The ICW security guard discreetly coughed into his gloved fist, the by-now familiar signal that Snape's second (and last) twenty minutes of daily exercise were over.

Snape glared at him, shoved his fists more firmly under his oxters, and rebelliously started another circuit of the barren courtyard. The gesture was ruined when he slipped -- he'd worn down quite a groove in the last two days, and sections had got icy -- but he recovered despite the damned knee, and ignored the fact that the bastard of a guard was probably sniggering at him.

He knew he was behaving like a total berk (toward everyone, even Hermione), but he couldn't quite seem to control himself. He chafed at the inactivity (walking about the bloody courtyard didn't count, as it was totally pointless and mind-numbing); his stomach churned at the heavily-spiced sauces the Germanic types seemed to think essential to the honour and sanctity of their national haute cuisine, if one could bear to lower oneself to dignifying it as such; and, worst of all, Hermione was acting in a relentlessly patient and suspiciously affectionate manner. (Not that she'd gone overboard and done anything astonishing on the sexual front -- far from it -- but in the past two days she'd started to seize the odd and pointless opportunity to touch him: brushing fluff from the shoulder of his frock-coat or straightening his neck-cloth, for examples; and she'd taken to watching the level of coffee in his cup and topping it off the second he'd sipped any at all. Distinctly strange behaviour, even for a Gryffindor.)

In fact, the little wizard had yet to manifest any interest at all since they'd been abducted to Liechtenstein. He should have been disturbed at this had it not been utterly foolhardy to engage in sex: but he didn't imagine it would last long, given that they were sharing a bed and he seemed to find himself wrapped about her every morning, whether he wanted to be or not....

Well, should occasion arise, he should simply have to sequester himself in the bath (more than he already was doing, at any rate) and re-acquaint his good right hand with the little wizard --

-- and take care of the problem himself. He wasn't about to impose on Hermione, certainly not to initiate her into Greek love -- absolutely not after what she'd been through with that bloody examination, which had obviously disgusted her. (That was a last resort, in any case. They were two quite different experiences, both pleasant and/or mind-shattering in their separate ways insofar as he could recall of his sole experiment in buggery, but it had never made sense to Snape to use a woman the way one would a man. He might change his mind on that score someday, given a willing and adventuresome partner, but Hermione wasn't that person.)

Of course, if Hermione volunteered to coax him into the proper state for oral pleasure, that was another matter entirely....

He put all thoughts of sex out of his mind. It wasn't so terribly difficult, as the mental image of Hermione's lips about his cock stirred not the faintest flicker of interest from his libido.

It was worse than sad, it was alarming. But then, it must be the frigid air putting a damper on everything: even the heavy wool of the gift-cloak couldn't keep out the cold.

At least, he hoped that was all there was to it.

He hurriedly shifted his focus to Schell.

The bloody man hadn't sent them one blasted word about the status of their cases. He'd provided marginally better reading material, true (which Snape had already torn through), and managed acceptable clothing, if not the style Snape preferred -- had even demanded (albeit politely) their manuscripts on the investigation: but he hadn't bothered to send word on what the hell was going on, much less visit them again.

When he'd expressed more or less the same sentiment to Hermione yesterday, she'd seemed annoyed with him, gave him a patronising 'Oh no, you won't,' look, and then smiled in a way that could only be interpreted as indulgent, damn her.

There was something to be said for being known as a Death Eater proper, and not merely "former-in-a-good-cause." People took you a damn sight more seriously when they thought you weren't averse to casting the odd Killing Curse.

The guard coughed once again, far more overtly, as Snape rounded the final turn in the courtyard; and rather than subject himself to the indignity of having a wand levelled at him, he ascended the steps and (despite the shooting pain it caused him) viciously stomped his feet far too close to the man's, in hopes of spattering the ridiculous bear-skin boots with grey slush.

*****

Hermione was curled up by the fire when he was 'escorted' back into their room, and was -- yet again -- combing out her blasted hair. She claimed she'd lost several of her hair-pins, and had to work through it frequently to keep it free of rats' nests as it wouldn't stay in its knot. The last time she'd gone through the time-wasting procedure he'd suggested, not unreasonably, that one of the guards would likely be willing to dock it for her.

She'd reacted as though he'd demanded she cut off a hand instead.

"Still well below freezing?" she asked after the door was barred behind him.

"How should I know?" he shot back. "I haven't a bloody thermometer on my watch-chain, have I?"

She tensed, shrugged, and wriggled back round to stare at the fire, still combing away.

He hung his cloak beside the door, noted flecks of slush on the hem, and went to fetch a wet flannel to clean it.

"Yes, it's still bloody cold," he muttered after he'd returned from the bath, and blotted at the stains. "Well below freezing if... my knee is a decent indicator. And it usually is. Certainly colder than Hogwarts."

"Mmmm. Did you have a chance to try the heat-packs, before --?" she asked, voice soft.

"No," he admitted. "No time." (He managed not to express his general distrust of the blasted things, or that he now wished he had got round to them. No point in regrets now, though, as Schell would undoubtedly be horrified to have to shop for Muggle items, though he seemed to have access to Muggle literature.)

Tired, knee aching, he had little choice but to take the other chair next to the fire, and to try to lose himself in the bloody Shakespeare.

"Schell will stop by at five," Hermione murmured.

He glanced up, and found her working at a snarl at the end of one lock. "Hasn't actually forgot about us, then?"

"Severus --"

"When did he deign to inform you of that?"

"While you were out," she said, and began to pull the comb through the full length of hair again, the snarl sorted. "He sent round a note. Other than that, it was a very peaceful forty minutes...."

Without you here was the unspoken end to that statement: he might have been insulted had he not already admitted to himself that he was behaving badly. It was one of her gentler jabs, in any case, and she hadn't resorted to them much in the past few days, so he let it pass.

"How fortunate we are that he hasn't forgot about us after all," he muttered.

The soft whisper of comb gliding through hair halted for a moment, and then resumed. "I wish you'd tell me why you're so mistrustful of him."

"I wish," Snape retorted, and gave up on the Muggle hack, tossing the book to the floor, "you'd tell me why you're not."

"I don't have much choice, do I?" she said, not looking at him. "He needs to know the truth about everything to help us."

"And if he's not loyal to us," Snape noted, watching the long, even strokes she made, and the way the light caught at the occasional strand of blonde amongst the brown locks, "then he has more than enough to damn us."

"Not without falsifying our evidence, and only if the ICW knew of and approved the potion," she reminded him. "I understand why you're worried and frustrated, I truly do, Severus. I just think we haven't a reason to mistrust him, not yet."

She was right in particular: Schell didn't seem shifty. He needn't have provided them with comfort items, for example, at least not after he'd got their accounts of the whole bloody mess. But Snape had always worked on the assumption that it was nearly suicidal to trust people in general, until given a very good reason indeed to do so.

That number of the Trusted Elect could be counted on one hand: McGonagall, certainly, and Arthur Weasley; Filch could be depended on to fulfil his duties as best he could, and to keep his mouth shut; Shacklebolt had proven his worth more than once; Alastor Moody, while overly paranoid even by Snape's standards, and although they were not on the best terms, could be counted on to take care of business without Snape fearing a betrayal.

Hagrid could not keep his gigantic blabbermouth shut to save his (or anyone else's) life, and so was disqualified. And Dumbledore....

