Hogwarts
October 15th, 2007

Good gods, Snape thought in disgust, and scrawled a scathing comment in the margin of a two-foot essay. And to think I felt Longbottom's Form was the epitome of idiocy....

He wasn't exaggerating. The quality of work -- both academic and practical -- declined every year, and Severus Snape had to face the fact that there was, indeed, a far greater incidence of physiological problems with more and more of his students; that an increasing number of them were simply unable to comprehend anything but the most basic concepts.

They were, in short, congenitally stupid.

He wasn't the only one who felt so: it was a common topic of discussion in the Faculty Common Room. There were far more accidents in the Potions classroom now, despite his best efforts and increased safety measures: the current lot of idiots had, despite his vigilence, managed to chalk up as many explosions by mid-term as Longbottom had in an entire year. McGonagall had similar experiences in Transfigurations, which she still adamantly taught; Flitwick's replacement -- a vapid female who Snape couldn't stand -- was in the Infirmary more often than in her classroom due to Charms gone awry.

He threw his quill down and stared at the sickly fire in the grate.

After he'd returned from the conference he'd pulled the end-of-term marks for the past five years and done laborious comparisons, to confirm his gut feeling as much as to attempt to refute Granger's figures... to no avail. Regardless of Pureblood resistance to scientific evidence, it was true.

Not that Snape cared in principle: the Purebloods should have seen it coming. He had, but had considered it in his best interest not to be proactive. It was a relief, in a way, that he'd never been expected -- or invited, until recently -- to contribute to the bloodlines. He couldn't stand the social machinations involved, certainly didn't care to involve himself emotionally, and found other ways to relieve his sexual urges.

Snape was brutally honest with himself on that score. He knew he'd make a slow child's life a living hell, and he was not quite such a bastard as to not care about that; the memory of his own upbringing, as a bright child with an overly-critical and unreasonably demanding father, was too raw for him to wish on anyone else. Some people weren't suited to have progeny -- particularly if the offspring mightn't be able to meet expectations -- and he was one of the unsuitable.

Almost.

For there was a niggling at the back of his mind (the primal part of his brain, the part fuelled largely by hormones, he suspected) that was urging him to reconsider. The thought of marrying into his only option to date, however -- the Parkinsons -- had dampened any enthusiasm he might have scraped together.

The thought of bedding that nasty bint Horace and Alvinia produced.... I'd have to take a bloody potion every damned time.

He'd tolerated Parkinson as his student and as her Head of House, but the idea of fucking her -- even for the sake of continuing the Pureblood lines -- was disgusting. Apparently other potential suitors thought the same, for nine years out of Hogwarts, Pansy Parkinson still hadn't found a prospect, despite her father's wealth. In addition to the problem of sex, Snape couldn't imagine putting up with the stupid woman's mindless, malicious chatter for more than an hour without hexing her into silence.

He'd been horrified at the numbers Granger had presented at the ICW conference -- not the marriage numbers, he didn't give a fig about those -- but at the medical statistics. The Purebloods were going down, and were too finicky to pull up their bootstraps and do what needed to be done; so he assumed that the ICW would, eventually, force them all, including himself. Perhaps that was why he'd felt compelled to warn Granger of that nervous tic: hoping that she might convince the ICW to hold off on extreme measures.

It was probably in vain. While she'd done well enough in the poise and vocal departments, Dusselbum couldn't possibly have missed that one, prominent weakness.

There was also the matter of Granger's unseemly observation to consider, as well. The damned chit has been totally transparent in her interest, and for the life of him Snape hadn't yet been able to determine why. Gods knew he didn't see why she should take any notice of him whatosever: he'd never bothered to conceal his disgust for the frizzy-haired little Mudblood swot she'd been. He'd grudgingly accepted her for intelligence later, true -- much later -- but that intelligence hardly offset the lies and outright thievery he knew she'd perpetrated on Potter's behalf over the years.

Then again, his last memory of Granger before their encounter at the conference had not been precisely outstanding. She'd walked about the corridors in a daze those last few weeks -- like many of the students -- and at the Leaving Feast, he'd felt her staring at him and bothered to return the glare: she'd seemed sharper, angry, as if accusing him for surviving when bloody Potter hadn't, as if she were finally waking from a nightmare and blamed him for appearing in it.

No, she had no reason to take such a keen interest in him. None at all, unless she was plotting some kind of bizarre, misguided revenge for an imagined misdeed. (Gods knew he'd done his best to keep the damned boy out of trouble long enough to complete the mission; it wasn't his fault that the idiot hadn't lived.)

She never bothered to send the bloody books she promised, either, he thought irritably. Whatever it was she wanted, it wasn't worth keeping her word.

Well, there was nothing for it: he'd have to wait and see what happened on the political front, because the results of the conference hadn't yet been announced, and he'd be damned if he enquired of Granger. In the meantime, he refused to settle for the Parkinsons or any of the other more desperate families, though he might have to eventually.

They'd damned well have to make it worthwhile for him, though. He imagined he could make quite a dent in Horace Parkinson's bank account, if he chose.

Gods know I can manage a more than adequate contraceptive potion if I end up with someone objectionable. Even if I have to force it down the stupid breeder's throat with Imperius.

He pulled the essay back over, picked up his quill, and re-commenced mutilating the pathetic bit of parchment.

*****

He'd only two essays left to mark when the knock came at the office door.

"Enter," he barked out, head still bent over his desk.

"Good evening, Professor," a pleasant alto -- and adult -- voice said as the door opened. "I've brought those books I promised. I'm terribly sorry it took so long, but I've been held up at work."

