Blast it.

Snape dumped out the stinking remains of a ruined potion and scrubbed at the burnt mess on the bottom of the cauldron, not bothering to charm it off. He needed the activity to rid himself of excess frustration with life in general. And with himself.

Hermione, however, distracted him sufficiently... ...or rather, how badly he'd handled everything with Hermione distracted him to the point of making him incompetent.

It was a sobering experience, to find you'd committed errors you'd sworn you would avoid -- especially as you'd committed more than your fair share of them to begin with, and you hadn't realised how deeply entrenched were the attitudes that made you lapse. It was very tempting to fall back on the old belief that it was somehow "in the blood." But that was the easy way out, and Snape reckoned that he'd used that excuse far too often in the past.

His behaviour toward Hermione also implied that he was every bit as horrid a person as his father; and although he couldn't deny that he'd been acting so, Snape liked to believe he was capable of better. It was all well and good to choose such behaviour deliberately, but when one wasn't even aware....

Here he was, a 47 year-old, mature, self-admittedly solitary and acid-tongued wizard, desperately in lust and possibly -- although he wasn't certain, never having experienced it before -- actually caring for his wife. Annoying, barely half his age, intelligent, meddlesome, Muggleborn wife, all those things that he had classified her as individually, but had never been able to accept from her in totality, along with some admirable traits that he'd never noticed before.

He wanted, he realised, to make Hermione care for him -- not love him, he wasn't capable of flattering himself to that extent, but at the least to care for him, if not want him -- and he knew it was hopeless. He'd put paid to it from the very first with his need to get his own back, and with his determination to hold her folly over her head rather than treating her with any real consideration or respect. (He couldn't deny that he respected her now. It was bloody disgusting that it had taken her tour de force at Cane Hill to make him realise that he should and that he did -- and even then, he'd been unable to say it in a reasonable and straighforward fashion.) Worse yet, he'd wanted revenge for things that weren't her doing or fault.

He knew it was very likely that he'd bolloxed any chance that she would ever accept him.

Hermione, he was quite certain, did not care in the least for him. He assumed that her tough, stubborn mind had decided that he shouldn't have any part of her but her body. That hadn't been a bother at first: he hadn't remotely wanted more of her, then.

No matter that she sometimes fussed over him, bothered to make conversation and cook for him: she was trying to be decent, to make amends for her early, horrid mistake. She was making the best of a bad job. And no matter how hard he tried in future -- consideration, gentleness insofar as he was capable, an outright declaration of regret and interest in something better (assuming he could manage it, and he didn't think he could) -- he knew he couldn't breach that wall that he himself had helped build. She was too tough, too tenacious, too mistrusting of him (with reason, he was now willing to admit). She would always assume it was Slytherin guile at work. It was what he was famed for, after all.

Snape was accustomed to being an interloper -- he'd been an awkwardness and inconvenience from the start, born to a mother who'd realised she'd made a terrible decision, and to a father who'd apparently only spawned to prove he could as some sort of bizarre badge of male honour.

How... odd. He'd always assumed that caring for someone -- he was willing to admit to caring, at least, though he hadn't the slightest belief in ridiculous concepts like love -- was unequivocally weak: but at the moment he felt quite distinctly that the lack of caring for a worthy person was just as bad. (That ridiculous feeling should probably pass soon, though. At least, he hoped it did. He'd got through nearly half a century without such adolescent whinging and neediness, and he could bloody well get over it now.) Given the circumstances, he couldn't blame Hermione for seeing him as unworthy. It was his own bloody fault for failing to see her properly from the first, and for trying to change the rules of the game halfway in.

Snape hated hopeless situations. In hindsight, and with a great deal of regret and rage, he decided it might have been better to take the moral high ground and decline her offer in the first place: and, if he hadn't, to have stifled that greedy impulse that had urged him to beg for more than she was willing -- was able -- to grant him.

*****

The boxes landed squarely in the middle of the Staff Room tea-table, utterly smashing a pile of meringues. McGonagall let loose with a string of vulgarities in Scots (she assumed the rest of them didn't understand, but they'd figured the naughtier bits out years ago), and ended it with, "Who let those birds in here?"

"I must have left the door open," Vector apologised.

Sprout -- closest to the tea-nibbles, as usual -- picked up one of the parcels, brushed away the crushed meringue from the delivery-label, and chirped, "Why, it's for Severus."

Snape's head -- formerly bowed over the most recent issue of Potions Today -- jerked upward: he discovered that every last one of the nosy biddies were staring at him.

"All supplies should be delivered to one's classroom --" McGonagall began to lay into him.

"Yes, I know," he snapped back. "I haven't ordered any supplies."

"No, it's from Pegeuse-Wiggelrheum," Sprout said, scrubbing at the rest of the label and then sucking the sugar from her finger. "That's a cobbler's, isn't it?"

It bloody well was. It was Snape's cobbler, in fact.

Bloody hell. How did she find out?

"And personal deliveries should be made to --"

"I know," Snape said through gritted teeth to cut McGonagall off. "I didn't order from them, either --"

Dead silence fell over the room. Snape could see the light dawn, more or less instantaneously, in six female brains; but only Hooch was bold enough to say "Best open it straight off, Severus. She might have got the colour wrong, my Douglas always did."

Vector sniggered, thought better of it, and sank down in her seat to avoid Snape's glare.

Against his better judgement he set aside the journal, rose and crossed to the tea-table, and took the smallest parcel from Sprout. "Must be inexperienced birds. I'll have a word with the tradesman," he muttered as he ripped the paper from the parcel (slowly, so as not to give a false impression of excitement) and opened the box....

In it were boots -- beautifully polished, gleaming black leather boots, nestled in tissue. They certainly looked right: sure enough, the label on the inside assured him they had been formed to his latest measurement, and included Peguese-Wiggelrheum's patented Water-Off and Corn-Eez charms.

"Oh, look -- she guessed right on the colour," Hooch snarked. "Good on her, I always thought she was a smart girl."

That was quite enough; he bloody well wasn't going to open the other two parcels in light of such commentary. Better for them to speculate behind his back than risk losing his temper in public with Hoochbitch (as he often thought of her) in public. (He also thought Douglas Hooch was a fortunate bastard to have got himself killed in the First War, thereby saving himself from a lifetime of said Hoochbitch; but he knew McGonagall would tear a strip from his hide if he ever dared say that aloud to anyone.)

"I'll just get these out of the way," he murmured as he picked up all the parcels. He beat a retreat from the room, ignoring the whispers and a clearly audible and exasperated "Oh, do shut up and leave the poor man alone, Pomona," from Pomfrey.

Once safely in his rooms, the situation only worsened. Hermione had done him one better: the second parcel contained a pair of wool trousers, with the tailor's note that he should return them if necessary at no charge for a replacement, as he hadn't been in to be re-measured recently. (True, he hadn't -- he'd been bullying the elves into charming his trousers a bit larger, as needed.)

The largest box, however, was what took his breath away and very nearly made him forgive her presumptuousness with the trousers: it contained a thick cloak of super-fine wool, far better than the one a certain buck-toothed hellion had destroyed. It was finer, in fact, than either he possessed now. As he lifted the cloak from the box a packet dropped out of its folds and fell to the floor, and after pulling the India-rubber band from about the lot, he read the scribbled little note Hermione had included.

It was a quite handsome apology, in fact, and one which must have cost her dearly. He knew how much the boots and trousers cost; and he'd lusted after a cloak that fine for some time, always putting off the purchase as a luxury. And then there was the matter of what it must have cost her in pride. For Know-It-All, Never-Wrong Granger to have caved in even to -- or perhaps especially to -- something he'd meant only half-heartedly, and had included only to cover the importance of what he really wanted.... It was very nearly astonishing.

For the time being he shoved the boxes of boots and trousers in the very back of the wardrobe, where he shouldn't be influenced by seeing them. If they were intended to mollify and distract him, he wanted nothing to do with them; and if they weren't.... Well, then he would take a certain satisfaction in wearing them, even if the bloody waistband of the trousers pinched. The 'heat packs,' as Hermione called them -- of which he was more than a little wary -- he tossed into the top drawer of the bureau with mingled fascination and disdain.

The cloak was another matter entirely. It was far too nice to stuff back into its box, so he hung it, quite carefully, at the far left side of the wardrobe behind his second-best cloak. He took a moment to admire the silver clasp at its throat -- a stylised serpent -- before he straightened the other things back into order to hide it, and closed the wardrobe.

