risk it, by now. They turned around in short order about Harry, after the attack on the Ministry."

"There were too many visible signs, then. You can't ignore hundreds of thousands of Galleons of damage done to a public building. You certainly can't ignore packs of unkeepered Dementors roaming about," he said, worried at a bit of beef stuck between his teeth, and then absently began picking at it with a fork-tine. "Fudge caved first, and then--"

"Don't do that," Hermione said.

"What?"

"Use your fork to.... Hang on," she muttered, pulled a hair-pin from her bun, transfigured it into a wooden tooth-pick, and pushed it over toward him. "Use this. You'll chip your teeth if you do that."

"Too late," he shot back, highly embarrassed at being caught indulging in such an admittedly disgusting habit.

"You'll chip them more."

He snatched up the tooth-pick, tossed the fork onto his plate, and said, "Happy?"

"Yes. Go on."

"Fudge couldn't continue to deny it, so The Prophet's editor felt safe enough doing an about-face," he said, defiantly picking away at the stuck bit. "He knows upon which side his bread is buttered."

Looking utterly demoralised, Hermione rose, wandered over to the window, boosted herself up onto the sill, and stared outside; Snape, finished with extracting the beef-shred, snapped his fingers for the sweet to replace the remains of their entrée.

No matter how disgusted a dentists' daughter might be with his habits, he doubted her melancholy had much to do with that.

"It's trifle," he wheedled. "The one thing they do excellently, even in winter. I don't know where they find fresh fruit this time of year."

"Don't want any," she mumbled.

"How can you stand it?" she finally asked after several minutes. "How can you accept that we have to see this bloody mess through to its actual administering, knowing that people are going to be injured by it?"

"Because it's my job. That's what you were getting, when you had to bring me in," he said calmly, and fished a bland but acceptable raspberry out of the custard so he could savour it alone. "I don't flatter myself that you wanted my help, but that's what you've got."

"That's not --"

"Someone has to be dispassionate and keep an eye on the larger picture, and it's me. The only difference between Dumbledore and myself, at the moment," he noted, "is I lack that disgusting twinkle in the eye, and I refuse to sugar-coat the whole business."

"I wasn't judging you," she said, surprising him yet again that evening with meekness. "I'm quite serious. I don't know how you stand it."

He thought about that for a while, and then scooped up a bit of ladyfinger and said, "Because I must. It's the only way to keep us safe and prove the case conclusively. I don't have a better explanation than that, and I don't think it requires another."

He glanced up and found her staring earnestly at him; then she nodded slowly, turned again to the window, propped her chin in her hands, and stared out at the superabundant blanket of snow that nearly reached the bottom of the sill.

Neither of them were in the mood for further intercourse -- of either kind -- by the time they went to bed.

*****

"Cripes," Hermione said from hands and knees on the classroom floor, obviously disgusted. "You're right, it's worse than dried troll-mucus."

"Told you," Snape muttered back, and concentrated on scrubbing every trace of blood off the wall.

"However will you have class on Monday? Won't it still react?"

"Shouldn't, not with the pail of muck out of here and the rest diluted. I believe it's time," he said grimly, "to remove that particular concoction from the curriculum. Wizard Rail shall have to train its own bloody brewers to make it properly."

"Oh, Severus, surely not. The Propulsive Potion was one of the more interesting bits of the Advanced class...."

It took a moment for that to register: and when it did, he slowly turned and quirked an eyebrow upward. It took her a moment to realise he was glaring.

"What?" she asked, indignant, and then it dawned on her. "Oh, for pity's -- I don't mean it that way. I said it was one of the more interesting bits. I didn't say it was the only one. There were plenty."

He snorted, and went back to scrubbing. "I can't trust them at all any longer," he said. "An accident is one thing, that's going to happen eventually. A deliberate tainting in an Advanced class? Much as I'd like to think it's just this lot, I can't. The whole crop is infected with slovenliness and malice, and it won't disappear when the one Form goes. Not for a very long time, not with the current situation."

"Shame," she murmured. "Couldn't you be more... selective? Not that you aren't anyway...."

"I was. In your Form? Fifteen students from four Houses. This one? Nine. Nine of them, and one of them managed to distract me long enough to nearly kill Caldwell.... Blast it, I've got to track down who did it. Today."