He jerked his head up and met Granger's eyes.

"Three months' delay, and unable to simply send an owl?" he said caustically. "I take it the recommendations were quite elaborate, then."

"Not entirely," she admitted as she crossed to his desk and set several thick books on it. "And I wangled a delay out of them. But it's not very good news, I'm afraid. We've been trying to take some pre-emptive measures to prepare the population."

"I haven't heard anything. Or did I miss the announcements?"

"Not publicised yet," she said quietly.

"And you cannot, of course, divulge them to the mere Deputy Head of the National School."

"I'm not supposed to, but I shall," she said.

Snape felt his eyebrows shoot up at the admission before he was able to conceal his surprise.

"Whatever for? And why do I rate a special visit?"

"I came to see Professor McGonagall, actually -- we do keep in touch, though she still hasn't forgiven me for choosing Arithmancy over Transfigurations," Granger admitted with a smile. "No, I.... I wanted to speak to you directly, because the measures are going to affect all unmarried wizards and witches."

"Intriguing," he said dryly, and set aside his quill. "Though I still don't see why I rate insider information. The Ministry proposes, and we dispose."

Granger started to speak, hesitated, and then pointedly removed herself to the first row of desks.

"The first recommendation," she said slowly, "is the forbidding of Pureblood unions."

"That's despicable," Snape said promptly, "not to mention unenforceable."

"I agree. No matter the necessity, I don't think you should force people into such a personal decision. It's a grave violation of personal and civil liberties. And they intend to enforce it," she continued, "by closing the borders. No possibility of sneaking off to the Continent anymore."

Snape stared at her, appalled.

"How do they propose to do that? Ward the entire bloody island?"

"Revocation of Apparition Licenses," Granger said briskly, ticking the points off on her fingers, "monitoring of air space -- as you know they've already developed a governor for brooms, to prevent dashes across the Channel."

"And Muggle methods? I suppose they think we're too defective to think of those --"

"Tracking spells on wands to monitor movements. Even if someone slips through, they can be... retrieved."

"Those are incredibly fascist tactics," Snape said viciously.

"Quite. We're back to Martial Law, I'm afraid, though unofficially."

"And how do they expect the population to respond? Gladly hand over their wands and brooms to be fiddled with? There will be a massive emigration the minute it's announced."

"No," Granger corrected him. "They've already put it into practise -- it's too late. The National Security measures they enacted during that last year of the war? The Wizengamot has renewed the spells --"

"That's highly illegal! They were emergency measures only --"

"-- Yes, I know, but when the government is the one doing the law-breaking.... The monitors and governors are already in place, they only needed to be re-activated. Most people are going about their business as usual, but I think in a day or two you'll start hearing of some people -- those considered a flight risk -- being denied the right to leave. No-one has a choice."

Snape felt the blood rush to his face. He was struck with the urge to overturn his desk, but settled for rising and swatting at his stool, sending it flying. Granger flinched at that.

"I suppose you're happy," he hissed when he could manage to speak coherently, and glared at her; she stayed silent, leaning against a desk, slender arms crossed over her torso protectively. "That ought make your job immensely easier."

"No, it doesn't," Granger said. "Make me happy, I mean, or the job easier. I don't think a government ought to force social policy, to subvert its citizens' free will. And I think it's a dangerous tactic as well. It's likely to throw us back into the same old mess, even without a Voldemort to spearhead a movement."

"Did you bother to explain that to the ICW judges?" he said acidly, pacing across the room to retrieve the stool.

"I did, and they couldn't care less. The damage then was confined to Britain, so they're underestimating the risk as they think the general world population isn't affected. The government's understimating the threat, too."

"Thank the gods someone in the bloody Ministry has sense and foresight. How does it feel, Miss Granger, to be the proverbial unhonoured prophet?"

"Like shit," she said bluntly.

Snape threw himself into the wing-chair by the fire and rubbed at his forehead.

Granger cautiously walked over and perched -- uninvited -- on the chair's mate.

"The first step will be a moratorium on Pureblood unions," she said, "with the excuse that it might persuade people to consider other options. They want to avoid an outright ban if at all possible, at least for now. Then, if the numbers don't improve -- and I don't think they will, not enough -- they'll proceed to announcing that only mixed unions are valid."

"Won't work," Snape said tiredly. "Many would rather stay childless than pollute the blood. Why the geographical restriction? There would be some improvement if we married outside."

"I think that's the ICW's eventual plan," Granger said thoughtfully. "But they want to increase genetic diversity within discrete geographic areas first, to prove that there's good material worth saving. We are one of the smaller populations, after all. And then -- in a generation or two, perhaps -- they'll allow, if not actively encourage, marriage outside the 'tribe,' so to speak."

"That's a rather elaborate explanation. How did you arrive at your hypothesis?"

"I didn't. François DeLaine -- my French counterpart -- did. Someone at the ICW got careless and left a twenty-year plan lying about, and he read it. He's sympathetic to our problem, I've found, and he's more than happy to pass me information like that as he's at loose ends. The French are far more egalitarian than we, so there was far less resistance -- I think he's bored."

Snape snorted.

"All this begs the question of why you're informing me, Miss Granger. Do you expect me to trot over to the Parkinsons and Goyles and tell all? If they've already locked down the borders, it won't do a damned bit of good to leak the information unless you want another civil war on your hands sooner rather than later. Why do I need to know this now? Why do you want me to know?"