He declined to return to the Staff Room for the rest of tea, as someone (probably Hooch) would no doubt continue to goad him; by dinner-time the incident should have blown over enough to be tolerable, and so it proved. While he was well aware of the curious glances the Mob threw his way throughout the meal -- Imagine! Severus got presents! -- he quite pointedly ignored them.

*****

The alarm on the floo rang again; Snape's nib slipped and skittered across the parchment, and he threw it down with a curse. The blasted floo had been ringing all evening, every half-hour, and he'd done his best to ignore it -- even going so far as to move back into his office -- but he could still hear the damned thing. It had quite got on his nerves.

Anxious to see if he'd got the things, he supposed. He couldn't imagine anything else: it was so close to her visit that she wouldn't call otherwise.

The alarm rang again, and he twitched. She wasn't giving up, damn her.

He ignored the ink seeping into the parchment -- it was a rotten essay, anyway, and it deserved to be obliterated -- and stomped back into the sitting-room, tossed a pinch of floo powder into the fireplace, and glared into the flames.

He was a bit surprised when his caller proved to be Fred Weasley. Or George, he's never been able to tell the two apart, damn their troublemaking eyes.

" 'Lo, Professor --"

"What, Weasley."

"It's Hermione. Or we think it is, we think she's in trouble --"

"What do you mean?" he snapped, instantly alert.

"We've got Ears in -- Well, never mind, let's just say we can tap into audio surveillance at the Ministry. I thought I heard Hermione on and off today, but not where she's supposed to be. Dad asked me to listen out for her after last time --"

"Get to the point, Weasley."

"She was on Level Two all afternoon, near as I can tell. That's MLE and Auror's HQ. Dad said her office has been closed all afternoon, and they were sealing it the last time he went down to check."

"I haven't heard her speak for a while, so I sent Fred over to her flat to see if she's home, and she's not. In fact, they've got a Ministry seal on the flat as well. We're convinced they've arrested her."

"Have you asked Shacklebolt about it?"

"On holiday. I expect that might be why they moved now, since he doesn't tolerate the dirty tricks some of the others pull. We're afraid they might be getting a bit suspicious of him, too, so --"

"Enough," Snape ordered. "Keep listening. I'll be in town as soon as I can clear out here, and I'll check with you then."

"Right," George managed just before Snape cut the connection.

He grabbed for the floo powder again, nearly dropping the tin in his haste, and tried to call Hermione's flat. There was no response. When he attempted to floo in, risky as it was given Aga's unsuitability, he met with a resistance that shoved him backwards and left him sprawled on the hearth.

He didn't bother to drag himself up from the hearth, but sat, elbows propped on his damned aching knees, thinking through the problem.

No, it was unlikely it was Cane Hill, then, if she'd been on Level Two all afternoon and they still hadn't come for him. That didn't mean they wouldn't be sending Aurors for him later, however, if she should let something slip.

He debated the pros and cons of the situation. If he were innocent, he shouldn't know a thing about Hermione's arrest until notified: they would expect to find him exactly where he was, here at Hogwarts. And on the other hand, Hermione was very likely locked up in a bloody MLE cell, unable to contact him or anyone else of any ability to help her. He rather worried about that: they could easily mislead her and trick a confession out of her if she thought he was in custody as well.

And it might help her keep her resolve, if she knew he was still free and all right.

Slytherin philosophy and general common sense dictated that he ought choose the former course: stay put, wait until notified through proper channels, and behave suitably outraged when told his wife had been arrested. Protect his own skin first and foremost, and hope that they weren't subjecting Hermione to anything too terrible....

After a long minute's mental struggle, Snape decided Slytherin philosophy and common sense could go hang.

*****

He'd hoped to find McGonagall alone, but when he barged into her office he found her in conference with Vector; they both looked shocked by the rudeness of his entry.

"Spit it out, Severus," McGonagall said immediately. "Olivia knows how to hold her tongue."

"Hermione is in trouble, and I need to get to London -- now. They might be sending someone after me as well, and I don't fancy being taken. I'll deal with it on my own terms."

"Oh, not Hermione.... " Vector whispered.

"What do you need?" McGonagall asked crisply.

"If you would, contact this DeLaine fellow, ah, François, with the French Ministry. Tell him Hermione is in custody, and it's time to turn in the bloody documents."

"Do you know what they've charged her with? Isn't it a little premature to send the things in?"

"No, I don't, and no. I'm done mucking about with all this," he shot back, pacing along the edge of the carpet. "It's not worth it, whatever the reason they're holding her. I'm going to the Ministry tomorrow to find out why they've arrested her, and to get her released if I can."

"Oh, Severus, you do care for --" Vector blurted out, and abruptly shut up, red-faced, when he glared at her.

"As for the things you've got," he added to McGonagall, "get them to DeLaine through whatever channel he suggests -- not the ICW Consulate or a normal owl-post, though."

"I can help with that," Vector volunteered quietly. "I've a friend who works near the French Ministry. He can pop over here and then make a delivery."

"And we're to stall anyone looking for you, of course," McGonagall said as he turned to leave. "Very well, Severus.... Wait."

"For Merlin's sake, Minerva --"

"No, no, this might prove useful," she insisted, rose from her chair, and rummaged in one of the bookshelves until she found a thick, quarto-sized book. "Take this with you, and skim through if you have a chance before you go in. It's just a thought."

"With luck, I shan't be gone long," he muttered as he took the book from her, not bothering to check the title. "But if DeLaine gets anywhere with the documents, it might be a week or more."

McGonagall understood precisely what he meant -- Perhaps it will be a very long time indeed before I return, if ever -- and nodded; and Snape left her office and took the back stairs (the sensible, non-movable one that only the staff knew of) down to the Dungeons, intending only to clear away the muck from his desk, snatch his cloak, and get the hell out before any Aurors might show up.

He hesitated just before leaving, though, his hand poised above his cloak.

(Relatively subtle one-way communication between a subject and Legilimens was possible -- just possible, in a very vague way -- but only if they had practised. And chances were that, given the circumstances, Hermione's instinct as a natural Occlumens would be to block any attempts to read her, even Snape's.)

There must be some way, though, to send her a signal that he didn't intend to abandon her, or leave her to deal with the trouble on her own. Something quite visible and obvious to Hermione, but not to any other observer....

It wasn't the best of signals, but it would have to do.

Snape Reduced McGonagall's book, stuffed it into one of his pockets, pulled the new cloak from the wardrobe and donned it, and left the castle.

He refused to entertain the notion that he might be leaving Hogwarts for the last time.

*****

He Apparated to London near one of the alternate entrances to the Club, and cautiously knocked and waited for Smithers.

"No solicitations," Smithers said through the peep-hole.

"I come bearing flobberworms and dragon's scale," Snape shot back, modifying the phrase slightly: Smithers' eye widened, and he unbolted and opened the door with indecorous speed so Snape could enter without delay.

"Trouble, sir?" Smithers murmured.

"Possibly. Aurors may come looking for me."

"I haven't seen Professor Snape for months, sir, since December, I believe. There's roast lamb still available from the kitchen -- shall I bring it to your room?"

"Didn't think you'd seen him about, and yes, lamb would be fine. Is Bluett in?"

"Yes, sir, but...."

"What is it, Smithers?" Snape asked rather more sharply than he'd intended.

"He's failing, sir," Smithers said quietly. "He's been overdoing it in the laboratory, I think. Working round the clock, sometimes. His memory's going -- not on the potions, for I've been, erm, checking his work for him at his request, but otherwise.... I haven't been able to persuade him to rest. You know how he gets."

"Yes, yes I do.... I shan't bother him, then," Snape said; Smithers nodded and left for the kitchens, and Snape took himself up the long stairway to the dormitory.

He took the opportunity, before Smithers brought his meal, to floo George Weasley.

"Anything else?" he demanded.

Weasley, forehead wrinkled with worry and fatigue, shook his head. "Not a thing. We can hear what goes on in the corridors, but not many of the rooms. I figure they're holding her over in a cell by now. Fred's camping out across the street from the flat in case anyone shows up to rummage through her things."

"Right. I'll get an early start tomorrow and pop by there before I go to the Ministry."

Snape terminated the call, picked at the excellent lamb Smithers brought (he couldn't seem to muster up much appetite), and then, with nothing else to occupy him before he was sleepy, he decided to page through the book McGonagall had foisted upon him.

It was, as it happened, an interesting -- if not absolutely inspired -- choice on McGonagall's part.

The gilding of "1957" was much brighter; it was a self-updating book in which new Judicial code was added as it was passed, until the charmed binding could take no more. It was a risky gambit, then: anything useful he found in the code might have been overturned or re-written since 1957.... But it was the only thing he had to work with, at the moment.