Where Hermione fit into that scale, Snape was no longer certain. He had felt sure of her earlier, but that little trick with the Polyjuice.... His primary objection to it was that she'd lifted his hair (careless of him to leave it about, true) and must have hidden it from him before finding a use. That is was a use ultimately beneficial to him was sheer luck.

She should have warned me beforehand, he thought, mesmerised by her rhythmic combing. She should have known I wouldn't care for the tactic. She could have found another way.

Just as he could have found another way to free her from the Ministry, and one that wouldn't have landed them precisely where they were.

No, he supposed she'd done the best she could at the time, and with very few options. There was no sense in dredging that up and brooding over it now. And it had been a marvellously sneaky tactic, in the main.

(Not that there weren't Muggleborn Slytherins -- including the most egregious example -- but as late as Snape's school-days, Slytherin House hadn't been particularly congenial to them.)

"Whatever are you thinking about?" she asked, jolting him out of his brown study.

"Nothing at all."

"Liar," she said mildly, laid the comb on the chair-arm, and commenced the complicated weaving and folding that knotting up her hair always entailed. "You looked immensely proud of yourself, just now. What are you plotting?"

"Why should I be plotting anything? I believe you're the one who's done the majority of that recently," he said acidly: and then he reached over and plucked the comb from the chair-arm, pulled every bit of the combings from its teeth, and pointedly tossed them into the fire.

Rather than taking offence, Hermione merely smiled, her elbows above her ears as she wrestled the knot into place and pinned it. (The position did rather lovely things to her breasts, though he couldn't seem to take more than an academic interest in them at the moment.)

Why she should smile he couldn't guess: but he had the nasty feeling that she somehow knew precisely what he'd been thinking.

That didn't please him in the least.

*****

Schell appeared both exhausted and exuberant when he showed up, promptly at five o' clock. (Just as the annoying cuckoo-clock on the far wall hooted, in fact. Snape was determined that his last act in ICW custody would be to smash the damned thing to bits.)

"My clerk delivered the papers to the justices this afternoon," he explained as he took the straight-backed chair. "They will review them in the morning before the hearing."

"Just the charges, or the entire affair?" Hermione asked him.

"The entire affair, as the faked charges should be taken in the context of the whole. They have abstracts of your written testimony, and I will provide them with the actual transcripts if they request them."

"Do you think that likely?" Snape muttered. "Have they the authority to proceed on a totally different matter?"

"They do, and they may -- it will depend on their opinion of the strength of your evidence. Speaking of which.... I haven't yet received one part of it."

"Which?" Hermione asked, suddenly alert.

"The information from, er, Flaherty? The initial evidence that led to your investigation."

"Oh, damn."

"It should have got to DeLaine by now," Snape said, the hair at the back of his neck prickling.

"It hasn't, yet. I spoke to him earlier this afternoon, and he says he's received nothing else from your Professor McGonagall since her first delivery."

Snape cursed, added a "Bloody Weasleys," to cap it off, and tried to ignore the wounded look on Hermione's face.

"It's not absolutely vital for tomorrow," Schell hastened to assure him. "It will be for the other matter, but I'm sure we'll be able to track it down. It will undoubtedly take a few days to summon the necessary witnesses even if the justices do get straight on with it. I think... you should count on staying in Liechtenstein longer than perhaps you hoped."

"Merlin's bloody, fu--"

"It's to be expected, don't you think?" Hermione interrupted him before he could finish the unfortunate phrase. (Schell didn't seem concerned by it. Snape reckoned the man had heard far worse.) "We can't exactly pop back over there right away. We haven't the right identity papers and travel permissions, so we'll have to muck about getting those, assuming...."

She stopped and bit her lip.

"Assuming what?" Snape prodded her.

"Assuming the charges stick to Fudge and Corcoran," she admitted slowly. "If they don't, I can't imagine we'll be welcomed back, shall we? Even if we're thick enough to try."

He hadn't thought of that. He hadn't, and he should have done. The immediacy of the other problems had quite driven the possibility of involuntary exile from his mind.

"I shouldn't dwell on that," Schell said. "From the evidence you've presented, I think you have a very strong case."

"If the Wizengamot divorces itself from Fudge and calls for a new Minister, yes," Snape muttered. "If not.... There's no bloody law that says Britain has to remain in the Confederation, is there? Fudge could persuade them to tell the ICW to sod off."

"No, there's no law. But I hardly think a secession is likely to happen, do you? Law or no, the ICW can make it very unpleasant for dissenting governments. The economic sanctions alone could bankrupt Britain, with the member-nations' cooperation. If worse comes to worst," Schell added, disgracefully cheerful, "France has very liberal Immigration policies now. Skilled and intelligent people such as yourselves, willing to do your part to help with the population problem.... I can't imagine you wouldn't be welcome."

But that didn't cover the problem of willingness to 'help with the population problem,' Merlin help them. Snape wasn't about to condemn himself to raising spawn for the sake of political asylum any more than he was to assuage the Ministry.

"Let's cross that bridge if we come to it," Hermione said firmly. "In the meantime, what can we do to prepare for the hearing?"

"I have copies of your written testimonies here," Schell said, and drew two red-ribboned bundles of parchment from his valise. "I would go over them tonight, to refresh your memories. Other than that, I'm afraid there's not much to do but get a good night's sleep."

"The hearing itself is fairly straightforward," Schell continued. "I've requested that Professor Snape's case be considered first. You'll be asked to identify yourself, and for your plea to the charge. Then I will present the evidence -- largely depositions from all those who dealt with you at Hogwarts on the morning in question -- and I will ask you certain questions to clarify. I'll ask Madam Snape to admit that she engineered the business, and why. Then the justices will cross-examine you, and with any luck, they will dismiss the charges against you immediately."

"Is that likely?" Hermione asked him. "And won't the French be allowed to cross-examine him as well?"

"Not in this case. You were quite canny, Madam Snape -- whether you intended it or not -- in having the transaction occur on Muggle territory. As such it's a violation of the Statute of Secrecy, and that trumps any charges the French might wish to bring against him. You, on the other hand...."

"My case is going to take a bloody long time, on both counts."

"I imagine so. And given that it is so intimately involved with the other matter, I suspect you will... be expected to remain here, in ICW custody. Otherwise I might be able to have you released on your own recognizance. You'd still have to remain in Liechtenstein of course, but not here in Gutenberg unless you wished. Which, come to think of it," Schell added slowly, "isn't necessarily a bad idea, in any case. You feared reprisals, didn't you?"

"That's hardly likely," Hermione objected, and glanced uncertainly at Snape.

"That depends upon how deeply your Auror Service is in the Minister's pocket," Schell countered. "Fairly extreme political... er, harassments are not unknown, although I don't believe any government has ever had the temerity to attempt them in Liechtenstein."

"Assassination, you mean -- call it what it is," Snape barked out. "No, it's not beyond imagining, but I think it unlikely. We have some allies among the Aurors, one of whom has a strong grudge against Corcoran -- though I can't guess his attitude toward Fudge."

"Good, good. I shouldn't take an ICW offer of protection lightly, however. Not until we know for certain how your government will react. Any other questions or concerns?"

"What if the charges stand?" Snape asked, determined to worm the worst out of Schell.