"Won't be hard with only eight, will it?"

"Bloody well will. Three Slytherins in the lot, they've had twelve hours to gird up for questioning, and they'll stick to one story. It might take all day.... I don't suppose you'd care to watch the office for me, would you?"

"Why would you want -- Oh. You actually trust me to answer any questions while you're busy with that?"

"If you don't remember straight off, you'll know where to look it up."

"I suppose," she said.

Something in her tone gave him pause: he turned and stared at her, and found her sitting back on her heels, damp hair stringing about her flushed face, and looking far more doubtful than he could remember since her Third year.

"I was not entirely serious yesterday, you know."

"About what?"

"About Arithmancy and the rest."

"Oh, I didn't.... I've certainly forgot more of Potions than of that."

"What I mean to say is --"

"I know what you mean, I figured that out yesterday, given your mood. Although you usually mean exactly what you say. I'm just thinking about the other bits. I don't know how to proceed next, that's all."

"I don't believe you can. I have one line of inquiry --"

"-- and given the situation at the Ministry, you'd best stay quiet and keep out of Corcoran's way."

"Yes, Severus," she muttered, bent, and scrubbed at a few square inches of floor she must have done three times over.

Snape wondered why, for once, he wasn't terribly pleased when she promised to behave herself, and why he felt so unaccountably guilty for what he'd said yesterday, whether she'd taken it to heart or not.

*****

Finding out who had bolloxed up Caldwell's cauldron was easier by far than Snape had anticipated. That might have been enough of a shock, but for the fact that the perpetrator simply wasn't who he'd suspected. He'd even begun with this particular student first, thinking to weed out the unlikely ones quickly.

"Yes, sir," Roger DeVries admitted and stifled the hiccough of a sob, not bothering to lie. "I did it."

"For Merlin's sake, DeVries, why? You might have killed him!"

"He'd been talking about what Bingham had done to him, got him chucked off the team and you narked at him and everything, and how he was going to get back at her. And I knew he was serious. So me a- ...I wanted to let him know I wouldn't stand for it."

"You and who, DeVries?" Snape demanded. "Stop bawling. You're sixteen years old, not a baby."

"I swore I wouldn't.... Warwick, sir," DeVries admitted.

McGonagall snorted -- Warwick was one of hers, and she obviously thought the idea of malfeasance from him absurd -- and Snape shot her a withering glance.

"And why were you colluding with a Gryffindor against another member of you House?"

"Bingham's Warwick's cousin, sir. The whole family's fashed about the snake business. It's not the first time Caldwell's bullied her."

"It was the first incident against Bingham that anyone bothered to tell me about. Why did neither of you bother to come to Headmistress or me?"

"Because he was just talking about it, first of all. And second, he was bragging about how he was going to pull it off so no-one would guess it was him."

"How?"

"Don't know -- he wasn't stupid, just a braggart," DeVries said, swiping at his unbandaged eye and sitting up straighter in his chair, trying to behave like a man. "We didn't mean to hurt him that badly, sir, honestly. We must've miscalculated the dose."

"Thank you," Snape said savagely. "I shouldn't have known that, as you managed to destroy all the evidence. So Warwick distracted me with that asinine problem, and you slipped an extra portion of the catalyst into Caldwell's potion."

"Yes."

"Was there anyone else involved?"

"No, sir. I mean, Portnoy knew right before that something was going on, because I told her to step further down the table and turn her back. But she didn't know what I was about to do."

"So, DeVries," McGonagall asked softly, "you knew it might not work as you expected?"

"No, I just didn't want her to see or for people to think she --"

"DeVries...." Snape warned.

The young man wilted.

"All right, yes, I... I knew it might be a bigger pop than we expected...."

Snape wanted to lay into the boy so badly that he turned on his heel, strode to a window, and gripped the sill tightly so he shouldn't be tempted to shake the fool's head off.

"... Professor Snape's always warned us how reactive that stuff is, Ma'am," DeVries explained earnestly to McGonagall behind Snape's back. "It wasn't carelessness on his part."

"You needn't defend Professor Snape's competence, DeVries," McGonagall retorted with maximum tartness. "I'm well aware that he's exceptionally careful. And it makes it rather worse for you, I'm afraid. You knew, and you went ahead with your little vigilante action instead of doing something sensible, like going to your Head."