Page 58 was most instructive, and sparked the beginning of a game-plan in Snape's mind. He knew the general principle involved, in a vague sort of way, but had never investigated the specifics of it -- he'd never thought he would need recourse to it.... Paragraph Two of the ruling on Nigellus v. Wiz., 1736 was even better. He was in the middle of reading a more recent challenge to the law when someone tapped at the door and then entered without waiting for permission. (It was Bluett, of course. No-one else would dare flout the privacy rules and bother Snape in his room.)

"Anything I can help with, Severus?" Bluett asked.

Snape glanced up at the old man and paused, biting his tongue against the shocked, rhetorical question that had almost escaped him. Bluett had always been one of those odd ducks who looked ancient from the first day you met them, but the old man had definitely gone downhill since Snape's last visit: his hands, their skin thin and prone to injury, had become discoloured with bruises; his eyes had sunk into their sockets, and he seemed palpably less substantial and robust.

"No," Snape muttered. "Thank you, but no. Get some sleep, you've got Smithers terribly worried."

"Right, then," Bluett said, turned, and shuffled toward the hallway -- until he noticed Snape's cloak on the hook next to the door. "Oh, my. So that's what she was after. Smithers wouldn't say."

"She came here? And how the bloody hell would you know she'd got that for me?"

"Of course she came here -- quite smart of her to think of asking Smithers," Bluett said, and ran a trembling finger along the clasp. "And of course she bought it, Severus. You'd never have spent hard-earned cash on something that extravagant. Sterling, very pretty. That's a woman's touch, that is." He ran a grubby hand along a fold of the wool and murmured, "Very nice gift, very nice of her indeed, Severus," and tottered out of the room.

Several minutes passed before Snape could get back to Criminal Statutes, as he listened intently for Bluett's safe arrival in his room and settling into bed; and he wasted one or two more minutes in wondering over Bluett's very nice of her indeed.

It was. It was a quite nice gesture, actually, and contained none of the implied (or occasionally explicit) twitting that Dumbledore's gifts had. While McGonagall was prone to gift-giving at Yuletide, hers were invariably practical and never 'extravagant.' But Hermione being nice?

What an odd idea -- that Hermione should do something nice for him, and for no actual reason at all. He couldn't quite wrap his mind about it, or shut off the engrained Slytherin sense that insisted she must have an ulterior motive.

In the end, he dismissed mere nicety as highly unlikely; and, mindful that he shouldn't ever find out if he couldn't get her out of the mess she'd got into, he put the thought out of his head and re-applied himself to his reading.

*****

He was up very early next morning, drank the strong tea that Smithers had waiting for him, glamoured more Mugglish clothing, and Apparated close to Hermione's street; and then he walked through the alleys -- grabbing a day-old newspaper from a rubbish-bin along the way -- to Hermione's flat, and down the pavement to a bus-stop several doors down and across the road.

The bus-stop was already occupied, though a Muggle shouldn't be able to tell: but Snape could detect a faint shimmer, a sort of disruption in the air, that signalled an Invisibility cloak in use. (Few wizards could sense them, but then few were willing to do what one had to to acquire the skill.) Snape hoped the watcher was Fred Weasley, but the man was being an idiot and didn't bother to reveal himsel -- so Snape stretched his leg and just managed to give the man a sharp kick in the shin.

"Owww," Weasley muttered as Snape unfolded the newspaper to conceal his part of the conversation. "Blimey, that hurt."

"Stop being an ass and tell me what's happening," Snape muttered.

"I got here five-ish last evening. Flat was already sealed, and no visitors since. Whatever they wanted, they've already taken it."

"Blast. No movement at all? They might have flooed in, she'd said last week-end that she was going to try to connect the cook-stove to the network."

"No, and no lights inside, either. I stuck one of our Ears up at the kitchen window before I nipped out front, and there's been no sound at all. Any point in freezing my goolies any longer? The one that hasn't already dropped off, I mean."

"No, no, you've done enough," Snape granted, secretly thinking that anything that would control the constantly-expanding Weasley family -- including the freezing-off of goolies -- couldn't be all bad. "However.... Your brother has the keeping of something very important, something Hermione gave him recently. It should be taken to McGonagall as quickly as possible. Tell him that for me."

"Right, no problem.... Wait, Ron? I thought they weren't --"

"Don't think, Weasley, it's always got you in trouble."

"Right."

"Sometimes vastly entertaining trouble, but now isn't the time."

Weasley muttered something under his breath, added a more audible "Good luck," and slunk off to the nearest mews to Apparate out. Snape made a great show of folding his paper, looked for the bus, checked his non-existent wristwatch, and headed for the main road at a brisk pace before ducking into an alleyway and doing the same.

*****

Gaining access to the Ministry Atrium was no problem at all, which told Snape that Hermione's trouble didn't involve him: the Aurors should have otherwise swarmed him the second he stepped off the callbox-lift like Diricawls on a Billywig. How to get to Level Two was no simple matter, but he'd spent some time thinking of the best approach.

He went straight for the security-desk.

"Wand, please --" the guard began.

"Not visiting the administrative offices, I want to speak to an Auror," Snape said in an undertone. "I need to file a Missing Persons report."

"I'm sure it's important, sir," said the guard -- a fat-bellied retired Auror, no doubt, who hadn't quite made his pension but was no longer fit for active duty -- "but rules is rules --"

"The person in question, Ambrose Forsythe," Snape said urgently, "was an associate of Sinjun Jarvey's, and I've good reason to think Jarvey's offed him. I need to see an Auror now."

The guard's eyes widened. (Using the ridiculous lingo favoured by the Aurors always seemed to work, and Jarvey must still be on the Ten Most Wanted list.) The man scrabbled for a speaking-tube, whistled into it, waited for a response, and then mumbled "Information on Jarvey -- send 'im up?" and held the tube to his ear. The response was positive and forceful, for the guard winced; and then, after replacing the speaking-tube in its holder, he hauled his arse out of his chair and waddled toward the lifts with Snape in tow.

"This'll take you straight to Two," he said as he twisted a key on the panel of the first available lift. "You can leave your wand with the lieutenant on duty."

"Thanks," Snape said, stepped inside, and rode the lift up -- keeping his hands clearly visible, so he shouldn't be shot on sight. (It was a good thing he did: the poncey type waiting for him when the lift opened had his own wand drawn.)

"Wand, please," was the inevitable demand from the ponce, and Snape reluctantly handed it over. "Right. This way, have a seat, sir. I'm Ferrars. I understand you have information on Sinjun Jarvey?" he asked as he slipped Snape's wand into a desk-drawer.

This was going to be interesting. Ferrars was young enough to have been a former student of Snape's, but he wasn't: Snape recognised neither face nor name -- and Ferrars certainly should have recognised him. One of those odd ones, then, whose parents had schooled him privately, or who'd been sent to Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts....

"No, actually," Snape said of the Jarvey matter, and declined to take the offered chair. "I'd rather hoped you would have information for me."

Ferrars froze, half-seated, glared at Snape, and stood. "Making a false report is a serious offence, I hope you realise that."

"I've done no such thing. As I told the congenital idiot downstairs, Ambrose Forsythe, a former associate of Jarvey's, is missing, and Jarvey has good reason to wish him dead. I'd be quite surprised if he isn't responsible, in fact, and that's all I know. What I do claim," Snape said, leaning on the desk's edge and fixing Ferrars to the spot with his eyes, "is that my wife is being held by MLE and that no-one has bothered to inform me of the fact. I demand to know why she's being detained, and that I be allowed to see her."

"Impossible," Ferrars said, and threw in a smirk for good measure. "So sorry."

"I'll remind you -- no, inform you, since you seem ignorant of the Statutes -- that, according to the Third Judicial Act of 1037, accusing a woman is the same as accusing her husband or father, since they are the same entity under the Law. A husband -- or father -- therefore has the right to be present at her questioning."

"Preposterous. You expect me to believe some dusty old tradition even exists, much less has validity today?"

"Tradition codified as Law in 1037," Snape said coolly, pulled McGonagall's book from beneath his arm, and flipped it open to the relevant pages as he spoke. "Challenged and upheld in 1736, and challenged and upheld -- again -- in 1941."

"That's bloody ancient. Surely it's been overturned since... 1957," Ferrars said with another smirk and a nod to the title of the book.

"Look it up in yours then, if you think there's a more recent precedent," Snape said of the massive, dusty book on the corner of Ferrars' desk. "I suppose you're going to tell me you think that's just a bloody good paper-weight. Or do you consider yourself an expert on every decision of the Wizengamot?"