"Then," the man said cautiously, "you'll be detained indefinitely until the justices decide whether to sentence you to the full punishment. In your case, as the transaction occurred between two wizards, it could bring a penalty of two years' imprisonment at the ICW security facility in Vaduz. It's far less onerous than your Azkaban -- there are no Dementors, for example -- though you should not be allowed to practise any magic at all. In Madam Snape's case, however...."

"Yes?" Snape prodded, voice sharp.

"Her case is less clear. If the justices are convinced that she was not responsible for the misrepresentations in the reports, she will not be subject to ICW punishment. They may feel obliged, however, to turn her over to Britain for further prosecution."

"What?"

"She has, of her own admission, stolen highly-classified Ministry documents. It's a matter of convincing the panel that she was entirely justified in doing so, as it was absolutely necessary to prove the conspiracy and to demonstrate the potential harm to the population -- which is precisely what I intend to do," Schell said. "If I am successful and they agree that Minister Fudge and Dennis Corcoran are potentially guilty of gross misconduct toward and imperilment of the citizenry, they may well take her good intent into account."

Hermione didn't seem alarmed by the possibility, as Snape was: her expression remained calm.

"You're saying that my wife's freedom -- bloody hell, her life, given what they'll subject her to in Azkaban -- is dependent on the goodwill of five bloody people?"

"Their goodwill and good sense, yes," Schell admitted. "There are precedents that I intend to bring to their attention, of course. Albus Dumbledore... Hogwarts' last headmaster, yes? ...is a very good example indeed. He was charged with violating the Statute of Secrecy during the Grindelwald war -- collusion with the British Muggle government, informing them of some of Grindelwald's plans -- and cleared of it, over the objections of the British Minister for Magic. So there is a precedent for leniency when the intent of the accused is to prevent harm to the population, whether it is Muggle or Wizard."

Shit. Damn, double damn, and.... Bloody hell.

"One thing at a time, Severus," Hermione murmured. "It probably won't come to that. I'd thought it all through and assessed the risk, really, I had."

"Hermione, you cannot tell me that you're not concer--"

She wasn't, though. Or rather, she was calm about it in a way that wasn't entirely natural: she really had anticipated that she might be sent back to Britain, and she'd made peace with the idea long before now.

It hit him then like the Express at full speed. She'd done it this way deliberately, turning in every bit of evidence from the start -- even the bits that would get her into immense trouble when the potion hadn't been administered to the public yet -- not knowing that they should have to put the plan in action earlier than intended, but in the event that they were able.

"You knew this was possible, didn't you?" he accused. "You knew you might be turned back over to them, and you went ahead anyway even after I told you I wasn't about to allow --"

"As the only other option was to let them dose people with that filth, yes," she said firmly, not bothering to avoid an argument before Schell, and not in the least apologetic. "I'm only one person, Severus, and it would be five years in Azkaban at most. Compared to the damage they'll do to scores of innocent men and women, it's worth the risk."

Right. Five bloody years in Azkaban, sucked hopeless by Dementors, and probably given special "attention" to boot if Fudge avoids prosecution.

He very nearly reached across the table to throttle her, and only prevented himself by wrapping his fingers about the chair-arms instead.

"It can't be helped now," Schell said quietly. "Frankly, I don't intend make it an easy decision for them -- that's why I wanted the cases presented in full context. I've even gone so far as to engage Wolfgang Blücher to testify about the feasibility of the potion, based on the notes you provided."

That was decent news, at least. Blücher was Bluett's equal in Potions, if not Bluett's better (but then he hadn't mucked about with Alchemy at the same time, as the old man always had). Snape shouldn't mind meeting the man, actually -- he'd never done, and had a sneaking admiration for him, given the translations he'd read of Blücher's journal articles.

"I've also prepared requests for warrants to seize the potion... or what you think may be the potion... from St. Mungo's and Mangel and Mortars," Schell added. "With any luck, the Enforcers will make the raids at the same time Fudge and Corcoran receive their summons, and Blücher will have time to analyse it. Assuming the justices proceed with charges against those two, of course."

'Assuming', 'luck', 'possibility'.... Snape wanted to beat his head against the hardest object to hand. Nothing was certain in life, true; and he ought be grateful that Schell was being cautious and forthright, rather than taking the piss and telling them everything would be fine. He simply wasn't used to handing his fate over to someone else, and he was even less thrilled that Hermione's, more tenuous than his own at the moment, was left to the persuasive argument of a man who hadn't proven himself (at least to Snape's satisfaction, as none of the guards would speak with him of Schell's reputation).

"And other documents at Mangel and Mortars?" he asked the man. "The receipt itself should be in the third-level vault, unless my contact was --"

"I spotted that in your account, and yes," Schell said, "that's one of the warrants. I've drawn up a document for a subpoena for Forsythe as well -- if we can locate him."

Hermione had gone very quiet and withdrawn. Snape hoped she stayed that way: he might be able to restrain himself from laying into her for her recklessness if he could ignore, just for an hour or two, that she existed.

"Well, I think that's all, then," Schell said. "Except...."

"What now?" Snape asked.

"Oh, nothing at all bad, quite nice, in fact. I received a parcel for you from Professor McGonagall. The guards have had to search it, of course -- they should be done by now -- and I just want to be certain they get it to you tonight. I'll see you tomorrow at one o' clock, at the court," he said, smiling as he rose and gathered up his valise.

"Thank you, Herr Schell," Hermione said, rousing herself. "We realise this is a rather larger project than you'd thought --"

"Yes, it is, but my dear lady, it's not something you should fret over," Schell said courteously. "I'm... appalled by the situation. Ethics don't allow me to say I approve of some of the steps you've taken, but I certainly understand why you felt them necessary. You needn't worry, either, that your cases are a hardship or that they haven't my full attention."

"I didn't assume otherwise," Hermione murmured as Schell bent over her hand.

"But perhaps your husband has?" Schell asked her, shooting a good-natured look of challenge at Snape.

Schell smiled at Snape's undisguised sneer. "He's very protective of you, isn't he? That's as it should be. Let's see, sir," he added to Snape as he shuffled toward the door, "whether the guards have finished -- and whether they've left the comestibles intact. What, may I ask, are 'CobbleNobbles'?"

Snape followed him to the door, waited until one of the guards opened it and let Schell pass, and then pushed through himself, ignoring the wand pointed at his throat.

"Nein, nein, das ist schon in Ordnung," Schell assured the man. "Wir brauchen einen Moment unter vier Augen, um uns zu beraten. Sind Sie fertig?"

"Ja," the other guard said. "Nix versteckt, aber hierbei sind wir uns nicht so sicher." He glanced at Snape, and covertly showed Schell a copy of The Prophet, pointing to a particular article.

Schell skimmed it, shrugged, and said, "Es spielt keine Rolle für ihre Anhörung. Ich persönlich würde es durchlassen, aber wenn Sie nicht sicher sind, sollten Sie es vom Aufseher genehmigen lassen."

The guard looked doubtfully at Snape, shrugged himself, and then handed parcel and paper to Snape and returned to his post at the top of the stairs; Schell shooed the other man off a few paces.

"Right," Snape said. "What do you think her chances are, truthfully?"

