Severus was back to his usual self the next morning: not his manner of the past month, the Snape whose vicious wit had taken a decidedly sparring (albeit still caustic) tone, but the overly-snappish one whose barbs were meant to wound deeply. Hermione was hard-pressed not to snap back, but she managed: she tried, very carefully, not to inflict more damage than she had last night, and to get through breakfast and to her departure without antagonising him further. (It amounted to keeping her mouth shut after his first three nasty replies to her questions, and a determined effort to finish her breakfast as though nothing was wrong.)

"I won't see you to the gates," he finally muttered. "I've preparations for my first class." He threw his napkin on the table and made for the office, shutting the door with a bang.

Hermione sat for a long time at the table, staring out the window, trying to sort through everything. He'd been subdued when he'd returned from... well, from wherever he'd got to: but it wasn't a good sign that he'd slept in the sitting-room. (There had been times in the past when she'd longed that he would, but last night wasn't one of them.)

She couldn't quite figure out his hostility, although she could see that he might have taken her counter-offer as a slight -- as a blow to his ego, which was, she knew, considerable.

....Ohhhhhh. He's not dependent on me for feeding. But he is for sex, so.... Wait a moment, do you believe for one minute that he couldn't get it elsewhere? Not for free, he couldn't. Ewwww, don't think about that option.... Get back to the point.

She remembered for a moment that first awful coupling, and the surprise she'd felt when she saw him for the first time as vulnerable and unguarded.

She finally gave up trying to figure out Snape's convoluted ego and stunted emotions, and settled for scribbling a note that she left on the side-table.

She gathered up her things, trudged out to the gates, and Apparated home: but although she stayed up until nearly midnight after a very tiring day at work, Severus didn't contact her. He didn't even answer her own floo-call when she tried to flame him to let him know that she hadn't found anything disturbed at the office.

Clearly, they couldn't go on this way. It was far too dangerous, given the circumstances -- they needed to stick together and keep talking, even if it meant she had to set aside her reservations and treat him as though she... as though she cared for him -- in bed, as well as elsewhere -- no matter how awfully they'd begun.

Something should have to be done.

*****

It was likely a futile mission -- a futile gesture -- but she felt she needed to try; so Hermione risked taking a very long lunch on the Tuesday as she would have to make a couple of stops before visiting Diagon Alley.

She was briefly distracted at the chemist's by one of the seamier tabloids -- the headline read ALIENS DID IN CANE HILL! -- and wasted a pound and ten minutes for the privilege of reading the rag.

Hermione snorted in disgust, stuffed the ridiculous waste of a tree in a rubbish-bin, continued to the grotty little shop-front that was her second stop, and knocked on the door. She wasn't ignorant of the fact that she was flouting a massive social taboo; but she decided the sanctity and dignity of the traditional male bolt-hole would survive intact, if a bit battered.

The peep-hole shot open and the doorkeeper growled, "No solicitations."

"Smithers, I need help," Hermione hissed.

The peep-hole slammed shut.

She pounded on the door this time, and the peep-hole slid open.

"No solici-- "

"I come bearing flobberworms and dragon's blood," she gabbled, and Smithers' single visible eye glared at her suspiciously.

"You, Madam, are not a member."

"It's Madam Snape, Smithers, and I'm in a real bind. Is there any way... ?"

The eye stared for another split second, and then the peep-hole snapped shut; the bolts on the door snapped open, and then the door, and she stepped into the entry of the Guild of Potions Masters' Club.

"This really isn't done, Madam Snape -- he's not in residence, at any rate," Smithers said wearily.

"Yes, yes, I know that. Both, rather. Look, I need some information, and you might well have it...."

Smithers eyed her warily; listened; and then talked.

The humiliation of having to confess to him was only heightened by giggling from the direction of the Library: Hermione might have discounted it save for the little pile of scone-crumbs she saw on the polished floor when she peered over Smithers' shoulder, and the mischievous wave that old Bluett gave her from an upper-story window as she walked away from the Club, bound for Diagon Alley.