"I told you, my commitment to the issue of free will is stronger than my commitment to the Ministry," she said. "If you choose to divulge the information.... Well, I think it's the Ministry's just desserts -- though that's not my goal. And I only found out that they'd activated the monitors and governors yesterday. Far too late to warn you ahead of time, though I probably should have done if I'd had the chance. There'd actually been some talk of defying the ICW, but Fudge caved in the end and they hopped right on it."

"Why does that not surprise me about Fudge?"

"And more to the point, you did me a good turn at the conference, even if it was too late. I never got a chance to thank you properly."

Snape waved her thanks away and sat staring into the flames until Granger spoke again.

"Actually, I have other, more personal reasons for telling you. We're both in the same boat, after all."

"Whatever do you mean?" he said irritably.

"Well, if validation of only mixed marriages doesn't produce results, they'll be made compulsory."

Snape froze. "You're joking."

"No. They're already discussing methods to ensure compliance."

"What in bloody hell do they propose, a national lottery?"

"More or less. A genetic lottery. Pairing-up of genetic traits and skills based on family history."

"Bloody --"

"The real question is whether they'll try to pair strong with weak to dilute the undesirable traits, or let some people go hang and pair best with best."

"They cannot force --"

"Yes, they can. There may be significant sanctions against those who refuse -- including Azkaban. And if a desirable union does not produce offspring, there may be mandatory fertility testing. I imagine that if the parties are proving... obstinate, the Ministry might, if necessary, use restricted potions or Imperius."

"That's outrageous."

"Agreed, but some of those options are being seriously considered."

"Unforgiveables seem a bit extreme, even for the bloody Ministry. Aren't there Muggle methods other than mucking with the Genetics problems? They inseminate cattle -- why not go that route? Why bother with marriage? The bloody Americans dispensed with it."

"Because Fudge is adamant on the legitimacy issue," Granger said. "And even if they did try Muggle methods -- and there are methods even more effective than basic insemination, as you'll see when you read the texts -- you still need women willing to carry each child to term. I rather imagine," she added bitterly, "that many of them will feel as I do, and resent being considered as breeding machines. Perhaps some will engage in a nasty form of civil disobedience...."

(Snape had rather forgot the human side of the equation, and shifted uneasily in his chair.)

"And what does one do with the children if the families can't support them all? Do we chuck them into wizarding orphanages? Boarding schools from birth onwards? No, it's perfectly acceptable to condemn people to an incompatible marriage and poverty, as long as everything appears respectable," Granger concluded, her nose wrinkling in obvious disgust.

Snape abruptly rose, crossed to one of the many shelves that lined the room, moved aside a jar of pickled glumbumbles, and extracted a bottle of Firewhisky and a glass from the back row; and after a moments' hesitation he conjured a second glass, splashed some whisky into both, and returned to his chair, handing Granger the extra glass. He took a long swig of his drink before stating, quite succinctly, "Fuck."

Granger sputtered into her glass. "Sorry," she gasped, dabbing at her lips with the back of her hand. "I don't think that in seven years I ever heard you use language that strong."

"I think the situation requires it, don't you?" he said, rummaged in his frock-coat pocket, and tossed her his handkerchief.

"Yes. I think it frequently, myself," she said, and blotted at her lips with the linen.

They worked away at the whisky for a bit in a strange, companionable silence, and then Granger hesitantly said, "That's really not all on the personal front...."

"Yes?"

"Well, I'd thought.... I don't know anything about your personal situation, of course, but I assume from the way you snapped at me in Saint-Gervais that you haven't married, yet."

"No -- haven't," Snape retorted with a growing sense of dread.

"Neither have I. Don't think I ever want to, actually, and certainly not under these circumstances."

"And?" he demanded, hating her roundabout approach. "Get to the point, Granger."

She carefully set her glass aside and braced her hands on the chair-arms, staring at him defiantly.

"And I'm proposing an alliance."

"Alliance? You and --"

"In name only," she said hastily. "No cohabitation, no financial support. We needn't even socialise."

Snape stared at her for a very long time, and then laughed until he howled.

*****

"I thought it might be marginally better than submitting to a lottery," she snapped when he'd finally got the worst of his chortling over. "If, however, you have other prospects, I'll simply apologise for wasting your time and go."

She'd made it halfway to the door before he could breathe well enough to demand, "Stop. Sit."

She returned to the chair, glaring at him all the while.

"Let me see if I understand you properly," he said, deciding to humour her. (He hadn't been this amused by anything in a very long time.) "You propose that we marry to... what? Remove us from a pool of potentially objectionable persons, of being forced to make objectionable genetic contributions?"

Granger bit her lower lip and nodded.

"You want to defy both the Ministry and the ICW, even though they may eventually become suspicious when we produce no offspring?"

"It might not come to that."

"Might not, but unless you're exaggerating the situation --"

"I'm not."

"So. A marriage in 'name only,' no cohabitation, no financial support," he said carefully, "which would only postpone the inevitable? Possibly leave us open to substandard pairing in a lottery as opposed to the best if there's a delay in obtaining a dissolution? Or if a deception is proven and our stock is lowered, so to speak?"

"We could always divorce quite early on some grounds or other if it turns out the pairings are the best," she reasoned. "I'm in a position to find out earlier than most."

"True. And you could also be testing me. You are a Ministry employee, after all. You could be testing my personal willingness to adhere to the laws, or you could be setting up any Pureblood families who try to take pre-emptive action, based on your word alone. I have absolutely no proof that you're being truthful."

"Have I ever been able to successfully lie to you?"

"Frequently," Snape said bluntly. "Although, quite frankly, often only because of Dumbledore's intervention leading to lack of evidence."

"When?" she demanded.