Ferrars actually sneered at that, brushed the dust from the book, hefted it over so he could consult the index, and then seemed flummoxed by the arcane method of cross-reference.

"Try Pennywort versus Wizengamot, 1941," Snape suggested dryly. "If it's at the top of its list, it's the most recent challenge. You'll find Nigellus versus Wizengamot and Aethelred the Obnoxious versus Wizard Council, indented underneath it."

Ferrars found the right page, his finger skimmed each list, and halted under the heading Pennywort vs. Wiz., 1941, pg 1089.

"Bloody...." he muttered, and slapped the pages toward the back fly-leaf to get to the ruling: Snape was amused that the idiot moved his lips as he read, and stumbled over the more difficult legal terms. (Or he should have been amused, were the situation not so grave.)

"Well?"

"It.... I shall have to consult my superior on this," the pompous git said, trying to stall.

"I'm afraid there's no question of that. It's the law, it's never been repealed, and I'm demanding my right to it as a Pureblood, adult male. Unless you wish me to file a charge against you for subverting the law, of course. Take me to her, now."

"Fine," Ferrars shot back peevishly as he slammed the book shut. (All that was missing was a flounce and a toss of the head.) "Her name?"

"Snape. Hermione Snape."

Ferrars froze again, and then gave a rather queer smile. "Very well. I shall have to keep your wand for the time being, you understand."

"Acceptable."

"And she's a previous appointment, so you'll have to wait your turn to see her. But I can manage to let you hear what's going on," the git said, as if he were doing Snape a great favour rather than observing the law.

Ferrars led him down a shabby corridor and into a dark little room with a window set into one wall: the room on the other side was bare, dingy, and white-washed, and contained only a table and two chairs, one occupied by a man with his back to the window. Ferrars left Snape and presently stepped into the other room, crossed to the table, and whispered to the man, who turned to the window and smiled quite grimly; then he turned back to Ferrars and nodded. Ferrars left the room, and the man continued paging through a thick file, utterly ignoring Snape.

He waited for rather a long time, becoming more and more impatient, and almost jumped from his skin when the door to the observation room opened and Corcoran swaggered in.

"Never expected to see you on this side of the wall," Corcoran said.

Snape couldn't clearly see Corcoran's face in the darkness, but then he didn't need to: the man's voice carried all the loathing and self-satisfaction required to communicate his meaning.

"Would you care to tell me why I wasn't informed that my wife was detained yesterday?" he shot back.

"It's their job to tell you. I believe an owl was sent as soon as they brought her in. Must have been delayed."

That was a lie: an owl would have found him at the Club, even if it had missed him at Hogwarts.

"How did you hear, then?" Corcoran asked. "If you didn't get the owl?"

"I tried to reach her last night and couldn't," Snape said. "It's not like her, to be out late. And when I popped by this morning, imagine my surprise at finding I'd been sealed out of my own home."

"Her home, surely. Perhaps she'd changed the ward to block you."

"Ours. And she wouldn't."

"I believe," Corcoran said, stepping closer so that Snape could make out the smile on the man's pock-marked face, "that you don't know Granger nearly as well as you think."

Snape was ready to retort, but the door to the other room opened, Hermione was escorted in, and he had to steel himself against reacting and giving Corcoran the satisfaction of seeing his shock.

She looked terrible. Not as though she'd been knocked about; but she'd not slept well, her face was pallid, and her hair was an utter mess. Worse still were her eyes and expression. She was angry, yes, and defiant -- but she also seemed wounded. Fragile. Snape wasn't used to seeing her that way; nor was he ready for the fear that seeemed to grip his guts at the sight of her, or the anger that made him clench his teeth so hard that his jaw ached.

"She had a decent room, and dinner and breakfast," Corcoran volunteered. "Hasn't been mistreated, before you start throwing accusations about."

"What did your test prove?" Hermione said as she moved to the free chair.

She seemed oblivious to the window, so Snape deduced that it was glamoured on her side. He wasn't so certain now that she hadn't been mistreated in some way, either: she moved stiffly, sat cautiously, and wrapped her arms about herself as if she were very cold.

There was no system in place to amplify the sound from the white room, and Snape had to listen carefully.

"No trace of contraceptive in the blood," her interrogator said.

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

"Watch this," Corcoran whispered. "Bretchgirdle's a master at this sort of thing."

"Shut up," Snape muttered.

"I wasn't entirely truthful with that statement, I'm afraid," the man -- Bretchgirdle -- interrupted her. "And I doubt summer will find you enciente. I doubt that highly. Would you care to explain why we found this at your flat?" He bent below Snape's line of sight, straightened, and placed a bottle on the table. It looked perfectly innocent to Snape: one of many of the ridiculous Muggle products that Hermione used (usually in vain) to control her hair.

Except the colour of the liquid in the bottle looked quite familiar. (It looked as though it were just ready to go off, as well, but that was a minor quibble at this point.)

"Stop, think, and answer me very carefully," Bretchgirdle said. "I've given you a great deal of leeway given your position with the Ministry and the fact that you were put to a some trouble last month, and so I've not resorted to Veritaserum this round. You're trying my patience very badly, however --"

"This is how he usually gets them," Corcoran confided. "Catch them in a little lie, and the whole house of cards goes snap. Told you, you don't know her at all, really --"

Snape had had enough: he rounded on Corcoran, shoved him against the back wall, and pinned him with one arm across the chest while the fingers of his other hand pressed in on the man's Adam's apple.

"Shut up now," he said urgently, voice low, "or you'll be making a trip to St. Mungo's."

"Ooo kent assult a Minstry offishul --" Corcoran tried to croak, and scrabbled for his wand: Snape shoved his bad knee against the man's groin just enough to make him freeze.

"Can't? I am. You're trying to distract me from my legal right to listen to my wife's interrogation," Snape hissed, "just like that filthy little sneak Ferrars, and I won't have it. Shut up, or better yet, leave. Because if you don't, and if you press charges against me for this, my solicitor will be forwarding a very interesting orb of one of my wife's memories to whichever department will do your pitiful career the most damage."

Corcoran's eyes bulged in outrage.

"Understand?"

"Yuss."

Snape released him: Corcoran staggered away from the wall, gave Snape the filthiest glare imaginable, and left the observation room. Snape turned back to the window, cursing at the thought of how much of the interrogation he might have missed.

"You can't, actually --" Hermione objected.

Bretchgirdle had pushed Hermione too far: Snape recognised the beginnings of a rather glorious tantrum on her part, and much as he deplored her lack of control, he couldn't quite blame her.

"Then why the bloody hell," Hermione spat at the wretched man, "was it necessary to put me through that horrid examination yesterday --"

"It's also a question," Bretchgirdle interrupted her, "of your truthfulness overall. Here is my dilemma.... I have you, a Ministry employee in a Class 3-A Civil position. 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."

Bretchgirdle was off on a long-winded intimidation tactic, so Snape blocked him out for a moment.

Bretchgirdle was winding up to what was, Snape was certain, going to be a rather nasty conclusion, so he pulled himself back to the interrogation.

"-- there can be no quibbling over whose it is. My next question to you is why this potion was in your possession," Bretchgirdle said, "and if you find it significant, as I do, that your husband is a potions brewer."

Hermione seemed unprepared for that; her eyes widened in shock. Snape had foreseen the logical conclusion to Bretchgirdle's train of thought, and, aware that he himself might be observed, reacted with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.

What stunned him was Hermione's response. After a long pause and a deep breath, she said, quite steadily, "Severus didn't brew that."

It was the literal truth, of course: he hadn't brewed the potion, Bluett had. But he'd provided it to Hermione, which amounted to the same thing. It would have been far easier for Hermione to admit the truth -- that he had provided it and demanded that she take it -- and would have lessened the repercussions for her considerably. He'd prefer taking the consequences, as it happened, than have Bluett arrested: it would probably kill the old man.

Whether Hermione had her full wits about her and could keep Bluett out of it was the question of the moment.

"No?" Bretchgirdle asked, voice laced with sarcasm.

Hermione shrugged. "It's not a question of your belief, it's what I know he hasn't done. He keeps excellent records of the school stock -- and I know that he's required to be especially careful with restricted ingredients -- so if you doubt his innocence, perhaps you should check them."

"Ah," Hermione said, pouncing on his admission, "so there are women who receive special treatment while the rest of us go without? Women like, oh, Mrs Corcoran, perhaps? Mrs Bretchgirdle?"