*****

It was, in the end, a very expensive apology. Severus might have the fashion sense of a Nineteenth-Century High Church vicar, but it was an exorbitant anachronism even by Wizarding standards.

*****

No word from Severus, by note or floo-call. He had to have got the bloody things by then: Hermione had paid extra to have Express Owls deliver the damned things to Hogwarts.

Motivated by an impending migraine and a horrid crick in her neck, Hermione took lunch outside the Ministry. (The canteen food was awful, at any rate.)

Fortescue's sounded quite surprisingly appealing, so she went there through the Ministry floo -- and then regretted it once there when they tucked her in the dingiest corner, ignored her for several long minutes, and left her feeling generally out of place. It had never bothered her before, as a book had always provided sufficient company: but reading matter didn't seem enough now, surrounded as she was by couples and the occasional, solitary shopper with enough packages to indicate that they were buying for two or more.

Good Lord, Hermione. Is it just because you're worried about Severus, or is this some kind of sea-change? You've never felt badly about being alone before.

She sipped her water as she waited for her meal, and mentally catalogued the other patrons.

The chime above the door jangled, Hermione glanced at the new arrivals, and then did a double-take.

It was Dean Thomas, in the company of a young man she didn't recognise: they chatted together as they were ushered to seats across the room from her.

The waiter brought her meal, and she was distracted from further speculation for a while. But Dean and his friend were still there, in the middle eating their own meals, when Hermione had settled her bill: so she detoured over to their table on her way to the door.

" -- so I said to him, you may want a rise in profits, but if you try to get it from the consumer in this climate, you're in for a big shock," Dean was saying earnestly, "and he's damned well not pulling it from my commissions, I can tell you --"

His companion cleared his throat and stared pointedly at Hermione; Dean looked over his shoulder, started, and smiled.

"Hullo, Dean."

"Hermione! It's been ages, hasn't it -- how are you?"

"Fine, Dean, fine --"

"Patrick, this is Hermione, Form-mate of mine from Hogwarts."

Patrick smiled a greeting

"Hullo, Patrick. How are you, Dean? I thought you were living up north."

"Oh, great -- and I am, I'm in town for a sales meeting. Business doing well, despite everything. If you ever need a good deal on a wireless," he said, pulled a business card from his jacket pocket (quite an expensive and trendy suit, Hermione noted), and handed it over, "give me a call, would you? I can get it for you wholesale. Say, how's Weasley doing?"

"I wouldn't know," Hermione said calmly. "Ron and I don't speak any longer, haven't for years. I hear he's awfully narked that I married someone he doesn't approve of."

"Oh, bugger," Dean said, and grinned weakly. "Sorry. Last I'd heard, he was going to ask you, and what with the ring and all...."

"No, he married Laura Madley. They're a good match. Three kids so far. You?"

"Two. And I'm Regional Manager for the company now, nice semi-detached in the Wizarding neighbourhood, the whole bit. Well, probably better off without Ron, aren't you? Told him he shouldn't have gone to the Cannons. I bet he makes sod-all," Dean said carelessly. "My Gertie doesn't have to work, and I can tell you this isn't the easiest business to make a Galleon at."

Hermione took an instant dislike to the new and improved Dean. Not that she'd ever liked him much anyway, but it was asking a bit much, to expect her to listen to him run Ron down -- him with his flashy suit and salesman's raffish, well-fed grin....

"So, who's the lucky wizard? Do I know him?" Dean continued, oblivious.

She smiled as sweetly as possible. "Oh, yes, you do. It's Severus Snape."

Patrick suddenly found his Boeuf Alderton of great interest -- he'd heard of Severus, then; Dean's eyes glazed over, the idiotic grin froze on his face, and he stuttered, "Snuh- Snape?"

"Professor Snape, yes. Since October. And you know, Dean," Hermione whispered, bending closer to his ear, "it's been very educational."

"Educational?"

"Oh, my, yes. For example, that wager you had with Ron all those years ago, you remember that?"

"No --"

"The one about male Slytherin anatomy."