Of course his Head hasn't been around a great deal, Snape thought with a twinge of guilt. Off mucking about at the bloody seashore and not keeping regular office hours....

"I'll be sent down, won't I?" DeVries said.

"Your victim's in St. Mungo's, and four others beside yourself sport acid-burns, DeVries," Snape shot over his shoulder. "What do you think?"

"I should be surprised if that's the end of it," McGonagall added. "Caldwell's parents may well insist on pressing charges."

"Oh, bloody.... Beg pardon, Ma'am," DeVries whispered. "Not that I don't deserve it, but.... Warwick really doesn't. He didn't actually do it."

"That's not your judgement to make, I'm afraid," McGonagall said. "Professor Snape, are you satisfied with DeVries's explanation?"

Snape nodded, eyes on the lake, unwilling to look at DeVries' stricken, earnest face again.

"Very well. Back to your dormitory, I think, and I require you not to speak of this to anyone. We shall call you when we've decided for certain."

Snape heard DeVries' chair-legs brush against the thick Turkish carpet, and the quiet snick of the door-latch as he left McGonagall's office.

"Very well done, Severus," McGonagall said softly.

"What the bloody hell for?" he muttered.

"Not going into a frothing rage. I expected accusations of his smirching your record."

"Smirching be damned. Not that he hasn't. And yours, not that Warwick will get any blame --"

"I admit that I wouldn't have believed it, but there is a family tie. They're exceptionally clannish, the Warwicks. We shall have to send both of them down, of course, so you needn't be snide. Don't look so surprised," she added when Snape finally turned back. "They hatched the plot between them, no matter who tainted the cauldron. And they're not really mine any longer, you know, not this lot. I shall have a damned hard time convincing Olivia that it's necessary. Probably ought lay down the law with her -- she's nearly as protective as I was."

"Not possible," Snape muttered.

"I hate to do it, though...."

"Oh, really. If it were only DeVries --"

"I shall take points from you if you don't smooth down your hackles, young man.... You do realise," she said, staring him down over her glasses rims, "that they're nearly of age? I can still protect them from this ridiculous lottery business while they're here, but once they're home, that's it. Not a single thing I can do to keep them clear of it."

"Ah. My apologies," Snape said, and turned back to the window.

"Which is not to say there's anything you can do either, Severus, not with the other business to deal with."

"Could take a chance. We might be able to rouse enough outrage.... My... partner is certainly willing to risk it."

"Your partner," McGonagall reminded him gently, "is rather younger, and doesn't quite realise how much she has to lose, I think. And, being a Gryffindor, she has that terribly reckless streak that we prefer to call bravery."

He had to snort at that: it was the first implicit criticism he'd ever heard McGonagall utter of her own House, even if it was meant as a tweak at himself.

"Odd, isn't it," McGonagall mused, "that when we're younger, we never think about how much we can lose, only what we can gain.... At any rate, Severus, you must follow your plan. DeVries and Warwick have made their own ill-considered beds and shall have to lie in them."

"And what about all the rest? Hermione has a valid point about that -- don't think she's let me lead her about by the nose, far from it, she's still adamant about quick action. And she has a bloody point. It's not just the lottery business, it's.... Well, there's a lot more at stake than a cohabitation scheme."

"If the rest are so stupid not to see what's coming or too cowed to do anything about it, then they deserve what they get. No government can be trusted entirely. Fudge has proven that before, and everyone was too lazy to do a thing about him."

"And what would he have done?" Snape asked, and nodded to the wall across from McGonagall's desk, where Albus Dumbledore snoozed within his portrait-frame.

"About Fudge, if he'd survived?"

"No, about allowing half the bloody population to stay in harm's way."

"You know very well, Severus, that he felt some losses were inevitable," McGonagall said. "The only time I knew him to falter was the business with Potter."

"Precisely when he shouldn't have done."

"I won't comment on that, but it's a good reason why you mustn't. You have no excuse to, with his example before you."

Dumbledore's portrait cracked its eyes open, shot a sleepy and reproachful glance at McGonagall, and then looked at Snape quite sadly before its lids nodded and it dropped back off.