"That's neither here nor there, Madam Snape," Bretchgirdle snapped. (She'd touched a nerve: Snape saw the blood rise up the back of Bretchgirdle's spindly neck, and assumed that the man's face was reddening.) "Who supplied you with it?"

"I took NEWT-Level potions," Hermione said, feigning indignation rather nicely in Snape's estimation. "I'm perfectly capable of brewing a Class 1 substance." (Then again, knowing Hermione's pride in her accomplishments, it probably wasn't feigned at all.)

Hermione sighed and stared at her hands as they rested on the table: Snape caught the flash of her wedding-band as she nervously fiddled at it with her thumb. "It's a difficult situation," she said softly; Snape had to strain even harder to hear her. "We thought we should suit, but .... It was odd, meeting each other again quite by chance and recognising that there's potential there, but having had an entirely different sort of relationship in the past. The whole student-teacher business, not to mention the age gap. I wanted to put off getting pregnant until we'd had time to be together for a while, that's all. It would give us a chance to be certain of each other before we added a child to the equation, so we could find other partners if we were totally unsuited. And after Whitemarsh, I felt more strongly we could make it work. So I wasn't lying about it, I was just... deferring becoming pregnant, for a while."

Snape's hackles rose: he knew the question was intended not to gain more information from Hermione, but to needle him. Bretchgirdle hadn't forgot for one moment that he was observing them.

"Yes," Hermione said frankly, raising her head; Snape had the uncomfortable feeling that she somehow knew he was on the other side of the glamoured glass. "Yes, he wasn't bothered at all by the potential difficulties. It's the cultural thing, you see, or at least I think it is. With such a conservative upbringing as his, marriage is more an alliance -- a business arrangement -- than an emotional bond to him. Not that we've ever discussed it, but that's the impression I've got. Friendship and love may come afterwards, but they're not the reason you marry.... I suppose wanted proof that we could find those, eventually, before we complicated matters. I'm afraid my ethics don't extend to raising a child alone, depriving it of its father, if living together isn't pleasant."

Snape was amazed at how easily she lied. More than that, he was astounded that she'd managed it on the spot -- and simply to protect him.

"So," Bretchgirdle said. "Let's... sum it all up, shall we? You were in illegal possession of a Restricted potion."

Hermione considered that for a moment, and then shocked Snape by replying, "I've admitted I'm guilty of the initial charge. To several others, in fact -- something I didn't have to do of my free will. If you're in doubt, Mr Bretchgirdle, Legilimency is an option. It saves you the trouble of fetching the Veritaserum."

Bretchgirdle's neck went ever-so-slightly red again. "As there is no practising Legilimens on staff...."

"I think not," Hermione said. "You subjected me to it last time, I believe. I'm well aware one shouldn't ingest it on a regular basis. And I don't believe I've given you cause to resort to it now, in the end."

"Very well. So noted -- and your refusal shall be taken into account at your trial," Bretchgirdle said as he scribbled in Hermione's file; then he closed it and rose. "If you'll just wait here, Madam Snape.... I need to consult with someone before we proceed any further."

Snape settled his features into a suitably grim mask.

Bretchgirdle left the white room, and in a few seconds cracked open the observation room door and beckoned to Snape: he stepped from the room and followed the interrogator down the corridor, into a plush office, and closed the door behind him.

"Very enlightening, wouldn't you say?" Bretchgirdle asked him dryly as he took a chair behind the desk. "I do hope you understand that she's in a great deal of trouble. You should, as a brewer.... Or should I say, as a brewer who's been charged with providing Restricted potions in the past?"

"Ancient history, charge dismissed, and immaterial in any case as you've no grounds to accuse me in this matter. Or is it your intent to arrest me despite lack of evidence?"

"Of course not. The thought of bringing you in this morning had crossed my mind, given the results of the potions analysis, but as your wife has ruled you out, truthfully or not...."

"She is being truthful, as it happens. I didn't brew that. As to her testimony.... I found her confession almost as illuminating as the fact that you -- who should know better -- neglected to inform me immediately that she had been taken into custody," Snape said, trying to keep his voice level. "Not done, Bretchgirdle, as you damn well know."

"Paaaah -- no-one pays attention to that old chestnut. No man in his right mind would, as the ladies will ruffle their feathers about it in this day and age."

"I don't give a damn about what others think," he snarled at the bastard. "Nor do I care what my wife thinks at the moment, or about her bloody pride. It was my right to be present before you asked her a single question yesterday -- last month, for that matter -- and you denied me that right. I overlooked it last time, but I shan't now. Moreover, I take it that she was forced to undergo some wretched physical examination --"

"She consented --"

"It wasn't her place to consent, it was mine. She is my ward, her body is my property, and my property has been violated."

"I rather think," Bretchgirdle said, "that the greatest violation here was not instigated by MLE. How many opportunities to conceive a child," he added with a mocking smile, "has she denied you by lying about this?"

"That is a matter between Hermione and me. And I'll remind you that as disobedience and breaking a law are classified under the old code as a crime against the husband first and foremost, her punishment and the duty of imposing it falls to me, not you or the Wizengamot."

"Impossible," Bretchgirdle said sharply. "This is a felony, Snape, not a misdemeanour --"

"The precedents make no distinction. It has always been a Pureblood husband's prerogative to discipline a ward for any degree of crime or misbehaviour, and only when he has waived that right does the Wizengamot have the authority to do so in his stead. Simply because most men are too lily-livered and hen-pecked to accept their responsibility does not mean I am."

"The Wizengamot shall, I'm sure, be more than willing to review the rulings. It's high time they were overturned given the changes in our society. It's the Twenty-First Century, after all."

"I doubt they'll overturn them," Snape said, and managed a smile, "They have good reason not to, in fact. Fudge has made it clear that he expects a return to traditional family values, with this... mandatory marriage business. And what is the most essential element of that tradition, if not the role of the husband as master of his home and his charges?"

"Come now, Snape. You can't expect me to believe you think that has anything whatever to do with your wife's crime, or that Minister Fudge will tolerate that view."

"It certainly does, and I do. I'm willing," Snape said carefully, "to accept my own culpability in allowing Hermione too much freedom. It was a miscalculation, as her sensibilities are obviously far too liberal. So, I imagine, are many of our younger witches'. I believe Fudge is canny enough to realise that unless men may administer justice and punishment in their own homes, the whole experiment will be a failure as more witches, like Hermione, revolt."

"That's not my problem," Bretchgirdle countered. "I'm upholding a recent law which clearly states the Wizengamot-approved penalty for her crime."

"And in the process you're breaking an ancient law with stronger precedents. Moreover, I have grave doubts as to why you felt compelled to investigate her in the first place."

Bretchgirdle looked distinctly peeved at that.

"What on earth would make you violate the privacy of my home twice?" he asked Bretchgirdle.

"She's a Ministry employee, Snape, we've every right to search her home if there's due cause."

"Once might be justifiable. But twice in two months?"

Bretchgirdle's lips thinned.

"I take it Corcoran requested it for one reason or another. True?" Snape said, hoping that the guess was accurate. If it was, he might have the right incentive to persuade Bretchgirdle to drop all this.

"That's none of your --"

"It bloody well is. I understand the reason for the first search, as one of the department offices had been burgled, correct? But Hermione was cleared in that matter. The only reason I can imagine for a second search is a personal vendetta on Corcoran's part. It's no secret that he doesn't respect her, and he despises me."

"I doubt Corcoran would jeopardise his position merely to make your wife's life difficult, Snape --"

"You're wrong. He wants Hermione out of the way. She insists upon accuracy and challenges him when he demands that she change factual, scientifically-based conclusions to suit his agenda. In short, he's tried to bully her into lying in official reports. Not two months ago he threatened to have her sacked for her refusal to do so."

Bretchgirdle sat up a bit straighter in his chair. "Does she have any proof of this?" he asked.

"She recorded the whole incident in an orb, yes." Snape paused a moment for effect, and added, "I believe she confronted him with examples of his less-than-professional behaviour. He didn't, or couldn't, refute her charges, to my knowledge."

"She blackmailed him, in other words."

"No, she merely responded to an unreasonable threat with a reasonable statement of things she might be forced to reveal about the workings of the department, if asked. Especially about the workings of its director. Not quite the same thing as blackmail."

Bretchgirdle hesitated, and then abandoned any appearance at either nonchalance or finding further fault with Hermione. "I might be interested in seeing the contents of the orb."

"Mmmmm. Corcoran always overstepped his authority and threw his weight about, even at school. Nothing I've seen or heard of him since I married Hermione has led me to change that opinion."