"Oh, that one," Dean giggled, and made a suspicious, two-fingered gesture to Patrick. (Patrick seemed to understand it entirely too well. The hemipene theory must be widely-held among non-Slytherin males, or at least among the more credulous and stupid ones.)

"Right. Well, in the interest of fairness, you ought take it from an authority... me... that you're wrong. Not that I've more than the one example or I'm complaining, mind you, but you don't get much more Slytherin than Severus, and he's a fine figure of a man. If you get my drift." She straightened, tucked Dean's card into her handbag, and added, "I should clear that wager off the books if I were you before it accrues any more interest, Dean, and before Ron finds out you know and comes looking for you. He could use it about now."

"Sure," Dean said, voice faint, and pushed his plate away from him. (He looked nearly as green as Ron had.) "Yeah, I'll... I'll look him up on the way home."

"Good! I'll pass your card along to him through Arthur, just in case you get held up and can't make it this trip. Very nice to meet you, Patrick --"

Patrick gave her a surreptitious wink behind Dean's back: he too must think Dean a total berk.

"Don't suppose I'll see you about, so take care, Dean," Hermione said lightly, and left Fortescue's without another look at the arse.

She didn't particularly want to go back to work, but the head-ache wasn't bad enough to warrant going home, not considering the pile of medical reports she needed to sift through; but she could dawdle a bit, and so made for the Leaky Cauldron. She'd take the Tube line closest to the Ministry, and then walk the rest of the way.

If truth be told she was worried about Severus, and wanted the time in the crisp, fresh air to think it through. To think him through. He still hadn't called, and she wasn't certain that she'd be welcome at Hogwarts next evening.... Well, that her presence would be tolerated. Nothing for it, though.

She stopped at the newsagent's close to Flourish and Blotts, bought The Prophet, and absent-mindedly stuffed it into her handbag before heading out into Muggle London.

She stopped in her tracks on the Tube platform, feeling very queer, suddenly, and thought about that.

He certainly didn't deserve her taking an interest, not after beastly way he'd blackmailed her into a sexual relationship she didn't want. But on the other hand, she couldn't really continue to see him as a hide-bound, Pureblood alpha male with Neanderthalic social and sexual views, much as she'd like to. (At any rate, that was probably an insult to Neanderthals.)

A business-man talking at high speed and volume pushed past her irritably; she stepped back to the wall to wait for her train, boarded it when it arrived, and settled into the anonymity of the back-corner seat where she could think in peace, lulled by the swaying of the carriage. (She missed that, the twice-yearly ritual of riding the Express: that few hours' respite between the world she'd grown up in, and the one to which she so strongly felt she belonged.)

Severus Snape was, she thought, caught between two beliefs: the first, brought up in the kind of home where the man was master of all, where the woman was not much more than the conduit for the master's children and pleasure. (An attitude very like that illustrated by that wretched statue that still stood in the Ministry Atrium, with the witch and other magical creatures gazing adoringly at the wizard.) And then there was the Severus Snape who, despite his caution and gloom-and-doom predictions, had let her take the lead in a great deal of the investigation. Who hadn't the slightest interest in interrogating her over her foray into the Auror's Department, because she was there in his rooms, after all, and had obviously done well....

Who had told her -- told her, not bullied her into seeing his point of view, for once -- that she shouldn't doubt herself and her skill, and had told her this despite earlier threats to treat her as a traditional Pureblood wife; who had done a total turnabout on that earlier declaration, in fact. He might have done so because it was expedient -- because he didn't really have a choice, given the circumstances: but she thought not. If he was truly committed to the older ideals, he'd have forbidden her to continue the investigation in the first place.

So, he really didn't deserve to be branded a total Pureblood chauvinist, no matter how antiquated his view of marriage or how traditional his ideas of male sexual dominance.... Well, on the former, at least, his actions belied his earlier words. He was certainly a believer in the latter.

The train slowed and halted at her station; she rose, pushed through the crowds on the carriage and platform, and made her way out to the street.

The call-box operator took a bit longer than usual, but didn't chivvy her, so Hermione took no notice of the delay; and she was still so deep in thoughts of Severus that she didn't see the group of Aurors hanging about the Arrivals floo until they caught up with her at the lifts and surrounded her.