"Doesn't talk much, does it?" Snape said critically.

"No, it doesn't. I don't think he imbued it with much of himself at all -- too tired of dispensing advice for far too long while he was alive. Go on, Severus," she dismissed him. "Hermione's about, isn't she? I shall deal with Olivia and Warwick, and then I must speak with Caldwell's parents. Perhaps I can persuade them not to press charges, as he'll recover -- and seeing as how I might be obliged to investigate and report his harassments.... That could get him sent down as well, at the very least. I must say," she added under her breath, "that I'm rather glad he got his comeuppance, although I wish the lads had done something a bit less spectacular."

*****

Hermione was dealing with a student when Snape found her, in his office: he motioned for both of them to continue when they stopped, and peered over Hermione's shoulder to observe what they were hashing out. It was all quite in order, and he murmured, "Carry on. Don't let her keep you after the dinner gong, Williams -- she'll teach you the rest of the Term's curriculum, if you let her."

Williams gaped at him; Hermione probably glared, but Snape didn't hang about long enough to notice or care -- he was far too busy.

He was off, once again, to The Hog's Head.

*****

Identifying Debdale's assistant was not, alas, as easy as it had been to locate Forsythe. Discreet letters to several colleagues, both domestic and foreign, had turned up nothing earlier in the week: no-one had an assistant who'd defected to another post, moved away, or been sacked within the last two years. Even Bluett hadn't any idea.

There were only two options, Snape felt: canvass every bloody second-rate Advanced Potions student of the last fifteen years -- the thought of which made him nauseous, frankly, as he'd hoped to see the back of most of them for good and all -- or to approach Phileas Hare (which was equally nausea-making though in a quite different way, but had the advantage of being a one-time trial). Hare was a nasty character, a second cousin of both Borgin and Burke, and had absolutely none of their better qualities, such as they were.

He settled on Hare, threw some powder in the floo, and instructed it, "Asphodel and Wormwood.... Knockturn Alley."

A few seconds later the flame flared up, and Snape poked his head through.

"Hang on," a gravelly voice commanded off to the right of the floo, which didn't face straight on into the shop. "With a coostomer."

Snape had plenty of time to observe the odd little niche of the room that faced the floo. It hadn't changed much: Snape fancied he recognised many of the jars on the upper shelves. They hadn't been touched for years judging by the dust on them, other than a quick charm to refresh the colours and scents of the ingredients. (Far be it for Hare to waste a blessed grain of ingredient, even if the resulting potion was weak and ineffective.)

That was the one thing that could be said for Julius Snape, that he'd never sold a client an inferior product, even if he'd charged commensurate to its illegality. Hare had no such scruples, and he must have made a packet in the years since he'd bought the place at a bargain price: even the hardened denizens of Knockturn Alley hadn't wanted to deal with the possibility of Julius Snape's shade hanging about, but Hare hadn't given a damn, and hadn't even bothered to change the name of the shop.

The tinny little bell -- also still the same -- jangled as the customer left, and Hare presently craned his head around the corner.

"You?" he hissed. "Why, bless, me, you're the last person Ah expected to see.... You haven't changed a whit since you poked about here last."

Snape bit the inside of his cheek. "Last" had been just after his Hogwarts Leaving when, impelled by some misguided urge to come to terms with what had happened in the disgusting little shop, he'd returned and stood outside in the lane staring through the fly-specked window. Hare had recognised him then: he'd known Julius Snape, and seen him in his son. Anything Snape had required from Asphodel and Wormwood since then (once he'd been in a position to afford it) had been ordered by owl-post.

"Ah woonder what the high-and-mighty Hogwarts Potions Master could want from me?" Hare continued with a leer. (That was quite unpleasant. The state of Hare's teeth made even Snape cringe.)

"Information," Snape managed stiffly.

"Didn't think it were my stores, oh, no, we've been very quiet-like lately, haven't we? Keepin' our cauldron clean, are we?"

The Snape part of 'we' was very close to attempting a hexing over the floo. "'Lately' was over fifteen years ago, if you recall. I want information."

"That'll cost you, that will," Hare said, and nodded sagely. "Givin' out information's more like to get a body killed that anythin' else --"

The shop-bell jangled: Hare whipped out of Snape's view again, and barked, "Closed -- come back tomorrer."