"Mr Corcoran," Bretchgirdle said slowly, "seems to think the Aurors are at his beck and call, and he doesn't care to go through proper channels. I've had to intervene on several occasions on the Director's behalf, and I've had quite enough. So, yes, any information that might... put him in his place would be welcome."

"I don't know where the orb is, actually," Snape lied, and only then seated himself, resting his elbows on Bretchgirdle's desk. "But I might be able to persuade her to turn it over to you. Assuming that I'm allowed to see her as soon as possible, and that you and I can reach an agreement on the matter of the charge against her."

While Bretchgirdle appeared more than a little revolted at the idea of bargaining with a former Death Eater, he also seemed intrigued.

"Dropping the charge is out of the question, given that she's confessed," Bretchgirdle said carefully. "I can't allow her to go scot-free."

"The charge must be dropped, but she needn't get off easily. An acknowledgement that someone -- say, that git Ferrars -- overstepped his bounds and instigated a search on bad information should take the burden of responsibility from you. You're simply redressing an error made by one of the Aurors involved, being generous to someone who's served the Ministry well despite one slip-up, and you're respecting the old traditions and law. I shall... persuade Hermione to turn in her notice immediately -- and the orb -- and move her away from London, permanently. I know her well enough to know that's a far more impressive punishment than imprisonment."

"And Corcoran --"

"Corcoran thinks he's got what he wants, if not in such spectacular fashion as he'd hoped. You have time to investigate any irregularities without him suspecting. I shouldn't be surprised if he acts the fool and gives you more evidence, with Hermione out of the way. He'll be quite smug and full of himself, I imagine."

That seemed to clinch it for Bretchgirdle -- almost.

"This might be construed as bribery, you realise," he said, trying to stare Snape down.

"Nonsense. It's a mutually-beneficial arrangement. At the very least, Corcoran has his hands full defending himself and has no time to meddle in your department. And I still have access to my wife, in whom I've invested a great deal of time and money. I want that investment back, Bretchgirdle. She's intelligent and healthy, and despite her faults I want her better qualities in the Snape bloodline."

Bretchgirdle watched him carefully for a long moment; then he slowly stretched his arm across the desk to shake on the deal, and called for a secretary to draw up the necessary papers.

*****

Hermione was still sitting at the table when Snape entered the white room, and was fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve: she glanced up at him, stilled, and her face went paler.

"Severus," was all she said. She looked even worse at close range, the strain of the last twenty-four hours drawing her skin tight over her cheekbones and about her eyes.

Snape didn't answer her right away, but began to prowl around the perimeter of the room.

"Who told you I was --"

"No-one," he snapped back at her. "No-one bothered to tell me. I only found out last night that something was wrong when I stopped by the flat and couldn't get in."

She seemed perplexed at that. "But I wasn't expecting you to --"

"It's not a crime for a man to visit his wife at any time he chooses," he interrupted. "Of course, you might have got the impression that it was because I made the error of coddling you and pandering to your delicate sensibilities." He stopped at the end of the table and leant against it. "I can assure you, that is about to change."

She hadn't caught on, yet: he saw only confusion and anger in her eyes.

She wasn't observing anything at all but his face: she seemed fixed on his eyes, so he deliberately broke the gaze, moved to the other side of the table, unclasped the cloak and took it from his shoulders, and tossed it across the back of the free chair.

The silver serpent glinted in the harsh light of the single lamp above the table, and the flash of it caught her eye.

Her eyes widened for a moment: Snape hoped he was blocking her reaction from Bretchgirdle, who he was certain was watching from the other room.

"How much did you hear?" she asked, composing her face into a suitably guilty expression.

"All of it. Every bloody word of it -- except for one very important bit, Hermione." He took a deep breath. "When did you decide to lie to me?"

"I.... It wasn't a decision, Severus, it --"

"When, Hermione?" he bellowed as he leaned across the table toward her.

She jerked backward in her seat, and looked as though she might be sick -- she wasn't pretending, he could tell, and wished he didn't need to put her through this: but he knew Bretchgirdle would pull the offer off the table in an instant if he weren't convinced, so he allowed his frustration with the whole bloody mess to come to the fore.

"It was before we even married, wasn't it?" he snarled at her. "You never intended to be a proper wife, did you?"

"No, it wasn't," she managed, and she brushed a fleck of his spittle off her cheek. "No, I... I got frightened after Quh- Queerditch, that's all. We'd rushed into it. When I realised I hadn't got pregnant then, I thought if we just had a bit of time...."

"You planned for it, Hermione. You stored up the ingredients. You intended to do this from the very first -- if not to me, then some other stupid bugger."

"No. I only got them because I was afraid I might be forced to marry someone who'd treat me badly, who might treat a child badly.... You know how I feel about that, Severus, I can't bear the thought of putting a child that position."

"And I'm one of those, am I?"

"No," she said, face going red -- she was getting angry, now, and he didn't necessarily want that: better for her to act submissively, given his purpose. "No, I don't think that. You're a better man than most people... ...than I gave you credit for. I wanted to give us time alone, to do this properly."

"Without discussing it with me?"

"You were so adamant about observing the new laws, I knew you'd... you'd set aside personal considerations. You always have, when it comes to rules. And by God, Severus, neither one of us deserves that," she said earnestly. "We deserve to know we can get along even if we don't love each other. We deserve to know that we want a child together --"

"One of us does --" Snape interrupted in a vain attempt to derail her tirade.

"The bloody Ministry won't raise it -- we will. The Ministry won't fret over it and love it to distraction -- or grieve for it if something horrid happens -- we will --"

He resorted to bellowing again. "We should have done. What you seem totally unaware of is that it was not your place to make that decision -- it was mine. I chose not to defer having a child, and by defying me, you have not only lied to me, but stolen from me."

She seemed stunned by that, her jaw gaping for a moment. "I have not."

"You've denied me the child we might have made, by now. It amounts to the same thing."

"How on earth can you say that? It's a child, Severus, a human being, not a thing!"

He pulled McGonagall's book from the inner pocket of the cloak, flipped it open to the first marker, and pushed it across the table to her. "Read the bloody law, Hermione. Husband and wife are one being under the law, and the husband is the acknowledged head. The wife is his ward, just as his children are. When she disobeys him or breaks laws, he is responsible, and therefore she has damaged his reputation and honour. Since she can do him that harm, he has the right to constrain and discipline her in any way he sees fit."

"Absolutely ridiculous. I'd never -- I haven't --"

"She is also the vessel for his children -- that is her purpose for existing. And by making your body inhospitable to life, you've stolen from me."

She scanned the first ruling quickly, started to protest, and then flipped to the next ruling, her face going paler with every passing minute.

"This is barbaric," she said flatly as she finished reading the third ruling.

"It's the law. You shouldn't be surprised by it -- it's based on the same principles as your Muggle law."

"Muggle law doesn't treat women like -- like --"

"Like children? I daresay it did once. Could again, for all I know -- laws can be changed. The difference is, we never struck those principles and laws from the books, but simply left decisions on the freedoms allowed wives up to the individual man. In binding yourself to me, you've made yourself subordinate to this law, and to me should I choose to exercise it -- and I am."

He pushed himself away from the table, paced about the room again, and sought for the next, best strategy. Hermione was silent, not arguing any longer: that was a good sign. She might follow his lead, if he were careful. He probably ought be more rough and demanding with her, for Bretchgirdle's benefit, but he couldn't bear to: she looked as though she might shatter to bits if he pushed her much beyond raising his voice.

"I don't blame you solely," he admitted, voice raspy from shouting, and stopped to clear his throat. "I should have made everything absolutely clear from the start, given you more guidance. I thought a woman of your intelligence would understand that in marrying me -- in marrying a Pureblood -- you would, eventually, have to accept my values. I thought you had, so I didn't ask you to give up your job. I thought it would be a bloody waste to require that of you, when you could continue to be of use to the Ministry until we had a child. And I thought giving up the work before then would be a blow to you."

"That was very kind of you, Severus," she said softly behind him, surprising him. "Some men wouldn't have bothered to be that considerate."

"Then why in bloody hell did you deceive me?" he asked, turning to face her. "If you knew I was being more tolerant than most, why did you take advantage?"

"I didn't intend to. I just didn't see it that way. I didn't realise you did, you seemed so reasonable about everything."

"Meaning that I'm not being reasonable now?"

"Legally, I suppose -- if these bloody laws still stand."

"They do. Legally is, quite frankly, all that matters."

"No, no it isn't --"

He glared at her, and crossed his arms over his chest: she sighed, pulled her hands from the table and into her lap, and stared down at them.