"That incident with Black and the blasted Hippogriff, for starters," Snape said dryly. "Or did you think I'd not work out the possibilities with a Time-Turner?"

Granger's face coloured up. "Fine, then -- if you won't take my word, then look for yourself."

"Really? You know I'll see it, Miss Granger. Potter should have told you how thorough I am."

"Go ahead," she insisted. "I trust that you'll confine yourself to the matter at hand. No intentional rummaging for memories about Harry and Ron, or about my personal life."

"Very well. Have you ever been --? No? Sit back in the chair, then -- I don't need you toppling off and cracking your head open."

She did. Snape didn't bother to pull his wand (it wasn't necessary, with a willing subject and close proximity), stared into her eyes, delicately probed her mind with his, and wound his way through to her more recent memories. It wasn't difficult: she had a very orderly mind, as it happened -- surprisingly so, much more so than most peoples'. He was impressed with the orderliness, if rather appalled by the emotional naïveté and idealism that he sensed there, as well.

He located a memory from several years back -- her first memory of her Ministry job -- and grasped at it: sensed her growing concern with the populations figures as she sorted through them. He followed the thread to her first attendance at the ICW, felt her disgust with Corcoran's ineffectual presentations; found another memory -- this far more recent -- of her standing before Dusselbum, taking the reproval and the recommendations with outward calm, but with considerable inner indignation (and fighting the urge to play with her hair, he noted with amusement). Saw her attending Ministry meetings from the past three months, noted how her common-sense concerns were dismissed by her superiors, felt her growing rage at the draconian measures proposed.

He saw nothing whatsoever duplicitous on her part, and sensed no intent to entrap him or anyone else on behalf of the Ministry.

That was the sticky part, of course. On behalf of the Ministry. He really ought to investigate her memory of their meeting in Saint-Gervais.... But there was a certain ethic he held about Legilimency, when not used against an enemy: he'd agreed to investigate only her possible involvement in a Ministry set-up, and to depart from that agreement was akin to a violation, one he (having been on the receiving end of, often) found repugnant. Needless to say, said ethic did not apply to a teaching or interrogation situation, but this instance did not fall precisely into any of those categories.

He could determine her possible motives for that by other means, in any case -- far more entertaining means. He was, if truth be told, rather bored with his life as Deputy Head: the idea of watching one clumsy Griffindor attempt to out-manouever him was strangely appealing.

He released his grip on her mind and she lapsed back into the cushions, hands shaking. He'd taken just a bit too long for a subject who'd never been exposed to Legilimency, and the strain was showing on her face.

Snape silently rose, refilled her glass, and pressed it into her hands.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Your memories are remarkably detailed, and I lingered."

"Did you find what you wanted?" she asked.

"Yes. You're being truthful about the Ministry. Either that, or you're highly skilled at creating false memories, and I think that doubtful."

"That," she said shakily, and took a sip of whisky, "feels bloody awful."

"And I'm one of the best living practitioners. Imagine what it feels like if a bumbler attempts it."

"You're as skilled at Occlumency as well?"

"More. How do you think I survived the Dark Lord?"

She shuddered.

He gave her the courtesy of another minute to calm down, and then said, "Back to the matter at hand. My main question, Miss Granger, is what could possibly make you assume that I would find even a marriage 'in name only' congenial with you, of all people?"

What little blood there was left in her face drained immediately.

"I didn't assume anything," she said. "I had no way of knowing your feelings on the matter until I'd spoken with you. And as you're not interested, you might simply say as much. There was no need to put me through that... invasion."

She stood -- shakily -- to leave again, and he barked out "Sit -- down."

She did, quite ungracefully. (Good -- he'd got her even further off-balance.)

"I did not say the idea had no merit," he said carefully. "However, it's a risky tactic. How do you propose we explain such unconventional arrangements?"

"Our work, of course," she replied. "I work nearly seventy hours a week, and with all your duties.... It covers a multitude of sins, doesn't it? Not much time to spend together, a disinclination to cohabit because of those hours, your duties, and the commute -- except, possibly, during term breaks. Delayed pregnancy due to lack of opportunity and bad timing...."

"Ah. And why me, Miss Granger? I should think you'd approach one of the Weasleys, for example."

"Well, only one's available, since Percy's out of the running. I didn't even consider them, actually," she said steadily, "because most of the boys are like brothers to me, and I didn't think they'd... appreciate my reasoning. You, on the other hand, impress me as solitary by nature and more inclined to look at the situation logically, not emotionally."

"The Weasleys are far more honest and law-abiding than I, you mean," he said dryly.

Granger's cheeks flushed a brilliant pink, and she unthinkingly pushed an errant curl behind her ear. "There was no insult intended, I assure you."

"None taken," he said, not entirely truthfully. "It's an accurate observation, in this specific instance." He thought for a moment, tapping potions-stained fingers against the chair-arm.

He decided on the latter course. Given the shocking information she'd shared, he badly needed the entertainment.

"How soon do you require a decision?" he asked eventually, startling her.

"Oh, there's plenty of time, I think. Unless they decide to jump ahead to mandatory unions."

"Very well. I will consider the proposal, Miss Granger... no pun whatsoever intended... and let you know what I decide as soon as possible."

She looked stunned, as if she hadn't quite believed that he'd give the matter any thought.

"Thank you," she finally murmured. "I... I know it's a terribly unconventional suggestion --"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. As it happens I object to the coercion quite strongly, and civil disobedience appears to be the lesser of several evils. I'm not averse to protecting my own best interests, as you no doubt surmised." He watched her for a moment, and frowned. "Are you well enough to Apparate back? You look quite pale."