"Hermione Snape?" a grim-faced, older Auror demanded.

"Yes."

"Wand, please."

"Bloody hell, I thought we settled this --" Hermione shot back.

"Wand, Madam Snape, now. Don't make me Stun you -- you'll regret it."

She should have been frightened: she was certainly embarrassed, for all the people hanging about the Atrium were staring. As it was, she could barely manage to hold her tongue for her anger, so she pulled her wand from her purse and shoved it at him.

"There," she said nastily. "I hope you're prepared for a Board of Inquiry. Shacklebolt had all that cleared up --"

"This has nothing to do with Shacklebolt's investigation," the senior Auror said, gripped her elbow quite tightly, and pushed her toward the lift. "Or rather, it does incidentally, which is why you're dealing with me."

The other aurors crowded into the lift after them, and they ascended to Level Two in silence. None of them would look at her: she didn't recognise any of them.

The group escorted her to the same Interrogation room, relieved her of her coat and handbag, and left her to stew for a very long time: after nearly an hour the door opened. She knew she was in far deeper trouble than she'd assumed when it turned out to be Bretchgridle, accompanied by the senior Auror who'd taken her wand.

"Well, well. Somehow I'm not surprised to see you again, Madam Snape," he said smoothly as he seated himself.

"I thought," Hermione said, "that we'd cleared this up last time. Auror Shacklebolt told me there were no difficulties."

"Auror Shacklebolt is quite good at his job, but occasionally he has... lapses which we feel prudent to investigate further. And this is one. Before we proceed, there's something we require of you -- something not very nice, I'm afraid, but which might clear this up definitively. This," he said, and slid an official form and a quill across the table toward her, "requires your signature before we proceed further." His eyes glittered. "And before you raise any further objections, I should tell you that a refusal shall be taken as an indication of guilt."

Hermione glared at him, picked up the form, and scanned it.

Hermione was, as Seamus Finnegan would have said were he still alive, gobsmacked. And then absolutely enraged.

"How dare you," she hissed at Bretchgridle. "This is a massive violation of my privacy and my rights as a citizen."

"I'm afraid not," Bretchgridle said coolly.

"There are no grounds whatsoever to accuse me of this, damn it. We've only been married for a few months --"

"'This'? This isn't a simple matter of lack of pregnancy. And we have grounds. As to your 'rights'.... I'm afraid we hold our Ministry employees to a rather higher standard than the rest of the population. I have here," Bretchgridle continued impassively, and pulled out a release that Hermione vaguely remembered, "a document signed by you at the beginning of your employment -- one which gives the Ministry the right not only to perform an exhaustive search of your past to determine your suitability for employment in the first place, but to periodically check your current status and compliance with Ministry regulations and Wizarding laws. By whatever means necessary." He smiled, his lips a thin, bloodless gash. "That covers, I think, physical examinations and searches of your home. Do you really want to draw this out any further? This isn't," he explained, leaning on the table and taking a very conversational tone, "simply a matter of sacking you if you refuse to comply. This is potentially a criminal matter. And, as such, I can order that it be done. The difference is that if you agree and are able to answer my questions satisfactorily, you'll walk out today with your job and life intact. If not, I'm afraid you will be incarcerated until your... compliance with the law is assured. And you shan't have a job to return to, if or when your innocence is proven."

"It would help," she said, trying to keep her voice calm -- she didn't want the son of a bitch to think she was desperate -- "if I knew what you're accusing me of, to begin with."

"I don't have to tell you that. No, really, I don't -- This," he said, tapping the Ministry release, "covers that, I'm sure you're intelligent enough to realise. Now, Madam Snape, will you sign that authorisation, or not?"

In the end, there was nothing else she could do but sign: he wasn't giving her enough wiggle-room to talk herself out of whatever-it-was, and she knew damned well they wouldn't allow her to contact Severus.

Should have thought of this eventuality when you signed that bloody employment form, idiot, she thought as she savagely scribbled her signature on the release -- but only after pointedly and defiantly crossing out 'full and free permission' and substituting 'permission under duress.'