Snape heard the unfortunate client argue, "But the sign says --"

"Don't care what bloody sign says, we're closed!" Hare bellowed, and Snape heard the skittering of feet across the gritty floor, a more frantic jangle of the bell, and a door-slam.

"Now, as I was sayin'," Hare continued, his head coming back into view, "information will cost you something as a basis, and if I really don't like the question, a little something more. For the basis, say, a few gallons of Slug Repellent."

Snape had suspected it would be that. Hare would be eager to exploit the illicit contraceptives market, though for far less compassionate reasons than Bluett.

"Not possible," he said. "Restricted and tracked, you know that. I can't jigger the inventory this term --"

"Ohhhhh. What a pity. Best go ask old Figgity, then, if you can find 'im. He's closed shop and done a runner since Cruikbeak got thrown in the clink."

" -- I do, however, have one and one-half flasks each of Fire lizard bile and of Erumpent fluid, both fresh, which I can allow to leave the premises." Bloody idiots won't need it now, I'm serious about pulling that potion.... Though McGonagall will throttle me if she finds out if I used school supplies for this. "Both quite pricey as I'm sure you know. Some of your more... anarchistic clients might find them useful, don't you think?"

Hare chewed at the ends of his ragged moustache, decided that yes, some of them would, and nodded. "Done. Send it on by termorrer, gentlemen's agreement. Ask away."

"A rather nasty character recently began working in England again -- might well have ordered from you, for all I know."

"Can't confirm that. Con-fie-dentiality, you know."

"That's not the question -- I know who he is. He acquired an assistant somewhere along the way, and I want to know who."

"How t' blooody hell should Ah know? Ah don't extend credit, so no bloody names."

"Rather odd ingredients," Snape noted. "Nadder-skin, for one. Surely you'd remember anyone who asked for that, or picked it up."

Hare scratched at a wart on his chin and nodded. "Fat little bastard, think's he's better'n an ordinary apothecary. He's not -- sold him third-rate billywig stingers at full price, he didn't notice nor bat an eye."

"No name, of course."

"'Course. Ah reckon he might've been one of yours five, six years back, though."

"Did he take delivery personally, or have it sent on?"

"You think Ah keep that much Nadder-skin in stock? Naw. Gave him what Ah had, promised delivery when rest came in. Stupid sod never bothered to check shipment against bill, 'cause Ah shorted him and haven't heard a word since."

"And where was it delivered?" Snape asked, trying to remain neutral-faced: he badly wanted that information.

"Ahhhhh, now, that'll cost you more," Hare said slyly.

Of course. And it would have to be something very unusual or precious.... The one thing Snape had left to offer -- besides Slug-Repellent or a tiny vial of unicorn blood, which he certainly wasn't going to waste on Hare -- was very unusual indeed, but Hare mightn't care to go to the trouble of making it pay. He'd likely have to sell it to Ollivander.

"I have," he said, thoughtful, "precisely three full strands of a centaur's tail."

Hare's expression sharpened. "Bloody.... Where'd you get that?"

"Never mind," Snape said.

"Root and all?"

"Root and all," Snape confirmed, and declined to add that the strands were quite old and that the root was consequently not very potent.

"Done. Hang on, let me find the shipment bill...."

Hare left the floo: Snape heard him rummaging about in his books, and then the ugly old bastard hove back into view. "Cane Hill, Valley Road, Coulsdon. 'S an old Muggle building -- had to send the shipment in at night."

"Thank you," Snape said. "I'll send the things on tomorrow."

He terminated the connection immediately, unwilling to waste further niceties on Hare.

Unpleasant as it had been, it was worth the effort. He should have to consult his student records, but he thought he knew who the fat little bastard was: and if Hare wasn't lying through his teeth, Cane Hill in Coulsdon was very likely where Debdale had set up shop, at least for the early phase of his project.

Good thing I kept the centaur hair. Odd, how those little bits and bobs come in handy years later, Snape thought, and massaged his knee. (It was a bloody bad day to have walked to Hogsmeade: it had snowed that morning.)