"I'm all right, thank you." She rose and awkwardly extended a hand. "I really do appreciate you hearing me out so... reasonably, no matter what your decision. You must be terribly busy. Not to mention enraged."

"No, I'm glad to have heard about the mandates beforehand," he said, giving her hand a minimal shake. "You needn't have worried about that -- I'm well acquainted with the propensity of some to kill the messenger, having been one myself, and I'm not likely to practise it on others."

She almost smiled at that: and then she murmured "Good evening, Professor Snape," and showed herself out.

Snape sat by the fire for a very long time, sorting through the factual information and pondering his options.

He decided not to leak the information. It would do no earthly good, and might, in fact, do a great deal of harm. Something would have to be done, true, but it would take a concerted effort on the part of the entire population, not just the Purebloods: he didn't deceive himself as to their ability to make a dent in the situation on their own, not after the restrictions that were placed on the Isolationist minority after the Dark Lord's final defeat.

Satisfied that he'd thought through the logical implications quite thoroughly, he turned his mind to the more disturbing implications – particularly Granger's motives, which he strongly doubted had anything to do with civil disobedience whatsoever.

Granger's proposition. An actual proposal.

He snorted at the irony of being proposed to by anyone, much less by one like Granger. Not to mention that she apparently thought so highly of herself that she felt it possible he'd wish to associate with her in any way at all, much less allow her to take his name.

I've often wondered, he thought idly, what one might find in a dissection of the Gryffindor psyche. I suspect that the sheer amount of self-absorption would choke the average Slytherin.

He didn't care for that at all. He'd been made a fool and had his choices made for him far too often in his life, usually by Dumbledore. He hadn't forgot those instances at all, much less forgiven them: it had simply been prudent to defer his vengeance until the Dark Lord was out of the way. It was Snape's one regret with the outcome of the struggle – that Dumbledore had been removed from the field of play before Snape had had a chance for his paybacks: it would have been intensely satisfying to have turned on Dumbledore at the last, to have told him how he truly felt and seen the shock on the old man's face, before....

But that couldn't be helped: it was over and done with -- except that he might be able to get a bit of his own back in -- in general -- with variety Gryffindor, after all. And how... delicious, that it might be with one of Dumbledore's pets. And McGonagall's, now that he thought of it. It was disgusting, really, how the old woman still rabidly protected the interests and stupidity of her former charges.

I could simply turn her over to the Ministry now, he thought. All it would take is a replay of tonight's conversation in my Pensieve. It might even get her tossed into Azkaban for Treason, given the confidential information she shared.

That was a lovely thought. It was a very nice parallel with gods-damned Black, too. She was partly responsible for Black getting away, after all, and Snape had never got satisfaction on that score either.

Granger had been so very careless, after all. She'd left him a great deal of leeway in interpretation.

He chuckled and took another sip of whisky – and then another thought hit him.

He'd resigned himself to paying for certain favours, and never considered that an opportunity to obtain them as a matter of course might ever present itself (at least in a way in which he actually wanted them, unlike the deplorable Pansy Parkinson). He'd never expected to marry: he knew he was neither attractive nor congenial enough to appeal to most women, and the kind he did seem to attract -- that curious variety that were intrigued with his intelligence -- were either so put off by his naturally vicious tongue and his lack of social skills, or so unattractive themselves, that it was a lost cause. He assumed that Granger had determined this as well, and that was the reason for her solicitation to him. He wasn't particularly pleased with that; he was rather offended, in fact, no matter how practically and honestly he assessed himself.

But she'd left that major loophole in the proposal, one which, he thought, she might neglect to close. She seemed to trust him, as evidenced by the Legilimency. She'd seemed to take his words about his own best interests at face value.

It was so very, very foolish of her.

It wasn't a bad proposition. He'd never paid attention to Granger while she was his student -- not physically, beyond those horrible buck teeth and the messy hair -- but thinking over it now, he admitted that she'd grown into a rather attractive young woman. Not in that insipid, pretty way; she was too sharp and intelligent, she didn't school her features into a bland acceptability, and she was more slender than he actually preferred -- but she was certainly what he thought attractive, now that she was taking some pains with her appearance.

He was beginning to wonder what she might look like naked, in his bed, with that mass of hair spread out around her. (And preferably with that Know-It-All intellect reduced to an inability to string two words together. He thought he might be able to tolerate her, then.)

There was the lamentable issue of her blood, of course, or lack of it. He'd be taking a calculated risk there if they were reduced to attempting offspring in the end: there was a possibility that said issue might not be magical at all. The idiot mediwizards couldn't offer assurance that Muggleborns would pass on their magical traits, and he doubted that the Muggle books Granger had brought him would offer any enlightenment on that score.

Even if squibs, though, any offspring Snape might sire on Granger would almost undoubtedly be intelligent, barring any terrible genetic defect: and he'd seen how neat and orderly her mind was -- he'd suspected that well before now, of course, since Dumbledore had confessed that the little chit had solved his potions puzzle. It had made his foray into her mind tonight both easier and harder: easier to find the appropriate memories, but impossible to poke about into her motives toward himself without her knowing.

At any rate, if he was forced to breed with her and any offspring were squibs, he suspected that the Ministry would have made that grounds for divorce -- if or when he wanted one.

The mantel-clock struck ten, and he sighed and set the matter to rest for the night: he had the last two essays to mark, and he doubted his ability to resist the siren call of the Genetics texts. He'd likely be up for some time, tonight. He'd think more about the proposal in the next few days and make a decision after he was absolutely confident that there was little risk of discovery, and that he could string Granger along far enough to get his way.