"Thank you," Bretchgridle said primly, not at all concerned with the alteration. "Robinson, if you would witness that, and then escort Madam Snape to the Infirmary?"

*****

The nurse (a very cold and unsympathetic one) had already drawn Hermione's blood, and sent it to St. Mungo's for testing -- a marginally nicer procedure than the Muggle method; and then the nurse had tartly informed her to remove her skirt and underthings, and to ready herself for the examination proper. (Unfortunately, Wizarding gynaecological exams were apparently like Muggle ones in every respect, judging by the table and stirrups. Hermione hadn't any idea that the Ministry Infirmary had ever had exam rooms like this, and wondered if it were a recent innovation, added specially for people accused of dodging the new laws.)

So there she was, flat on her back, when a weedy, male Healer entered with the nurse, muttered some nicety to cover the awkwardness of the situation, pulled a speculum out of a drawer, and bent to his work, revealing an extensive and unattractive comb-over.

Hermione shut her eyes and tried to ignore what he was doing.

She scrabbled about mentally for something to distract herself from the humiliation of it all, blinked away the tears that had accumulated at the corners of her eyes, and bit at the inside of her cheek to force herself to concentrate.

A nasty little pinch jolted her out of her thoughts, and she yelped.

"Easy," the weedy Healer muttered. "If you'd only relax...."

"Really, such a fuss," the nurse sniped. "You're making it very difficult for him."

"Would you do me the great favour," Hermione said deliberately, raising her head and glaring at the woman, "of shutting the bloody hell up, you dried-up, toffee-nosed, manky cow?"

"Why, I never --"

"You should. You should hear it every day, from every poor sod that has to put up with your stupid, cruel, idiotic mouth, and then perhaps you'd --"

"Ladies," the weed said, not even bothering to disengage peering through the speculum. "Doris, be a good girl, take a chair, and keep your comments to yourself. Madam, erm, --"

"Snape."

"-- Madam Snape, do try to relax," he murmured as Doris huffed her way over to a chair in the corner. "It's unfortunate that we have to put you through it, but there it is."

Given that -- that he recognised how awful this was, even if the bloody cow didn't -- Hermione did try: but she wasn't very successful. The discomfort and embarrassment had her as tightly wound as a clock-spring. It still felt like a violation, very like...

The speculum was withdrawn, and the Healer prodded at Hermione's belly with his fingers for a while, and poked his wand at the area about her ovaries, muttering an incantation unfamiliar to her; and then, satisfied with whatever the charm had told him, he bothered to actually look her in the face for the first time.

"For what it's worth, Madam Snape, you're in the best of reproductive health."

"Fine. May I have some privacy to --"

"Ahhh, we're not quite done. Next bit's terrible, I'm afraid," he said, his face reddening all the way up to the wisps of hair straggling across his sweaty forehead. "Not part of the usual examination, but they require it. Some people will go to great lengths to avoid pregnancy. Without foregoing intercourse. If you understand me."

It took Hermione a moment to sort through precisely what he meant (Severus, even at his randiest, had never had the stones to suggest something that extreme); and once she did work it out, the Healer had the decency to send for a Soothing Solution to calm her before he finished the examination.

*****

Someone had left a pot of tea in the examination room when Hermione was returned to it, but she didn't dare pour herself a cup, mindful of the Veritaserum experience last time. (She felt she'd prefer something rather stronger, at any rate. The Soothing Solution had taken the edge off her panic, discomfort, and humiliation, but not by much.) Bretchgirdle left her alone for a long time once again, but eventually swept into the room. He seemed annoyed.

Hermione decided that going on the offensive was the best course. "Now that you have your blasted proof --"

"I'm afraid we don't," Bretchgirdle said, opening Hermione's file and flipping through the pages of the Healer's report. "The results for the blood test won't be back until tomorrow morning, unfortunately.... This, admittedly, looks above-board. 'Fertility proven, ability to carry to term assumed,' Healer Wentworth says.... Evidence of fairly recent intercourse," he added, pursing his lips with a moue of disgust. "And no evidence of the more distasteful methods of avoiding conception."