He'd nearly thrown the hairs away at the time, but some thrifty impulse had made him carefully unwind them from the cuff-buttons of his ruined trousers, and to wrap and store them, nearly a week after the accident. Merlin knew he hadn't needed a souvenir, for he was still in a great deal of pain despite Poppy Pomfrey's best efforts: one didn't need an aide-memoir of a bloody heavy centaur smashing one's leg to bits, or of the struggle to get out from under him.

Snape stopped downstairs at the bar for a nip of Firewhisky to fortify himself for the trudge home, and was charitable enough to start off with a silent toast to the memory of Firenze.

*****

Sunday started quite... peacefully. An early-morning, invigorating shag of his sleep-grumbly but not entirely unwilling or unresponsive wife was a good start: she'd already fallen asleep when he'd got back to the castle, and his leg was aching abominably, so he'd put that bit off until he'd had a good rest himself. (She didn't sound as enthusiastic as in their last encounter, but what little she did manage certainly sounded much more sincere, for which he was grateful. Even if it was less exciting, it gave him a very good idea of how they were progressing on the sexual tutelage front.)

Hermione was apparently determined to be a slug that week-end, for she fell back to sleep almost immediately. She stayed that way even when he tried to wake her for breakfast, muzzily swatting at his hands and mumbling for him to go 'way; so he did, and demolished most of both their breakfasts himself before deferring his morning bath in the interest of sending off the items he'd promised Hare post-haste.

Then he detoured to the Bursar's poky little office to check the student rolls.

The Bursar was a convenient fiction of Snape's own devising, the type of personage that the Headmistress and Deputy Head could invoke to stymie the more sickle-pinching Governors -- as in, 'I'm afraid the Bursar is most insistent that the Scholars' programme requires another three thousand this year'. McGonagall had insisted that it wouldn't work, and then nearly given away the game by gaping in astonishment when the bloody Governors had caved in without seeming to notice that Hogwarts had never before possessed a Bursar; and later, in private, she'd actually congratulated Snape for 'such a nice bit of Slytherin guile.' (It was, and she'd seemed sincere, so he'd not bothered to sneer at the backhanded compliment. She didn't have the least difficulty invoking the Bursar herself, either, at the next possible opportunity.)

An automated quill system fulfilled the role in actuality as nothing more than a book-keeper, so Snape had no fussy, self-important bean-counting idiot to quibble with over pulling past years' records.

He found the most likely suspect in 2000's crop.

That wasn't quite fair to the garden-variety idiot savant, though. Petherbridge could rattle off the constituents of any potion as quickly as Hermione ever had -- faster, in many instances -- but, unlike Hermione, he'd been almost incapable of remembering what he was supposed to bloody well do with them. He could remember individual properties, but not how ingredients would react in combination; he could recall any number of trivial facts about who had discovered what use or developed a specific potion, but he almost invariably transposed double-digit measurements, and actually melted more cauldrons than Longbottom. (But then Longbottom's forte had been explosion, not melting.) He'd only just eked out a pass by making exceptionally high marks on the written exam, but the practical.... Snape had wagered that not even a third-rate apothecary would have Petherbridge on its wage-list for long.

Easy, then, for Debdale to pick him up somewhere along the line -- a discreet inquiry to an employment agency, one all too willing to shove an unemployable client his way. Petherbridge was certainly fine for the dirty work -- mucking out the equipment, arranging for supplies, even for consulting on substitutions -- but Snape thought he'd probably proved hopeless to Debdale when it came to actually brewing. (That in itself wasn't good for either Snape or Petherbridge. Debdale had probably disposed of him as soon as possible, especially if he'd mucked things up.)

As for Cane Hill, Coulsdon, he should have to go himself. It was doubtful Debdale had left anything behind, and even less chance that he was actually lodging there, but there might be some clues lying about.

It should have to be done, though, in the interest of being thorough. And there wasn't much other headway he could make.

But I needn't do it today. In fact, I should like to get another good shag in before lunch, he thought as he warded up the Bursar's office and began to return to his rooms. I'm feeling much more chipper this morning, for some reason.