He finished the whisky remaining in his glass, Banished the glass Granger had used, and with a wave of his hand Summoned his handkerchief from the arm of the chair, where she'd left it.

It was faintly stained with Granger's lip-rouge.

He hated that. He liked his linens crisp and white, and felt he should always wonder, as he pulled a fresh one from the drawer, if it were the one she'd used.

He rose, tossed the soiled linen into the fire, and returned to his work.

*****

The more Snape thought about Granger's mad little scheme over the next few days, the more enraged he became.

In the end he decided to proceed with her mad plan, carefully ordered his priorities, and set his own plot in motion.

*****

October 21st, 2007
Miss Granger,

I have considered your proposal and I find it acceptable. Advise (if you are still agreeable) dates possible and whether London or Queerditch. (The latter has advantages, including no need to wait for a license.)

S. Snape

*****

October 22nd, 2007
Pro Severus,

Yes, I am still of the same mind. I can take leave whenever necessary -- shall I make arrangements for Queerditch?

Hermione

*****

October 23rd, 2007
Hermione,

Next Saturday. I have already arranged rooms for us -- I assume an overnight stay per inquiries into usual procedure. All else can be managed on the day. Advise ring size. I understand it's traditional, though you may of course decline.

Severus

*****

October 24th, 2007
Severus,

The 28th it is, then. Ring already provided for -- no need for you to bother. Unless you prefer.

Hermione

*****

October 25th, 2007
Hermione,

Shall accede to your wishes on the ring. Will meet you at the Registrar's Office, Council Building, Queerditch, 10 am on the 28th.

Severus

*****

October 28th, 2007
Queerditch Marsh

Snape had expected Granger to be nervous, and was rather surprised to find her composed and smiling when he met her on the steps of the Queerditch Council Building a few minutes before ten o'clock.

"You're certain, then?" she asked. "No second thoughts?"

"I wouldn't be here otherwise," he said, and offered her his arm. "And certainly not after taking great pains to conceal the reason for my absence. I'll catch hell from McGonagall for an elopement, and with one of her pets, no less."

"She wouldn't," Granger said, and laughed.

"She would and will. She goes very shrill and proprietary over you lot," he said matter-of-factly as he opened the door for her. "Worse than a hen with one chick, but she's hundreds."

They applied for the license in the Registrar's Office, took it from the clerk, and stepped through a door into a waiting room -- and had to cram themselves in and stand against the wall: the room was packed with other prospective newlyweds, many of them Purebloods. (Pureblood unions hadn't yet been banned, but the closing of the borders had sent a strong message to the more perspicacious: Snape imagined he was seeing the last gasp of defiance before ignominious defeat.) Most of them recognised him -- and some, Granger -- and those that recognised both were ogling at his outrageous choice.

"So much for getting it over with quickly," Snape muttered under his breath.

"You didn't.... Did you?" Granger asked delicately.

"No, I didn't," he whispered, bending to her ear so the others couldn't hear. "I think it's blindingly apparent, though. We've had several elopements among the Sevenths, and two actual disappeared -- left even their wands behind, so we assume they're on the Continent,"

"My God --"

"Yes, and that's only students, not the general population. I imagine Gregorovich will be busy for a while. Pity the Ministry didn't think of that."

"The ICW's restricted him and the others from supplying new wands to British wizards, though," she whispered back.

"There's always been a thriving black market, and wand-makers to fill the demand. How do you think members of certain organisations avoided detection by Prior Incantato?"

"Oh, I -- No, I hadn't thought of that. They won't be allowed to return to Britain, you know."

"I hardly think they'll wish to," he whispered dryly, and then abruptly straightened away from her.

He'd caught a whiff of her scent -- something very clean and understated, and quite pleasant -- and while he certainly liked it, he had no intention of signaling his approval by sniffing at her or allowing his more primal instincts to express interest in public.

"Oh," Granger said suddenly, and rifled in her handbag. "I forgot to give you this outside --"

She pulled out a jewel box, withdrew a plain little band, quite thin, and placed it in his palm.

He wasn't quite certain which was worse: that she hadn't chosen something large and heavy to symbolise the false marriage, or that she'd chosen something he thought was distinctly cheap. On the whole, he thought it rather neatly summed up her expectations for the marriage, and her opinion of him.

Oh, Merlin, I am going to enjoy this evening so much....

But the stupid ring really didn't matter. What was important was the vow made before the Registrar, and what Snape intended to do later; and as the others in the waiting room were taking an indecent interest in the fact that the bride-to-be had just handed the groom her own wedding band, he simply slipped it into his coat-pocket and looked as menacing as possible to discourage them. (As most of them had been his students in the past, it was a very effective tactic.)

Another clerk entered by a second door, and called the first couple into the inner chamber: soon they heard the Registrar begin to speak in a wavery drone that went on and on....

...for ten minutes, and the bloody ceremony still wasn't finished.

"This is ridiculous," Snape hissed. "How long does it bloody take?"

He held out for another five minutes, and then grabbed Granger by the elbow.

"What -- You're not changing your mind, are you?" she asked in a whisper as he pushed her through the door, staring up at him with panicked eyes.

"No," he said, and he marched them both over to the clerk's desk. "Where are we in the queue?" he barked.

"Er, Snape, was it?" the nervous man stuttered.

"You know bloody well it is, Picklesworth," Snape growled. "Hufflepuff, 1992 -- and don't think I've forgot that you never cleared your account of the last cauldron you melted. What number are we?"