Hermione felt her cheeks begin to burn. "Then I'm free to go home, am I? You've kept me here so long there's no point in going back to work."

"You shan't in any case -- you're suspended pending the results of the inquiry."

"Home, then. There's no objection to that, I assume."

"As the blood test has a direct bearing on the inquiry, that's not an option."

"What?! What do you propose I do, sit in this bloody room all --"

"Of course not." Bretchgirdle smiled. "We shall provide accommodation here. "

"Keep me in custody, you mean."

"Precisely. This is a serious criminal matter, as I said.... Tea?"

"No."

"It's perfectly acceptable tea, I assure you. We have no need to use Veritaserum, given the analysis. Blood will out, as they say." He smiled again, poured them each a cup, and sipped at his own to prove its harmlessness. (Hermione refused to give in, even when her stomach rumbled.) "There is one other matter we can clear up tonight, however," Bretchgirdle continued. "Why did Priori Incantatem reveal that you'd been breaking wards quite recently?"

"Because I have."

"Where, and under what circumstances?"

"My flat. People forget their passwords all the time, you know."

"Do they? And do they go to the trouble of breaking into their own homes, rather than calling a wardsmith?"

"When they're competent Arithmancers, yes, they do. Break the ward themselves, I mean. I'm not going to apologise for having a lapse of memory. And I wasn't aware it was a crime to break the ward on one's own home."

"It's not. And it's an impressive feat, Madam Snape -- when we tried to enter this morning, we found it far more difficult to gain entrance than the first time."

"Returning to your flat is not acceptable in any case because it's been sealed until this is resolved to our satisfaction.... And, as we're waiting for the blood test," Bretchgirdle said impassively, closing her file, "and as I have an early dinner engagement, I think we should leave the matter here for this evening."

"But --"

"Robinson will escort you to your room," Bretchgirdle continued. "You'll be provided a meal, of course -- we're not savages. We can't manage a nightgown, but your handbag will be returned to you. Not your wand, needless to say." He stood, tapped the edge of the file on the table to settle the contents, and gave Hermione yet another of those thin, intensely unpleasant smiles. "I shall see you tomorrow as soon as the test results are in.... Have a restful evening, Madam Snape," he added, his intent obviously just the opposite.

He left the room before Hermione could manage an expletive-free objection.

*****

Robinson took her -- at wand-point -- to her "room." It was little better than a cell, with a spartan bed, a single chair, a table, and a light overhead with no means to turn it off. Her handbag had already been placed on the chair-seat, its jumbled contents spilling out over the top.

There was no toilet, bath, or even a basin of water with which to wash up.

"Meal in an hour," Robinson told her. "You'll have a chance to use the loo after that, and then lights out."

"Look, I was expecting my husband to call tonight, and he'll worry if I --"

"No calls," the auror said firmly. "Not without express permission of Mr Bretchgirdle."

She marched into the cell (she refused to think of it as a room) head held high, and managed to keep a semblance of control and dignity until Robinson shut the door: it closed with a solid, authoritative thud. She waited until she heard him move down the corridor, and then eased herself down onto the bed and curled up on one hip, wrapping her arms about herself. She knew she was probably being watched, but at the moment she couldn't be bothered to care.

She tried to reconstruct exactly what she'd done at Cane Hill. The ward-breaking -- other than the power required to break Debdale's nasty work -- was above-board, nothing out of the ordinary there.... The fire charm wasn't unusual, either, and could be explained away as lighting one's sitting-room fire. (Except for the intensity, but she could claim difficulty getting the kindling to catch.... Severus' fire, then, as the Hogwarts fires used wood, and hers was unusable in any case.)

She gave a despairing little snort.

The Leviosa was also problematic, but then the shelving in Severus' storeroom was rather high.... Assuming they didn't ask him if she'd needed to help him with that.

She rolled onto her back, trying to make a casual survey of the ceiling to locate the Sneakoscope that was undoubtedly trained on her, and winced at the stickiness not quite between her thighs.