"I can't possibly quantify them," Schell said gravely. "It's foolhardy to do so, Professor Snape, I think you know that. For what it's worth, however, I feel confident that I can persuade the majority to consider the circumstances. Two of the five justices are moderates, one liberal, one very conservative. I anticipate the most trouble from him, and frankly I would counsel you to govern your temper in his court. He has rather an over-inflated opinion of himself, and unlike me is quick to take offence at any perceived disrespect -- no matter that it would come from concern for your wife."

"And the fifth?" Snape pressed him, refusing to apologise. (One was unnecessary in any case, as Schell seemed willing to attribute his testiness to a noble motive)

"Unknown to me," Schell admitted. "He is one of the alternates, and I've never argued a case before him. I'm rather grateful for the substitution, actually -- Snodgrass has always impressed me as an advocate of Minister Fudge, so we may well be better off."

"But if they extradite her --"

"I can appeal an extradition, perhaps delay long enough to see that she can be kept here as a material witness against Fudge and Corcoran in the other matter. After that, all will depend on the state of affairs in Britain." He shrugged, and added in an undertone, "Siquidem remittatur et atque fortunam adversam exspectes, multum potest fieri inter hunc et Londinium, quippe. Non suadeam aut adjuvem conatum fugae, sed noviores res facti sunt."

Snape puzzled through that as quickly as he could -- for his Latin wasn't nearly as comprehensive as he'd led Hermione to believe -- and worked out that Schell had said, in effect, 'Eh, she might always go astray between here and London if it doesn't go well. Not that I could help, mind you, but....'

Snape's previously non-existent respect for Schell inched upward.

"Ego percipio," he muttered, and nodded.

"It's dreadful, simply dreadful," Schell added severely, switching back to English. "I've seldom seen -- in the Wizarding World, at least -- such reckless disregard for the rights of the citizenry."

"That lot bloody well better as well," Snape said as he turned back to the door.

Schell opened it for him, and added in a whisper, "Good evening, then. Do see that she rests tonight, will you? With any luck, she'll have to answer rather a lot of questions tomorrow."

"I shall," Snape said, managing to keep a distinct note of 'What the bloody hell do you think we'd get about, locked up in here?' out of his voice.

The door was barred behind him, and Snape was once again alone with Hermione: his annoying, bright, foolish, disobedient wife, whom he wanted simultaneously to shake until her teeth rattled loose in her head, and....

He settled for dumping the parcel on the table, rummaging through it for the bits pertaining to himself, blatantly hogging all the copies of The Prophet, and ignoring her. The tactic worked for a whole five minutes until she asked, "Anything interesting?"

"Not -- yet," he shot back, not bothering to look up from McGonagall's letter. "Let me finish, will you?"

She didn't answer; but after a moment he heard her shift in her chair, and she pulled the parcel over and began to sort through it.

He indulged in another five minutes' sulking, and then -- as she hadn't interrupted again, save for the rustling of paper and a crunch or two (she'd found the CobbleNobbles, he presumed) -- he decided to reward her restraint. "McGonagall says she hopes all the things have arrived."

No answer from her for a moment, and then she said, "And what does she mean by that?"

"All the evidence, of course."

"Well, that's not good, is it? It hasn't. Arrived, I mean."

"At least she sent it off, so unless it's been lost.... Bloody Vector and her bloody friend, should have guessed."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Ah. Anything else?"

"Hooch hasn't let the buggers blow the classroom to bits."

"I'm sure that's difficult to manage."

He tried to glare at that, and found he couldn't quite manage it: his earlier anger with her seemed to have ebbed somewhat. (Well, what could you expect from a Gryffindor but reckless disregard for their own well-being? He ought to be used to that by now.) He settled for "You've no idea how difficult," tossed the letter to the table as Minerva hadn't included any other helpful information, and started on Friday last's Prophet.

Odd, that he felt much calmer about the whole bloody mess now (save for Hermione's idiocy). It was Schell's attitude, he supposed -- not that the bloody man would help with a more lawless method of keeping Hermione safe, but that he didn't rule it out as an option; and Snape felt better knowing exactly what the procedure should be tomorrow, and that there was an Appeals process in the event that everything went south.

Hermione left him in peace for another three minutes, and then the CobbleNobbles came whizzing across the table toward him and nearly shot off the edge.

"I'll trade you Saturday's Prophet for three biscuits," she wheedled as he stopped the packet before it fell to the floor.

"No deal," he murmured, and peered around the edge of the paper. "In future, do not give away your major bargaining-point until you've actually got the concession in hand." And just to drive the point home he deposited the packet in his lap, shoved one of the disgusting biscuits into his mouth, and returned to reading Page Three. He heard the beginnings of a protest -- quickly strangled -- and then a disgusted mutter as she pawed through the parcel once more.

That'll learn you, he thought sagely as he chewed away, and marvelled a bit at the sea-change in his emotions. He didn't feel in the least like strangling Hermione at the moment: if anything, he felt -- besides smug -- very nearly flirtatious, if not in quite what he supposed was the conventional way. He'd never had much patience with people who played hard-to-get, and always felt the tactic beneath him unless there were significant stakes and one-upmanship involved; but this situation was actually enjoyable.

Then again, there was one-upmanship involved: proving to Hermione that he didn't approve at all of what she'd done, but couldn't be bothered to lose his temper about it, or behave as though he was unduly concerned for her... even if he was, and even if he wanted an apology without having to rage for it.

He took pity on her eventually, flicked Friday's Prophet across the table with what he hoped was a magnanimous expression on his face, and picked up Saturday's, the one the guard had had reservations about.

There was something of interest in the bloody paper, after all: a tiny snippet in one corner of Page Two, with the header 'Ministry Employee Missing After Arrest.'

"Listen," he said, sitting upright. "'Unnamed sources at the Ministry have leaked information to this reporter regarding the disappearance of Hermione Snape, Consultant for Wizarding Populations --' Good gods, I wonder whose arm they twisted to get it published? ' -- who has not been seen since the afternoon of Thursday last. The sources claim Madam Snape did not return to her office on the Third Level after luncheon, and that her flat in a Muggle neighbourhood has been sealed by order of MLE.' The Weasleys are their source, no doubt."

He waited for a response, but none came: so he resorted to lowering the paper to gauge her reaction.

She was totally oblivious to him, still curled in a ball in the chair, with a drab night-gown -- one of Minerva's extras, judging by the tartan (he had, unfortunately, a passing and totally innocent acquaintance with Minerva's taste in such things) -- and was staring at a bit of parchment in her hand.

"What?" he barked out, irritated with her inattention, and only then noticed that her eyes and nose had gone pink.

"Nothing," she said, and snuffled, and clumsily shifted her bum from the chair and made for the bath, dropping both gown and letter in her haste.

He waited until Hermione had closed the door to the bath, dove for the letter, and examined it.

It wasn't from Minerva at all: it wasn't even a proper letter, but a clumsy, hand-drawn and -coloured little valentine, of all things, complete with hearts and flowers, from Marsters, Snape saw when he checked the inner page.

The disgusting little verse awkwardly calligraphed on the heart -- which had been altered, if the roughness of the parchment and re-painted red of the heart was any indicator -- was even worse than the gesture as a whole:

The stupid boy hadn't been content to leave it at that, though: he'd scribbled a note on the inside.

He heard water running in the bathroom basin, put the valentine back precisely as she'd dropped it, and returned to the paper and the interesting article before she returned and caught him snooping.