"Twenty-one, sir --"

"And how long does the blasted man usually take?"

"Er, ten minutes if he doesn't lose his place, and fifteen if he does. And he'll want a tea-break, one-ish."

Snape swore under his breath, unbuttoned a few buttons at his waist, pulled out his watch-chain, and unclipped one of the fobs.

"We are not waiting about," he said as he plunked the fob down in front of Picklesworth. "When he's closer -- much closer -- to our number, you are to tap your wand against this, and it will alert me."

"Buh-- but it's not done to leave the premises, sir --"

Snape leaned over the desk toward him. "I -- do -- not -- care what is 'not done,' in this instance, Picklesworth," he said distinctly as he re-buttoned his frock-coat. "I have no intention of standing in that stifling little room for the next three hours. I am Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts School, Miss Granger is a Ministry official, and -- as this is our only free opportunity to marry in the near future -- we shall be very put out if you don't do as instructed. In fact, I might be compelled to inform the Hogwarts Bursar of your whereabouts, so the outstanding charge might be deducted from your pay. With interest."

"Yes, sir," Picklesworth said immediately.

Snape took Granger's arm and marched her out of the office.

"What do you propose we do for three hours?" Granger said.

Snape shot her a look: her voice had gone a bit funny, and he decided she was trying very hard not to laugh.

"An early luncheon, I think," he said, "and we'll find something to do afterwards, I'm sure. Other than the bloody Quidditch Museum, if you don't mind."

"No problem there," Granger muttered. "I got my fill at Hogwarts."

"How did you survive those two Quidditch-mad fools?" he asked her idly as they walked along toward the commercial district.

"Selective hearing, eventually," she said with a straight face. "And you'll be pleased to know that I often practised herbal properties and potions receipts to drown out the idiocy."

"No wonder you excelled," he said dryly, and guided her to a likely-looking café.

*****

Luncheon was pleasantly calm, as it happened: neither of them was in the mood to talk much, other than about the Hogwarts elopements.

"But what did McGonagall say?" Granger asked.

"Not much, the first time -- she was far too livid to form words. By the time the third pair pulled it off she had a standard half-hour lecture all worked out. They're not allowed to cohabitate, of course, they stay in their own Houses. The pair that are in Hufflepuff have been separated. Mercy Weatherwax -- Moulton, that is -- is sleeping in Sprout's quarters of all places."

"Have you caught anyone --?"

"Good gods, yes," he said in disgust. "I've taken more points this term than in your cohort's entire career, and the most from those three couples. Hasn't done much good."

Granger smothered a laugh. "I am sorry," she said, the skin about her eyes crinkling when he glared at her. "I know it can't be pleasant. I'm thinking of their reaction when you pounce on them, that's all."

"I do not pounce," he retorted.

"Stalk and apprehend, then," she said mildly, and returned her attention to the passers-by outside the window.

He observed her for a moment: the neat, conservative suit and modest pearls at her throat; the nearly ineffectual attempt to pull her hair into order; the discreet application of cosmetics, and the way the laughter lines lingered at the corners of her eyes. She really was quite attractive -- and so terribly innocent and naïve.

If only you knew, Miss Granger, he thought, anticipating the evening's activities. If only you knew how close you are to your own revelation, I doubt you'd be so amused.

They nearly decided to waste the next two hours at the local history museum (not the Quidditch one, which paled in comparison to London's, anyway), and might well have had not Granger seen a bookseller's shop tucked into a row of shopfronts and practically dragged him toward it.

Note to self: should I ever be in the unlikely mood to purchase gifts, books would be The Thing.

He nearly had to drag her away when the chime of his watch pinged insistently: Picklesworth had done his job (or rather, Snape's threat had done its job).

Before he knew it, he and Granger were standing before the doddering old wizard of a Registrar, who stared at their license with bleary eyes.

"Severus Snape, single.... My word, not the Snape?" the old man wheezed.

"Yes," Snape said through gritted teeth (blast McGonagall for insisting his name go in the news reports on the last battle). "Might we proceed?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Severus Snape, single wizard --" (wheeze), "-- aged 47, and Hermione --" (wheeze), "-- Granger, spinster witch, aged 27, you have by these --" (wheeze) "-- presents announced your intention to marry --"

The old idiot fumbled with his book and the license fluttered to the floor.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," he muttered, and smiled when Granger bent to pick the bit of parchment up for him. "Thank you, my dear. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Severus Snape, single wizard, aged --" (wheeze) "-- 47, and Hermione Granger, spinster witch, aged 27, you have by these --" (wheeze) "-- presents announced your intention to marry...."

He dropped the damned paper twice more before they got to the ridiculous, archaic vows, and it was only with great difficulty that Snape prevented himself from hexing the man's bollocks off.

It was time for dinner by the time they left the Registrar's Office.

*****

Later that evening

"Well, we're in the clear -- for a while, at least," Granger said quietly as they lingered over dessert.

She refused to meet his eyes. She'd avoided them all evening, in fact. She'd undergone a minor transformation the moment he'd slipped that pathetic ring onto her finger: all her earlier ease with him had disappeared, and dinner had been a largely silent affair, made even more awkward when she merely picked at her food

Snape hummed noncommittally. "I wonder why they've been so careless? We had to report the elopements, after all. And I don't know why they didn't stop the adults that skipped across the Channel -- they should have caught them, with the borders closed."

"Someone fouled up the paperwork," Granger solemnly informed him. "An entire list of likely runners didn't make it down to MLE, so they weren't considered a high flight-risk via Muggle transport."