She heaved herself off the bed, rummaged in her handbag for a comb, and tidied herself as best she could without a mirror; and then she settled into the uncomfortable chair and tried to read The Prophet.

Most of the content was quite stupid -- the usual, for The Prophet: thinly-veiled adverts for Kwickspell and Little Wizard Insta-Gro; cautiously-worded singles ads in the Personals column; a disgustingly saccharine column by Rita Skeeter extolling the virtues of the Ministry's Marriage On Approval scheme ('It's worked for Harold and me -- deliriously happy. And to think we'd never have met if it hadn't been for the scheme!'). Hermione snorted.

There was something very interesting under the Agony Aunt column, though. Hermione squinted in the harsh light and read the fine print crammed into the text box.

It was masterful tactic, really. Start the rumour-mill going with an obscure little article; get people talking about it; put the pressure on with the bloody lottery. Most likely there would be hints of re-assignment, soon -- that would make the Purebloods nervous as hell, make them more likely to volunteer for treatments after some initial reports of success....

Dinner, when it came, was the least-appetising thing Hermione had ever seen: terribly-stewed tea, an overcooked bit of sub-par beef (already cut up, so she shouldn't have a knife), sodden bits of carrot, and a bland custard swimming in a sea of burnt-sugar syrup.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," Hermione muttered when Robinson dumped it on the table.

He smirked, deliberately took a bite of each thing, and sipped from the cup of tea to wash it all down.

"Ask me something," he said.

"Come off it, Robinson, I'm not in the mood for parlour-games --"

"Go on, ask, see if I lie or not. We can't have you thinking we're trying to starve you."

"Fine. What team do you support?"

"Chudley Cannons."

"Very funny."

"Right. It's the Harpies, actually."

"For the play, or for the low-cut uniforms?"

"Both. Lovely thing, to see Jones's tits hanging out when she dives for the snitch.... I'll be back in half an hour to collect that lot, then you get your loo visit."

"Right," Hermione said, and after Robinson left the cell she added in a mutter, "you dirty old bugger. Disgraceful, practically Moody's age...."

She picked at the carrots and custard, avoiding the dead cow (Severus was right -- she did prefer pork to beef, as cows looked far too soulful for her taste), and, after Robinson returned, took most of her time in the loo, at the grotty little basin, scrubbing away the stickiness left by that disgusting examination off herself. Robinson took her back to the cell, and gave her ten minutes to straighten up and get in bed before he turned out the light.

At least they're not trying sleep deprivation, she thought as she struggled under the thin blanket to pull off her clothes. (She bloody well wasn't going to undress in full view of any watchers.)

Then again, they didn't have to try. She lay sleepless for a very long time -- she didn't know how long, as it was pitch-black and she couldn't check her wristwatch -- shifting restlessly, unable to stop worrying about what they'd found or what they suspected, and hoping against hope that Severus would find out about her arrest and do something before it was too late.

*****

Breakfast was a nasty Continental affair, composed of weak coffee and a stale scone; after she'd dressed in her rumpled clothing, Hermione picked at the scone and pretended to sip at the coffee -- though she barely wetted her lips with it -- while she sorted through her priorities.

It was well past eleven by the time Robinson collected her, let her make another trip to the loo, and then escorted her to the Interrogation Room. Bretchgirdle was waiting for them, a valise sitting on the floor next to the table. He dismissed Robinson with a nod.

"Well?" Hermione demanded before she'd even taken her seat. "What did your test prove?"

Bretchgirdle's lips twisted with annoyance. "No trace of contraceptive in the blood."

"Then this has been all for nothing. I'm free to go, am I?" Hermione shot back triumphantly. "You can be certain that as soon as I've had a proper bath, I'll be filing a complaint with --"

"Not -- so -- soon, Madam Snape," Bretchgirdle interrupted. "And you may want to reconsider threatening me. You're in quite enough trouble as it is."