"Minerva being a sentimental twit, I presume?" he asked Hermione has she tottered back to her chair.

"No," she muttered. "Marsters, actually. And he wasn't a twit, he's concerned about us, that's all. I think it's sweet."

"Ah."

"He says the Slytherins are acting like real pillocks about the whole business, they're so excited," Hermione added with a sniff as she tidied up the letter and night-gown.

"Well, they would," he said idly, ignoring egregious Gryffindor hyperbole: there was nothing at all wrong with boasting a bit. "Matter of House pride."

"D'you want to see it?" she offered.

He lowered the paper, and squinted at the nasty little valentine as she held it out for him. "Scansion's deplorable," he noted, refused to take it, and went back to the paper.

"Severus, he's all of thirteen or so. You're just narked that he appreciates Gryffindors."

Even he had to admit that it was peevish to be jealous of such a pitiful specimen as Marsters. He should worry about such a juvenile attitude, he supposed, but, tired of the introspection to which he'd already subjected himself that day, he went back to the article instead.

"Merlin's balls," he muttered involuntarily.

"What?"

"Didn't you say that Ministry researcher's name was Lakewood?"

"Yes, why?"

"He's disappeared, all right -- literally. At least according to the writer of this."

"Are you joking?" Hermione said, bolted from her chair, and bent over his shoulder to read.

"Oh, God," Hermione whispered.

"Did you know any of --"

"Teddington, he was Lakewood's assistant. I don't recognise the others."

"Bloody hell," Snape said, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, catching a whiff of warm sweet almond from Hermione's skin -- and just managed to stop himself from groping for her hand where it rested on the chair-arm, as she'd propped her weight on it. "They didn't have the sense to shut up and keep their heads down as you did, did they?"

"Lakewood didn't," she said. "He was livid, as I told Schell, and didn't mind who knew. I suppose Teddington asked too many questions after he disappeared. Do you think we ought to show this to Schell tomorr-- "

"He's seen it, the guard showed it to him before they let me have it. He's probably already putting out inquiries, I imagine."

"Oh." Snape felt her body shift, felt her eyes light on him, and her voice went a bit queer as she asked, "You've done an about-face on him, I think. Why?"

"Because he didn't bother trying to feed me tripe about the consequences," Snape muttered. "And because he dropped the silly-arse, excruciatingly polite Continental routine when we stepped outside."

"Told you to behave yourself tomorrow, didn't he?" Hermione asked.

He grunted, and Hermione stifled a snort.

"What about me?" she added softly. "Am I forgiven yet, or are you going to stay monosyllabic all night?"

No, she bloody well wasn't forgiven: he felt it would take a very long time, and a favourable outcome, to get to that point; but on the other hand, it wouldn't do a damned bit of good to make her feel badly all evening. (Moreover, she'd guessed what had ticked him off so badly, even if she wasn't apologising, and had implicitly agreed that he had a right to be upset.) He decided that a lecture on recklessness and disobedience could wait: the hearing would not, and she needed to be fresh for that.

He split the difference, wordlessly handing her back the biscuit-packet.

"That could be taken both ways, you know," she said, voice wry as she took it from him, stood, and moved back to her chair. "These are awful -- they're even more sugary than Kimberleys. What does McGonagall see in them?"

"Could be worse," he muttered, ignoring whatever the hell 'Kimberleys' were. "Might have sent haggis. She adores it, and thinks everyone else should as well."

After four and a half days of German cuisine, though, he rather thought he had a better appreciation for good, plain Scots cookery -- oats, sheeps' stomachs, and all.

Hermione seemed content with his offer of truce: she settled down with the biscuits and worked through each newspaper after he'd finished them, and -- contrary to his expectations -- she allowed him a quiet dinner, undisturbed by nattering or game plans. (There wasn't much to plot, in any case: walk in, tell the truth, hope bloody Schell knew what he was about and got them off with slaps on the wrist. Nothing to it, as long as he kept his temper.)

After dinner they both reviewed their testimony in silence until bed-time, and then took turns in the bath: he last, what with the need to sit up for a while to let the damned dinner settle.

He didn't join Hermione in their bed until she'd been asleep long enough to begin dreaming. She must have been for some time, in fact, as he was deep in the so-called erotica of Nigellus' Priscilla (he wasn't about to let Hermione know he read such trash -- and ineffectual trash, at that, as it didn't do a thing to rouse his interest), and her whimpers had got quite loud by the time he noticed.

He knew from experience that she would end up sobbing quite loudly, without ever waking herself up -- how she managed that he couldn't imagine as he always jolted awake in a terror-stricken sweat, and he envied her the deepness of her sleep -- and so he sighed, shoved Priscilla back to the bottom of the reading-pile, heaved himself out of the chair, and slipped into his side of the bed, carefully spooning up behind her. It had worked twice or thrice before, simply making contact between their bodies -- cuddling, he supposed some would call it, and sneered at the thought... or at least it worked until she would wake and realise how close he was to her. He couldn't tell why it worked, but only knew that it did, and as she badly needed a restful sleep tonight....

He reached about her waist and spread his hand against her belly, just under her ribs, and settled himself into the pillow -- her pillow, as he was too far over for his -- and tried to ignore the tickle of her hair against his nose, and that she'd used the almond soap again, and that the little wizard -- his cock, damn it -- appreciated the way she smelled, and was finally, at the worst possible moment, threatening a resurrection. (He'd have to investigate this odd connection between his nose and cock someday, he really would. Vector's scent was pleasant as well, but had never seemed to prick his interest in the way Hermione's did.)

Hermione stirred a bit, and wriggled back into his body -- not good for certain bits of his anatomy, under the circumstances -- but her whimpers eventually slacked off.

She fell into a more regular pattern of breathing and her limbs relaxed without him having to murmur any nonsensical idiocy about everything being 'all right,' and that she was 'safe.' Because she wasn't, really: and he was loathe to tell her that kind of lie, even if she shouldn't consciously remember it in the morning. He couldn't quite bring himself to move away from her, either, to allow himself a more comfortable sleep; and the last thing he remembered thinking clearly, before he dropped off with a crick already well-established in his neck and with his cock at half-mast, was Oh my silly, stupid little girl, why couldn't you leave well enough alone? Wasn't the war enough, that you had to add this to your... to both our burdens?

It didn't occur to him that there was no bite in the sentiment and name-calling: only pity, and an immense amount of regret.

*****

Wednesday, February 15th

Snape required another bath first thing the next morning. He elected for hot, to counteract the pain in his neck (not to mention the pain in his arm, which had gone quite dead from being snugged up under his head half the night): cold might have been a better choice for other reasons, but on the whole he decided he'd put up with acting like a hormonal little wanker and give his glands an outing under his own power -- and so he soaped up and did what had to be done.

Hermione had, in point of fact, twisted in his arms in the middle of the night, and when he woke he'd found her twined about him, one leg thrown over his hip. She was still fast asleep; and while he hadn't before had any compunctions about taking an invitation even if she were unconscious of it, he'd seemed unable to bring himself to wriggling lower in the bed to do so, even if he intended to make certain that she was just as satisfied as he.

(Or he would have thought that, had he not been intent on trying to convince himself that his hand and a bloody bar of soap were suitable substitutes for Hermione. They weren't, and his body tried to tell him as much, but he did what he'd done all his life in practically everything, and made do.)