He was briefly distracted by a little note that came whizzing down the corridor after him -- McGonagall's supposedly-brilliant idea of borrowing Ministry methods, which on the whole was preferable to an embarrassing, strident Sonorous of, 'Professor Snape will report to the Headmistress's office, please' -- which informed him that Caldwell's parents had not elected to press charges, and that both DeVries and Warwick would be returning home that evening, sent down for good: and then he continued onward, hoping to catch Hermione still abed. (Perhaps even still asleep. He rather enjoyed waking her nicely: she was often grumpy, but not prickly or particularly reluctant, by the time she realised what he was about. Grumpy was significantly better than reluctant, as far as Snape was concerned.)

It wasn't to be, however. He noticed the letter on the side-table immediately he walked through the door and set his wand down beside it; and he read the note as he wandered further into the sitting-room, unbuttoning one-handed as he walked.

S -- in Library. Hope to check in on Marsters as well. Shall see you at lunch, assume Great Hall. H.

Blast.... Ah, well. I suppose a bath first, then lunch, and the shag for afters.

He had his frock-coat half off before he realised he wasn't entirely alone in the room: a prickling at the back of his neck tipped him off. He paused and listened carefully, and heard a muted hissing somewhere between that of a cornered cat and a tea-kettle about to blow.

"It's true," someone growled from the corner behind him. "It is. And you is to blame."

He couldn't immediately place the voice: it was familiar, but distorted and not human at all. It was coming from the darkest corner of the sitting-room, from beneath the portrait of the ninth Head of Slytherin House -- the one behind which Snape had installed a wall safe, and where he'd stashed important bits like Firenze's hair, his own most personal documents, and, contrary to what he'd told Hermione --

-- the bloody memos. Of all the gods-damned luck. I know I warded the bloody thing back up --

"You is all to blame, you is," the nasty, rage-filled voice continued. "And you is going to pay, you is."

He risked a glance over his shoulder, and winced. Crouched in the corner was Pinky -- bow askew and its ribbon-ends shredded, the memos scattered about her on the floor, and one of them crumpled in her spatulate fingers: her huge eyes were wide with rage, and she looked feral and dangerous.

Snape was not, technically, Pinky's master. While Minerva McGonagall was Headmistress and was considered the master, the Deputy Head was not: they obeyed him, as they did all the other faculty and staff, at her order. But an Elf which had gone off its head (and Snape was willing to wager Pinky had) was quite likely to do serious damage to anyone it did not directly answer to.

"What's true, Pinky?" he asked calmly, staring her down and trying to ignore that her free hand was rising slowly, forefinger poised to send something -- probably a very nasty Elf-hex -- his way.

"The stories," she said, voice gravelly.

"What stories, you silly creature?"

"Don't," she spat at him, forefinger jerking up to aim directly at his heart. "Professor s-- You isn't to treat Pinky like she's a stupid Elf, because she's not."

"Very well, then, what stories, Pinky?" he said quickly to mollify the mad little thing.

"The ones they tells in the kitchens late at night. How Elves is free once until a bad wizard caged us. How we is bred to make more servants for wizards --"

Snape tried to work his wrists free of his sleeves -- no point in Accio-ing for his wand with his hands tied up -- and she shrieked, " -- You isn't to move!"

He froze.

"Is it true?" she demanded. "This Green-way, he's the bad wizard."

"He was, yes."

"And he is doing this to sell us."

"It doesn't say that, Pinky."

"Yes it do," she said, glaring at him. " 'Commodity.' Pinky knows that means something to sell."

That was quite ridiculous to hear from an Elf -- though true -- and Snape couldn't restrain a snort. "How in Merlin's name would you --"

"Dobby taught Pinky to read from The Prophet. Even the Financial section."

Perhaps Pinky wasn't that far gone yet: perhaps setting her straight on who was boss was the best course -- not obviously, of course, but it could be done more persuasively....

"Pinky," he began carefully, "I don't think you understand the... context of that information. And as you deliberately broke my ward and read that without permission -- and I assume you've done that with many of my things -- you owe it to me to sit down and listen to exactly what it --"

"Pinky isn't owing you anything," she snarled, and took a shaky step toward him, balling the memo up in her fingers even more. "You and other wizards is owing Pinky a great deal. And Dobby and the others. And Pinky is going to make you pay."

She took another step toward him, the air crackling about her with suppressed Elf-magic, and Snape had a few seconds to think through his obituary.

*****

Chapter 16 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 17