"That," Hermione said, nodding to the report from St. Mungo's, "proves that my husband and I are guilty of nothing more than rotten timing. Understandable, given that we live on opposite ends of the Isles. I expect summer shall show results. You said the damned examination would be definitive --"

"I wasn't entirely truthful with that statement, I'm afraid -- and I doubt summer will find you enciente. I doubt that highly. Would you care to explain," Bretchgirdle asked as he reached into his valise, "why we found this at your flat?"

He withdrew a shampoo-bottle and placed it in the centre of the table: the bottle in which Hermione had stashed the contraceptive potion.

"You deny that it's yours?" Bretchgirdle said. "Never seen it, I suppose."

"The bottle is certainly the brand I use, but there must be thousands like it at Muggle shops. The colour certainly doesn't look right for the shampoo, though -- what is it?"

"You know very well what it is, Madam Snape."

"No, I don't know. Anyone might have emptied it and filled it with something incriminating."

Bretchgirdle leaned across the table, voice low. "Stop, think, and answer me very carefully," he said, eyes glittering. "I've given you a great deal of leeway given your position with the Ministry and the fact that you were put to a deal of trouble last month, and so I've not resorted to Veritaserum this round. You're trying my patience very badly, however, and I have no options left. This was found yesterday morning in your home -- your bath, to be specific -- by an Auror of unimpeachable reputation. It was documented in situ before anyone touched it. "

"Anyone at all might have placed it in my flat."

"Shall I remind you how formidably warded you home is? The documentation is, in fact, what gave it away. In our first visit to your flat, everything was inventoried. This," he said, and tapped at the bottle with a nicotine-stained forefinger, "was certainly there, but its contents appeared different in colour and consistency. Ferrars -- for it was Ferrars the first time, along with Shacklebolt -- may lack many of the skills we value in an Auror" he said, leaning back in his chair and smiling, "but he excels at paperwork and minutiae. If anyone tampered with it, Madam Snape, it was not a member of MLE."

"You can't prove that, actually, and there are any number of reasons Ferrars or someone else might be persuaded to --"

"Aurors are bound against tainting evidence. There are quite visible traces left on their persons for attempting such a subversion, and I can assure you that neither Ferrars nor Robinson show them."

Well, that was a dead end. They'd go round on that point all day, assuming Bretchgirdle didn't lose it and order a hefty dose of Veritaserum.

"Shall I assume," Hermione said, "given the ridiculous measures that were taken yesterday, that you think this is a contraceptive?"

"I don't think, Madam Snape, I know. It's been analysed. It is not a hair-wash, it is contraceptive."

"Then why the bloody hell," Hermione said, enraged, "was it necessary to put me through that horrid examination yesterday, if you're so bloody certain? You've made up your mind, obviously, I've already been tried and found guilty as far as you're concerned --"

"Not at all. It's also a question," Bretchgirdle said, "of your truthfulness overall, frankly. Here is my dilemma.... I have you, a Ministry employee in a Class 3-A Civil position with a high classification ranking. Evidence indicates that you have broken one law -- illegal possession of a restricted substance -- and that you may be subverting the very goal that your department and the Ministry as a whole are working toward. My job is, in part, to determine how much you are willing to lie to me, because that has grave ramifications for your continued employment. While Veritaserum is an excellent tool overall, after the fact, it doesn't given us a very accurate picture of how... deceptive a person may be in future. Their propensity, if you like. And, of course, there are methods for getting round it, though we don't care to advertise that. I'm fairly certainly you're aware of them, as intelligent as you are.

"I am convinced that this bottle, with its present contents, was found at your flat -- and as you are the only occupant, there can be no quibbling over whose it is. My next question to you is why this potion was in your possession," Bretchgirdle said, giving Hermione another of those nasty, thin-lipped smiles, "and if you find it at all significant, as I do, that your husband is a potions brewer."

Hermione did her damnedest not to gape at the man or give anything away, but she couldn't be certain if she was succeeding or not: her heart had begun to race, and the queasiness she'd felt all morning threatened to become outright nausea. It was one thing when she was the only one implicated, but if they were trying to pin this on Severus, as well....

Mum and Dad's advice to leave the Wizarding World was, in retrospect, looking like a very good idea.

*****

Chapter 21 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 22