What he did stop to think about, sinking further down into the water after a surprisingly disappointing and paltry ejaculation (considering how long it had been since his last), was whether he would ever again be able to touch Hermione properly, without feeling that disgusting sense of guilt.

He doubted it. He doubted it very, very much, even as he knew (now with proof, thankfully) that the guilt wouldn't interfere too terribly much with his... functioning.

It took a great deal, sometimes, to make him realise how badly off the mark he'd been -- he knew that about himself, and had for a long while: that bothered him very seldom, for he was who and what he was, and everyone else could go hang. But somewhere in his mental make-up was a highly developed sense of shame as well, although he was damned if he could figure out how he'd acquired it, and that shame did rankle. (Dumbledore had knocked it into him somewhere along the line, he supposed.)

He could live with shame and guilt, if need be. He'd done terrible things while a Death Eater, and come to peace with the necessity of them: he could do the same now, assuming there would be the opportunity after today. He could ignore his conscience, blithely go whither his cock led him, and try to make it up to Hermione in other ways.... Except he didn't appreciate that approach, either. He was willing to admit that his body, like many mens', had a mind of its own: he was not willing to admit that it deserved supremacy over his mind, or over that blasted conscience. He wasn't some rutting animal without control of himself, after all.

He wasn't capable, in short, of justifying his earlier errors by excusing his behaviour with biological desires -- not needs, but desires. And what a bloody shame that was, that he'd done so from the first and laid himself open to this guilt and regret now, especially as --

There wasn't any point in going down that road. What was done, was done. Never mind that Hermione seemed to be warming to him (finally): he suspected it had come too late. (It never came too late in the pornographic drivel with which he sometimes amused himself: the female always, with varying degrees of protest, gave in at long last and submitted -- in a quite unconvincing manner, true, but still -- to the male, who unilaterally accepted credit for mastering and "enlightening" her.)

Odd. He didn't feel in the least the master of the situation, or of Hermione -- at least, not any longer. Which just went to show that Snape was entirely correct: all those bloody scribblers, whether romantic idiots or the most blatant smutmongers, didn't know one fucking thing about how people really felt and acted, and catered to the worst impulses of human nature without a single thought as to the consequences that real people had to bear.

He should have to think over the consequences for him and Hermione later -- much later, when they were out of all this, and when he wasn't sitting in a tub of rapidly-cooling water with the evidence of his lack of control floating amid the soap-scum.

Feeling much worse than he had before he'd relieved himself, he clambered out of the tub, dressed himself all the way to his frock-coat, and joined Hermione for breakfast.

"Are you all right?" she asked as he seated himself at the table.

"Fine," he muttered, and unfurled his napkin. "Why do you ask?"

"You woke me, when you got up -- you seemed rather stiff as you walked to the bath."

He ignored the potential for mockery in the statement -- she hadn't meant it that way, after all, she was still too innocent to play that sort of word-game -- and instead murmured something about sleeping wrong, and his back-muscles being sore.

"Oh. I hope you feel better," she said levelly as she poured him a cup of coffee. "I don't imagine the chairs in the court will be very comfortable."

Her solicitousness made him feel all the worse.

*****

They were sent for just after eleven o'clock, and marched to a courtroom several levels below their tower: the bailiff (for lack of the appropriate German word, not that Snape cared) consulted with their guards, and Hermione was abruptly escorted off to an anteroom while he was ushered into the court proper.

The justices were seated on a high dais at the far end of the room, and looked to a man -- even the sole woman looked like a man -- like the most dried-up, sour specimens of wizard-kind ever produced. (Snodgrass, the British representative who'd been recused, was over in one corner, and glowered at Snape as though he were personally responsible for her temporary demotion.... Then again, he was.)

Schell stood at a table near the front, in a ridiculous robe and wig which did nothing at all to demean his dignity, and nodded a greeting as Snape took the Defendant's box.

"This court is in session," the eldest justice (judging by the length of his beard) proclaimed, and raked Snape with a jaundiced eye as the Dicta-Quill in the corner began to race across parchment. "Herr Schell informs us that your German is not... as we could wish, and so we've cast a translation charm."

It nearly killed Snape to say it, but he managed a "Thank you," through clenched teeth.

"Your name and nationality?"

"Severus Snape. British."

"Your occupation -- and," the old coot added disdainfully, "classification."

"Potions Master, Hogwarts School. Wizard First-Class, Magister First, Magus Second and Three-Quarters."

That shocked the bastard, though Snape wasn't certain whether it was because he knew the old system and knew precisely how he ranked, or that a lowly schoolmaster had nearly attained Mage First-Class. (Why he hadn't yet was a tale for another day, damn Dumbledore's rheumy old eyes.) He ought to have given the secret sign as well: that really would have put the old fart's knickers in a twist, thinking Snape might be a member of the Cognoscenti.... Though, in truth, the Cognoscenti was nothing more than a glorified club consisting of Mages and Mage-Elects, and Snape had declined to undergo any initiation which involved prancing about bare-arsed in nothing but a pair of Lapland reindeer antlers. (Snape knew there would be a good use for the sign someday, and so he'd winkled it out of Dumbledore -- though it had taken a disgraceful amount of whisky to do it; he just wasn't sure it was worth wasting on the bastard up on the dais, so he refrained.)

"The charge against you," the Elder said (once he'd regained his composure), "is Violation of the Statute of Secrecy, to wit, the sale of Illegal Potions upon Muggle soil. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," Snape said coolly.

"You understand the severity of the charge, sir? It could only be worse if it were a transaction between wizard and Muggle."

"I'm aware of that," was all he said.

"Very well. Since this is the most serious charge and any ancillary charges hinge upon your guilt in this matter, we will dispose of this first. Especially," the Elder said with a glare at Schell, "as we discovered the case in totality to be rather more tangled than was originally represented to us."

Schell smiled, a particularly beatific and innocent one: Snape had the sudden impression that he'd found a harmless-looking -- but deadly -- viper in the midst of a rock-garden, and thanked Merlin that the viper was on his side.

"I do beg the court's pardon," Schell apologised, innocence turned to contriteness. "The evidence of the wider matter only came into my hands on Monday."

The Elder snorted, waved a hand, and stated his unconscious agreement with Snape with a "Go on, you old reprobate."

Schell smoothed the lapels of his robes, regained his gravitas, and turned to Snape. "Professor Snape, where were you on the morning of Monday, January Fifteenth of this year?"

"Where I've been nearly every Monday in January for the last seventeen years -- teaching a Potions-classroom full of idiots at Hogwarts."

Snodgrass huffed at that, and scribbled in a little notebook she pulled from her pocket: that would be winging its way to the Board of Governors faster than you could say 'Merlin's hairy arse.'

"Are you certain, sir?" one of the other justices asked Snape.

"Quite, and for all day. I breakfasted in the Great Hall from Seven to Seven-forty, prepared for class until Eight, taught the First-Years from Eight to Eight-Fifty --"

"Should we even bother to go through all this?" the female justice interrupted wearily. "You know he," she said with a jab of her wart-laden chin at Schell, "always has his hoops covered."

"We all read the briefs," a violently red-headed and -bearded justice added. "I vote we get on with it."