"I haven't taken the bloody potion for weeks. I... I shouldn't have in the first place, not without speaking with you about it, I understand that now."

"You understood it then, Hermione, or you wouldn't have concealed it. Not only have you defied me and rebelled against the foremost reason for our marriage, you've defied the Ministry. You've betrayed everything that every right-thinking witch and wizard should be working toward. I should have thought you of all people would understand how dependent we are upon --"

"I do. I didn't intend to take it forever, I just...."

She seemed at a loss for words.

"I'm willing to consider this an aberration from your usual intelligent behaviour, given your youth," Snape said, deciding it was time to lay down the ultimatum. "What I need to know is whether you are going to behave properly now. If not," he added more softly, and pinched at the bridge of his nose to ease the sharp ache between his eyes, "or if I think you're apt to lie to me again in future, I will walk out that door and leave you to Bretchgirdle."

"I don't think you have a choice in the --"

"It's not your job to think about the matter overall," he shot back. "It's mine, just as is the blame for your misbehaviour. You've broken a law. Bretchgirdle would have me believe that prosecuting the Illegal Substances charge supersedes my rights to you under the older law."

"That's that, then," Hermione said. "I'm off your hands, am I?"

"Not necessarily. I don't think the new law has precedence over my rights, and I am willing to take the case before the Wizengamot, if I must -- if you are prepared to do as I say."

The look of astonishment on her face was most unflattering to Snape, even if she was play-acting, but he ignored the implied insult.

"If -- if -- I have been able to persuade Bretchgirdle to drop the charge," he continued, "there are going to be changes, Hermione. Quite drastic ones. First and foremost, you will be handing in your resignation and moving to Hogwarts."

"My resig -- Bloody hell, Severus, there's no need for me to leave the Ministry simply because --"

"Even if I thought it wise to allow you to continue -- and I don't -- you don't have a job to go back to. It's impossible. Bretchgirdle is doing me a favour in allowing you to resign, rather than seeing that you're sacked. Furthermore, I want you where I can keep an eye you. You might as well put the flat up for sale. You won't be returning to it."

"You're going to forbid me to --"

"I'm insisting that we live together properly? Yes, as I should have done from the start."

"I suppose I'm not to eat or drink anything outside your presence, am I?" she shot back at him with a glower.

"I truly hope you won't make it necessary, but I shall require that if I have to. You've given me more than enough reason to distrust you, don't you think? I could always turn you over to Bretchgirdle if you don't agree," he added coolly. "I'm sure a divorce is permissible under the circumstances if you prefer Azkaban. I shan't be waiting for your release, you understand."

He watched her struggling with it for a moment -- amazing, that she would fight it so, even when it was nothing more than a scene for Bretchgirdle's benefit.... But then perhaps she didn't think it was. 'You always mean what you say...'. It was possible she felt he was actually going to require more than just the appearance of it all, but that couldn't be helped at the moment.

"Right," she said finally, thankfully looking more miserable than sullen. "Yes, I agree."

"You'll obey me in all things from now on."

"Yes."

"No more mucking about with a 'career,' no more avoiding pregnancy."

"Yes."

"And you'll be returning with me to Hogwarts, and sell the bloody flat. I won't have you running off to hide whenever you wish to sulk."

She gave him a pained look. "Severus, that flat's all I have, I invested most of my inheritance in it -- and it won't bring as much as I've put into it, not this early on. I won't have a damned thing of my own if --"

"Not negotiable. And technically it's my property to dispose of, as you didn't have it signed over to a Trust before we married. As there are Muggle legalities involved, I'm perfectly willing to ward it against you and let it sit there and rot until your bank takes possession, if I must -- and then you shall have nothing at all out of it."

Her face went red again; but instead of arguing, she bent her head and muttered, "Yes. All right."

"Good. There is one other thing," he added, and hoped Corcoran hadn't slipped back into the observation room, or that Bretchgirdle had run him off if he had. "You have a... record of a conversation with someone. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Bretchgirdle is quite interested in that. It's one of the conditions of having the charge against you dropped, that you turn it over to him."

Hermione glanced up at him, and then snorted. "With pleasure, actually. He's welcome to it as I shan't need it any longer."

"Good."

A light flickered on in the observation room, startling both of them: Bretchgirdle was behind the glass. He gave Snape a curt nod, and then shut off the light.

"Oh, bloody --" Hermione blurted out.

"How long have you been here?" Snape muttered to stop her from saying anything incriminating; he crossed to the free chair and collapsed in it.

"They arrested me yesterday, when I returned from lunch," she said. "Severus --"

"And?"

"And what?" she said impatiently.

"They examined you, correct? And what did the Healer say?" he prodded.

"Oh," she said, and nodded a weary acknowledgement. "Perfectly healthy."

"Able to bear children?"

"To conceive, certainly, and no reason why I couldn't carry to term as far as he can tell."

"I see. So, four months' effort wasted."

"I didn't think so," she murmured. "I wouldn't say that at all."

"When the whole bloody point was to do what's needed, it is."

"Is it really so awful," Hermione asked, "that I hoped we'd be able to have more than merely what's necessary?"

"It is if one is looking at the situation as a rational adult," Snape said. "I'm disappointed in you, Hermione. I thought you were far more logical than your idiotic, love-silly peers."

She coloured up again, and picked at a rough spot on the table. "Yes, well, I discovered things about you that I wouldn't have anticipated, too. Oddly enough, I've been more pleasantly surprised than anything else. Until today."

That was a shock. He'd expected her to go along with the thread of the conversation, perhaps even to rail at him and the rules he'd laid down: but she seemed absolutely sincere. He didn't know how to respond to it.

Bretchgirdle saved him the trouble, stepping into the white room with an older auror in tow, and with papers and a quill in hand.

"This is highly unusual, you understand," he said to Hermione. "I'm only doing this because I'm willing to concede that your husband may have a point regarding the old law. Moreover, Ferrars overstepped his authority with a second search, and I wish to avoid a prolonged inquiry on the part of the Wizengamot."

"That, and you want Corcoran's head on a platter," Hermione muttered. "Not that I blame you."

"This," Bretchgirdle continued, placing a document before her, "is your resignation from the Ministry. I require your signature on that before we proceed further."

Hermione took the quill from him and scribbled her signature: Bretchgirdle then smiled grimly, turned the paper and quill over to Snape, and said, "As her legal guardian, I suppose you ought sign as well."

Snape did so, ignoring Hermione's outraged huff, and gave paper and quill over to Robinson, who witnessed the signatures.

"Thank you. This," Bretchgirdle said, showing her another paper, "officially drops the charge, and states that you are being remanded into your husband's custody. It also states that you -- or he, rather, as it's his choice -- will take no action against the Aurors' Service, MLE, or the Ministry in reprisal for the unfortunate -- but totally lawful, I will add -- measures that were taken yesterday."

"Strike out 'lawful' if it's in there, Hermione," Snape murmured. "Direct contradiction of the precedents, as I didn't give permission."

Bretchgirdle smirked at him, as if to say 'Can't fault me for trying,' but didn't object when Hermione crossed out the offending word and signed. Snape signed it himself, acknowledging that he was taking sole responsibility for her future actions, and Bretchgirdle also signed before dismissing Robinson from the room and handing over Hermione's ticket-of-leave to Snape.

"Now," he said, "I understand there's an orb. I should prefer to retrieve it myself, if you don't mind."

"In the hall cupboard, at the flat," Hermione said dully. "There's a box of Christmas ornaments, it's in there. And good luck with the bastard."

"And the password to release the memory?"

"'I sincerely hope the rotten sod gets his,'" Hermione said, and glanced up at Bretchgirdle when he coughed. "No, I'm quite serious, that's it. The whole phrase."

"Very well. I'll caution you now not to return there for your possessions until tomorrow. I do apologise for any inconvenience, Professor Snape," Bretchgirdle said smoothly. "I would warn you, however, that any further mischief on Madam Snape's part will earn her prosecution, regardless of the old law."

"Won't be necessary," Snape said, staring at Hermione. "Any further difficulties and I'll be happy to turn her over, in any case."

"Good-day, then," Bretchgirdle said with a smile. "Robinson will have Madam Snape's effects and both your wands waiting for you at the lift -- I should prefer that you have the keeping of her wand until you are outside the Ministry, however," he added, and then he left the room.

Hermione propped her elbows on the table and cradled her head in trembling hands.

"It's for the best," Snape said quietly, wishing that she would look him in the face to catch the rest of the message: I couldn't think of any other way, my dear. I'd be damned if I gave you up to the Ministry without a bloody good fight.