Snape quirked an eyebrow. "I wonder who that someone might be...."

"Oh, no," she said hastily. "I don't process the lists -- that's the Undersecretary's job, and he claimed he sent them on. Someone's lifted them from the mail chutes before they reached MLE, I suppose. I don't know who, and I don't want to know. But it's a good sign -- there's someone else on the inside who's disgusted with everything. No, it's not me," she reiterated, and spooned up another bit of chocolate mousse, "I'm three weeks behind in my paperwork, though, and with entirely valid reasons."

"I wonder you could make the time to meet today," Snape said dryly.

"I've not taken a holiday in three years," she said. "It's owed to me, so frankly I don't feel the least guilty."

He had to smile at that -- pleasantly, he hoped. He intended to make her feel very guilty by evening's end.

"Have you told your parents, yet?" he asked casually.

"No...." Granger set aside her spoon and fiddled with the handle of her coffee-cup. "We don't really talk any longer, you see. I.... They were very supportive of my education -- they seemed to think of Hogwarts as a kind of ultra-exclusive boarding school. But I wasn't entirely honest with them about everything that was going on, and they didn't subscribe to The Prophet. When I had to confess, eventually --"

She stopped and had to take a deep breath before continuing.

"When I had to explain how I'd been injured during that last Autumn Term, they weren't at all pleased. Wanted me to come home, in fact. And I defied them and went back anyway. Things were never the same after that. I don't blame them," she said carefully. "I may not have children, but I can imagine how you could love someone so deeply that you'd want to protect them from any danger whatsoever. Even if it meant denying them something they loved doing very much, something they defined themselves by."

"And did you? Do you, define yourself by your Magic?" Snape asked.

"Yes. I don't know if you can understand it, because you've always been around it -- or I assume you have," she said, shooting him a doubtful glance, and he nodded affirmation. "Even before I Showed, I knew there were things that other people couldn't do that I ought to be able. I was very impatient for it to arrive. And once it did, I wasn't going to let anything keep me from it, even my parents' disapproval. I don't think they understood that it wasn't simply a skill. That it was an entire way of life and of thinking all its own, and that I couldn't just pack up my wand and go back to life as usual."

"The commitment," Snape said immediately. "They could not accept that you might choose a life so utterly alien from theirs, one they saw as more dangerous. They saw it as a rejection of their lives and values."

"Yes, I think that's it precisely," she said, startled eyes wide, searching his. "And it's odd, because they're very committed people. They've always been dedicated to political change and social welfare. They couldn't seem to understand that I feel the same commitment, but in a different society. Practically a different country."

"Different, world, I should have said. They're both still living, I take it? Then there's still time to... make your peace with them, should you choose to," he said pragmatically. "Whether you tell them of... this, is your own concern, of course. I won't pretend to have an interest in playing at being a son-in-law, but you needn't worry about concealing it from them on my account."

She nodded and stared down at the remains of her dessert.

She seemed even more subdued; for a brief moment Snape doubted himself.

Have I tipped my hand, somehow?

He'd thought by expressing understanding of her difficulty he might make her feel secure with him again: it was an old interrogation tactic, to persuade the subject that you were there to help them, to give them a sympathetic ear so they could unburden themselves, leaving them vulnerable. Unwary. But there was nothing for it: if she'd sussed him out, it was best to act as chivalrously as possible and take whatever chance he had to get his foot in the door -- literally, if necessary.

"I, for one, am ready for bed," he said, and finished off his brandy. "Shall I escort you upstairs?"

"Here?" she said, surprised. "I didn't think -- My God, Profess--"

"Severus," he interjected with a sigh (it was the third time he'd corrected her that day). "You shall have to get used to it, you know -- your co-workers might think it odd...."

"I know," she said, blushing, and blotted at her lips before tossing the napkin on the table. "I just didn't expect the finest hotel in Queerditch."

"I did," he said as he pulled her seat out for her. "I'm past being resigned to sub-standard lodging. And I preferred knowing there was an acceptable restaurant available, as well -- No, don't bother with the cheque, I shall put it on my room number," he added with a nod to the maître-d'.

"Thank you," she murmured.

They rode the lift up in silence, and Snape walked her to the door.

"I'm so glad you agreed," Granger blurted out quite suddenly, and smiled at him for the first time that day since luncheon. "I didn't think you would, you know."

He smiled. "I don't know why," he said lightly. "The offer was made in such logical and generous terms that I could hardly refuse, given the circumstances."

"Good-night, then," she said, and turned to the door -- and stopped dead in her tracks when Snape reached over her shoulder, laid his hand against it, and the ward dropped and the door swung open.

She whipped around, staring at him: she knew as well as he that the doors were to be warded only to the occupant.

"What --"

"Inside, my dear," he murmured as he grasped her by the arms, backed her in, and slammed the door closed with his foot.

"-- do you think you're doing?" she hissed.

"More to the point, what are we doing?" he said as he released her and -- quite blatantly -- warded the door locked, and to respond only to himself. "Did you bring luggage? Anything to Engorge, before we proceed? Well, it's no matter -- you shan't need anything for the time being. For quite a while, in fact, as I intend to keep you otherwise occupied. We are preparing for bed, where we will consummate this marriage, Madam Snape."

Granted, Severus Snape had every expectation of living a long life: but he rather thought he should never enjoy anything more in future than the look of mingled shock, outrage, and fear on Granger's face. It ran a close second to the exquisite moment he'd seen the Dark Lord's body and essence go up in smoke.

*****

CHAPTER 2 FOOTNOTES

LINK TO CHAPTER 3