"Hand over the evidence, Willi," the Elder said waspishly -- after glaring at his juniors -- and "Willi" motioned to his clerk, who nipped around the table and deposited a huge stack of parchments on the edge of the dais. The youngest justice -- the red-headed man -- fetched them and passed them out among the other justices: each stack was nearly five inches thick.

"What are the blasted things?" the elder grumbled, staring short-sightedly at the topmost document.

"Depositions from the staff and students at Hogwarts, accounting for Professor Snape's whereabouts on the morning of the fifteenth -- the entire morning, and until his free period at about three o' clock," Schell added smugly. "I think you will agree with me that it is impossible for Professor Snape to have left Hogwarts and arrived in Calais in less than one minute, and the FAS report claims that the transaction and further observation of the perpetrator took up another thirty minutes. Not enough time for him to have returned without his absence being noticed, particularly --"

"He might have left breakfast early," the red-headed man shot at Schell.

"-- As I was about to say, particularly as there is only one hour's difference between Hogwarts and Calais. Very good try, Raymonde."

"Apparition?" the Elder shot at Schell.

"He's restricted, unable to leave the boundaries of Britain under his own power. His absence would have been noted, even with aid -- and yes, I've had the British Overseas Apparition logs checked," Schell said rapidly, to cut off the Elder's next accusation, and his clerk trotted forward to deposit the proof on the dais.

"The period between classes?" Warty-Chin asked sharply.

"Accounted for, by students held back to clean up their messes."

"Time-Turner?" a nondescript, dark-skinned wizard with more hair than flesh asked.

"All British Time-Turners are issued by the Ministry, none are missing, and no-one at Hogwarts currently has access. Or had at the time, either."

(Schell's clerk was getting quite a work-out -- at each point, he had to pull the relevant documents and run them up to the dais. Snape could see a sheen of sweat already beading the young wizard's brow.)

"Woden's hairy pelt, then why did the FAS think he was in Calais?" the Elder bellowed.

"Because to all appearances he was. Polyjuice, sir, polyjuice."

"You're saying he was set up?"

"Precisely, sir."

"Why?"

"To get him out of Britain, of course," Schell said, astonished, as if it should be self-evident. (Snape wasn't certain whether he wanted to smack the old liar or... no, he wanted to smack him: the lovable old coot routine grew old quickly. He preferred Schell's Quaint Old Gentleman incarnation of the past week-end.) "He is a material witness in the larger matter -- which I will relate to you in due course -- and, as his government would not allow him to leave the country, the perpetrator... the planner, rather, arranged it so he should appear to be breaking an ICW law. The Enforcers arrest him, remove him from British soil -- and problem solved."

"Is this true, sir?" the Elder barked at Snape. "Was this done with your consent?"

"I believe it to be true, but I knew nothing at all about it until I was in ICW custody," Snape barked back.

"And if we asked you to prove that assertion under Veritaserum, your answer would be the same?"

"Yes," Snape said, sincerely hoping they wouldn't require it. (Not that they were likely to stumble over anything awful.... No, on second thought, they might. He'd committed so many malfeasances that he'd forgot more than he could remember unaided.)

"And I suppose you have a witness who can confirm this?" the Elder continued, staring at Schell.

"Why, I do. The person who planned it, actually. With your permission, sir?"

The Elder waved his hand as if to swat at a gnat; Schell sent his clerk trotting out of the court to fetch Hermione, presently came back with Hermione and her guard in tow, and escorted her to the Witness-stand.

"Name and nationality!" the Elder shouted.

Hermione jumped a bit, regained her composure, and said, "Hermione Granger Snape. British."

"A relation, eh?"

"Yes, wife."

"Occupation and classification?"

"Populations Consu-- ...Former Populations Consultant, Wizarding Resources, the British Ministry." She stopped there, confused with the second part of the question. Snape could tell the admission of former hurt her: her cheeks flushed, and she held her clenched fists at her side (probably to keep from twiddling with the bits of hair already escaping their knot).

"And...?" the Elder prodded her, looking pleased with her confusion.

"Witch First-Class, Magistra First, easily, and Magus... I should think Second," Snape supplied. "Owing to her youth, primarily, otherwise I should say Two-and-a-Half. She wouldn't know the old system, it's no longer used in Britain -- as I'm sure you know."

"And what qualifies you to --"

"I was her teacher for seven years," Snape shot back. "I fought beside her in the second war against the Dark... against Voldemort. We have been married for three... four months, now, and I have seen enough demonstrations of her skill and power to be confident in the assessment."

The Elder harrrumphed, and nodded to Schell to get on with it.

"Madam Snape, can you tell us why the FAS might have the mistaken impression that your husband was in Calais on the morning of January Fifteenth?" Schell asked her.

"Possibly because I arranged that they should think he was," she replied.

The Elder snorted at that: Schell ignored him, and continued. "Was he aware of your, erm, machinations?"

"No, not at all. I quite deliberately didn't tell him of the measures taken."

"And those were --?"

"The delivery of totally legal and harmless potions -- though they were not represented as such -- by someone impersonating him."

"By Polyjuice?"

"Yes."

"Which would have been easy for you to provide, as you had easy access to the, ah, necessary material."

"Yes. A strand of hair, to be precise."

"Who," the Elder demanded, "impersonated your husband?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, lying rather brilliantly. "It was arranged by letters delivered through anonymous drops. Amazing, what you can accomplish with enough money."

(Snape wished she hadn't lied, the Weasleys be damned. If they got Veritaserum down her gullet, it would be yet another charge against her.)

"Oskar," Schell said plaintively, "she is my witness, you know. May I continue?"

'Oskar' sneered at 'Willi,' who smiled back; and then he subsided back in his chair, muttering, and nodded at Schell to go ahead.

"Madam Snape, it seems a... very elaborate plan," Schell said earnestly, his attention back to Hermione. "Would you tell the court why you felt it necessary?"

"Because we needed -- or rather, we should need, at some point -- to get out of Britain. I am still allowed to travel... or was... but Severus was not. I wasn't about to leave him behind under any circumstances, so I came up with the plan for a trumped-up charge and set it in motion," Hermione said calmly.

Snape gripped the box's rail more tightly.

"Any particular reason," Warty-Chin interrupted, "that he wasn't arrested immediately?"

Hermione shrugged. "You'd have to ask the FAS. My husband would say that it's French inefficiency, of course, but I can't speculate."

(The red-headed justice seemed offended by that: probably a bloody Frog, Snape guessed.)

"Thank you," Schell said serenely. "That's all for now, Madam Snape. Bailiff, if you would take her back to --"

"Hang on a moment --" the Elder blustered. "She hasn't said why they needed to --"

"All in good time, Oskar," Schell sang under his breath. "The matter at hand is Professor Snape's guilt or innocence in regard to the charge, not the reason for Madam Snape's little deception. Agreed?"

The Elder glowered at Schell again: Schell remained stock-still, staring him down, until the Elder gave in. "Fine," the Elder muttered. "I'm warning you, Willi -- this had better be good. You've mounted some odd defences before, but this takes the Sacher-torte--"

"Thank you. I assure you, it will become clear. Eventually. Bailiff?"

The bailiff escorted Hermione from the Witness-stand: Snape tried to catch her eye as she passed, but she kept her face resolutely forward, her expression calm.