"It's disgraceful. Disgusting," she moaned.

'Your behaviour? I quite agree."

"The bloody law. The wife a ward, in the eyes of the law? How much more... archaic can you get?"

"Different, you mean then," Snape corrected her, and idly added as he retrieved McGonagall's book and tucked the release paper into it, "I always thought it a shameful omission, not teaching Muggleborns fully about our society. I blame Dumbledore. So anxious that we accept you that he shoved your culture down our throats, and didn't require you to learn anything of ours beyond old Binns's boring histories.... No matter now, it's too late. Time to go, then," he said, rose, and pulled the cloak from the chair-back. "I've wasted half a day's classes because of this idiocy, and I shan't waste more."

Hermione scrubbed at her face -- she'd been weeping a bit, Snape noted -- and stood unsteadily, swaying.

"When did you last eat?" he asked her sharply. "They told me you'd been properly fed."

"Last night, really. I couldn't manage much this morning."

"Fool," he muttered, and pulled his handkerchief from his coat-pocket. "You'll have to wait until we reach Hogwarts, I'm not in the mood to spend money at a restaurant." He stepped around the end of the table to her, and tried to blot at her eyes -- but she batted his hand away: he was obliged to grab for her wrist, yank her in to his body, and stare her down.

"Don't push me, Hermione," he warned her. "I've been quite reasonable, but you're trying my patience. You will give me the respect I'm due, or you'll regret it."

That shocked her nicely, and kept her mouth shut long enough for him to stoop down to her ear and whisper, "Just a few minutes more. Once we're out of here you can go to pieces as much as you like." He pulled back enough to look her in the eye; she nodded, mute, and allowed him to tidy her face to his satisfaction. "I realise submission and meekness don't come naturally to you," he added dryly as he stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, "but I believe it's past time you acquire them. Come along."

He steered her, with his hand firmly at her lower back, out of the white room and down the corridor to the lifts where Robinson waited for them: the Auror turned both wands over to Snape, Hermione's belongings to her, and then joined them in the lift.

"Mr Bretchgirdle said to remind you, Madam Snape, that there'll be no visits to your residence until tomorrow," Robinson lectured her (much to Snape's annoyance) as the lift descended.

"I doubt we'll bother," he coolly informed the man as Hermione struggled into her coat and muttered, "I know, I know," under her breath. "I shall likely send a few of Hogwarts' elves to pack it all up."

"Wouldn't that be mis-use of school property?" Robinson jibed. "I should try to keep my nose clean if I were you, Snape,"

"That is entirely up to the Headmistress," Snape corrected him. "And given the choice between more of a waste of my time, or sending a few surplus elves...."

The lift-doors began to open and Snape shooed Hermione out before him, hoping to shake Robinson off before he hexed the man. Thankfully, Robinson was distracted by a commotion at the security-desk, and fell behind them as they started across the Atrium....

In fact, there were rather a lot of people clustered about the desk arguing with the fat security-guard, and the most vociferous and official-looking man among them was brandishing a warrant in the idiot's face. Robinson stepped into the fray; the warrant-flashing official turned to argue with him instead, and let the parchment roll up with a snap. Snape caught sight of a badge on the breast of the man's cloak: a staff and orb, encompassed by a globe --

-- the ICW crest. Balls. Of all the bloody moments for the cavalry to have arrived....

He hadn't anticipated that DeLaine -- or the ICW -- would act this quickly: given the ponderous rate at which most organisations moved, he'd expected a full twenty-four hours to call DeLaine off or to present themselves to the ICW, rather than being dragged about like common criminals. (While he was perfectly happy with that possibility had he been unable to extricate Hermione himself, he should have preferred that Corcoran -- and, therefore, Fudge -- had no inkling whatsoever that they were in ICW hands.)

"Best put your cloak on now," Hermione said softly at his elbow. "You'll be even more cross if you catch --"

"Keep walking," Snape muttered.

"Severus --"

"Keep walking," he hissed, and clutched her elbow, pulling her away from the long line at the Departures floos. "Eyes front, look casual, and don't stop."

"Oi! You there, Snape -- halt!" Robinson yelled after them.

They were quite close to the call-box lift, now, and Snape steered Hermione in front of him, ready to lunge for it and push her in before him, if necessary --

Someone grasped Snape's shoulder and stopped him in mid-stride, jerking Hermione's elbow free of his hand: she slid a bit on the polished marble floor, turned, and stared at Snape as a coterie of grim-faced, grey-cloaked ICW Enforcers surrounded them.

"Zeveruz Znape?" the most senior Enforcer demanded with an annoying, Teutonic buzz on the sibilants.

"What of it?"

"Und Hermiown Grancher Znape?"

"Hermione," she snapped at the man, and all but rolled her eyes.

"You bose under arrest by order off zeh ICW are," the Enforcer said. "Vee haff off your vands need."

Snape withdrew both wands from his coat-sleeve and handed them over to the senior man, as one of the others took Hermione's things from her; and he was none too pleased to suffer the indignity of having his wrists -- and Hermione's -- bound, in front of all the gawkers in the Atrium.

"Well, well," Robinson crowed behind him. "It appears you've got bigger problems than a piddling little felony by your witch, Snape."

The pity of the whole bloody incident was that the Enforcers didn't give Snape time, before they marched him and Hermione from the Atrium and out to the street, to spit in the bleeder's eye.

*****

Liechtenstein had never been high on Snape's list of Must-See Places (it ranked somewhere above the Dark Lord's boudoir and a bit below Whitemarsh, actually), and what little he saw of it now didn't change his opinion.

As the principality was too small in area to contain any purely Wizard villages or neighbourhoods, the ICW, with more than usual ingenuity and considerable stress on the Teutonic commitment to expedience, had managed not only to spacially shoe-horn all Wizarding buildings and pathways in the entire principality amongst the Muggle bits, but to temporally compress wizarding Time when one was on the pavements -- so that a wizard could travel from one end of the principality to the other in a few minutes, as Apparition was strictly regulated due to security issues. This was a remarkable feat of Arithmantic engineering, true; but it was also intensely disorienting, being Apparated to Vaduz and marched from the only legal Apparition point to Balzers -- the seat of the ICW -- through what appeared to be purely Muggle streets (and sometimes through Muggle Liechtensteiners), as if one were embarking on the pedestrian version of a Knight Bus ride.

Hermione's probably delirious with fascination, working out the equations in her head at this very moment, Snape thought nastily as they whizzed up the foothills of a small mountain -- and then, after a glance at her, he felt ashamed of himself: she looked more ill than intrigued with the experience.

"All right?" he muttered.

"Too much like flying," she murmured back. "Makes my eyes go wonky. I always hated this type of --" She stopped abruptly and held her breath.

Snape hoped she'd puke on the Enforcer's boots, not his.

Everything returned to normal once they reached Gutenberg Castle, however: an older, more Hogwart-y magic had been used here, to pry out nooks and crannies from the Muggle building and the bedrock below it. They were taken to the highest point in the castle -- a subtly but well-warded suite of rooms at the top of a narrow, winding stair -- where their bonds were removed, and where Hermione's handbag and Snape's coat-pockets were thoroughly searched before the Enforcers stepped away from them.

"You vill today rest," the senior man informed them as the other Enforcers filed out. "Vee vill the vands keep. You vill your Counzel tomorrow meet. Zeh ...hearing, ja? vill zeh day affter meet. Underztandt?"

"Ja," Snape said sourly, knowing full well that sarcasm was wasted on the Germanic mind.

The Enforcer stood at attention, clicked his heels in a ridiculously Ruritanian manner, wheeled about, and marched from the room, closing and barring the door definitively behind him.

*****

Neither of them moved or spoke for a very long time. Hermione seemed frozen with shock, and Snape felt not much better: he finally shook himself out of his daze and asked her the question that had been on his lips since they'd stepped from the lift and he'd seen the Enforcers.

"Hermione," he started quite calmly -- amazing, that was, considering that he suspected he was on the verge of hysteria -- "why, out of all bloody bureaucratic France, did you have to pick the one bloody Frog who is actually efficient?"

Hermione stared at him blankly for a moment: then the tenor of the question must have wormed its way into her consciousness. She gaped at him (obviously outraged), turned smartly, took off across the room away from him, and with a slam of the door shut herself into what he assumed was the bath.

Snape dropped his cloak on the floor and flung himself into the nearest chair -- the horrendously knobby and ugly four-poster being too far across the room to bother himself with limping over to -- and tried to calm the shrill little voice in his head that was telling him they'd gone directly from the frying-pan and into the fire.

*****

Chapter 22 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 23