"So," Schell said, pacing back and forth behind his table once the doors had closed behind her, "I have provided you with evidence -- copious evidence -- that Professor Snape was nowhere near Calais on the morning of January Fifteenth, but at Hogwarts School, in front of no less that two witnesses at any one time, and often in the presence of hundreds. You have evidence that he could not have nipped off to Calais by Apparition or Time-Turner, and Broom-Flight is automatically ruled out as there are governors on all British brooms -- and, again, we must rule that out by virtue of the timeframe in any case. You have the testimony of the person responsible for arranging for a double -- a doppelgänger in the true sense -- who admits that it was done without his knowledge and permission."

"She's his wife, Willi," the Elder argued. "Of course she's going to work like the dickens to get him off."

(Snape appreciated that the translation charm did a nice job of colloquialisms; he did not appreciate the unintentional double-entendres. Or perhaps he was becoming too much a randy old man, reading into everything....)

"Take the evidence as a whole, and the conclusion is inescapable. I shall ask you to be patient a while longer, and you'll see why Madam Snape had excellent reasons for acting as she did, and without Professor Snape's participation. The Defense rests, and I call," Schell added, drawing himself up to his full height, "for a judgement from the panel."

That was all, apparently. The Elder justice stared at Snape with suspicious, beady eyes, and then glared at Schell: and then he dispersed the translation charm with a wave of his hand, and the panel debated Snape's fate amongst themselves in very fast, very garbled German. They resembled nothing so much as a murder of ancient crows, in their black robes and caps -- a murder of crows hunched about a metaphoric gibbet; and the harsh consonants of the language did absolutely nothing to dispel the image.

(Snodgrass still sat in the corner, scribbling away. Snape imagined the Board of Governors were going to get a blow-by-blow account of the whole mucky mess.)

The Elder eventually drew himself upright, re-spelled the translation charm, and snapped, "The prisoner is found innocent, and the case is dismissed. Happy, Willi?"

"Of course, Oskar," Schell said brightly. "On to the next?"

"We want a cocoa break," the Elder muttered, obviously sulking and making no effort whatever to conceal it. "Re-convene in twenty minutes."

The justices rose and made for a side-room, and presently Snape, Schell, and the clerk were the only occupants of the court.

It took a great deal of conscious effort for Snape to pry his fingers from the box-rail.

"That's it, then," Schell said. "You're free to go, Professor Snape."

"Is that it?" Snape demanded as he stepped down -- carefully -- from the box. "You expect that bunch of half-mad, senile sods to deal with Hermione fairly?"

"They did you," Schell said, and his clerk sniggered and turned away at Snape's glare.

"Schell --"

"This was just the... the curtain-raiser? It was a very calm proceeding, in fact," Schell continued, stuffing his notes on Snape's case into his valise. "When Oskar is feeling frisky and Kitty argues a point too far with him, he's been known to pull a boot off and pound it on the table to get her to shut up."

"That fool bellowed at my wife purely to intimidate her."

"Of course he did, Professor, Oskar always does when he wants to see how straightforward and honest a witness is, whether they're on guard or concealing things. He didn't bother with you because he decided from the first that you are of a more... shifty character."

Snape wanted to rip the twinkle out of Schell's eyes and shove it down the man's throat.

"They barely looked at the evidence. They hardly examined me --"

"They didn't need to, it was all in the brief. Moreover, Oskar and I have known each other for a very, very long time," Schell said, turning his full attention back to Snape. "He knows that I do not represent clients in whom I have no confidence of innocence, and I know he'll pick holes in any argument that I'm careless with -- that is our understanding of each other, and we trust each other insofar as the law allows us. No, they aren't lacking in humour and eccentricities, Professor Snape... except for Snodgrass, she has, as you British say, a broomstick up her bum? But they take their job very seriously nonetheless."

Snape leaned back against the table and gripped the edge of it, feeling splinters of rougher wood on the underside tease his fingers, threatening to tear even that hard-callused skin. (He had to do something with his hands, or they might find their way to someone's throat.)

"They organise their day this way, from the least serious charges to the most," Schell said kindly, all levity gone. "I think you'll find that they give Madam Snape's case the consideration it deserves. The best thing you can do is wait in the anteroom, and --"

"No. No, I bloody well will not be out of the room when she has to face those -- those --"

"You're a witness, Professor, and it's not customary for witnesses to --"

"I'm also implicated in the other matter, and I have an interest in seeing that they understand how important it is," Snape hissed. "And I don't care what it customary. If it isn't disallowed outright, I will be in this court in fifteen minutes' time."

Schell sighed, seemed to consider his options -- throwing Snape out, or begging the indulgence of the court -- and apparently decided that of the two, begging "Oskar's" indulgence was the less injurious to his health.

"Tell me this. Will it help her to have you here, or harm her?" Schell quietly asked him.

"What do you mean?" Snape demanded.

"Will having you in the court set her at ease, or put her more on edge?" Schell said, face grave. "I have no doubt that you care for your wife, Professor Snape, I can see that, even if you demonstrate it in a very... unusual way. But I have also noted that it's a bit of an adversarial relationship, as well -- nothing wrong with that in commonplace matters, I'm not suggesting that. But will it put her under more strain than if she were on her own, dealing with only them?"

Snape struggled with the thought for a moment, and then admitted, the words tasting bitter as wormwood, "I don't know."

"I'll have Karl ask her then, shall I?" Schell said; and he crossed to his clerk (who had, sensibly, removed himself to the other side of the courtroom), whispered to him, and sent him out, bound to ask Hermione if she wanted Snape's presence or not.

Wanted him, or not.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose tight, hoping that might prevent the explosion of frustrated temper he felt building somewhere behind his eyes.

Schell left him in peace for a moment; and then after some determined rummaging through his valise, he pulled out a flask and nudged Snape's elbow. "Some refreshment? If Oskar must have his elevenses cocoa -- and he must, you don't want to see what he's like without it -- no reason we can't."

"No," Snape muttered, and added a belated "Thank you."

"Pity," Schell said as he uncapped the flask. "My healer won't let me have coffee any longer. It's Earl Grey...."

Indeed it was; the heady scent of bergamot wafted over to Snape, soothing in its familiarity.

"On second thought...." he murmured, and turned to find Schell, hand outstretched, already offering him a cup; he took it and sipped, and let the tea seep down his gullet to soothe the icy knot forming in his chest.

"I didn't intend to give offence."

"I shouldn't have taken any," Snape said after a deep breath. "I can't quite seem to...."

"Accept that anyone other than you might have her best interests foremost? Be best able to protect her? I don't know any husband of my acquaintance who doesn't feel the same," Schell retorted good-naturedly.

"And they're justified in feeling so, I would imagine -- in most circumstances. On their home ground. But this isn't mine," Snape said, examining the courtroom (anything to avoid meeting Schell's wise, understanding eyes). "No potion I brew can save her if they find her guilty. No advice I give will matter --. not in this situation, at any rate. Nothing at all that I can do to... help her," he muttered, staring down into the cup of tea, "not any longer."

"Quite right. Not any longer. Your job is done, you see. You've kept her safe all this time -- not a small thing, judging by the evidence, for which you have my admiration -- and now it's my turn. Which is not to say you don't have a job to do now," Schell suggested delicately, and sipped at his tea. "Primarily by keeping your temper, as much for her benefit as for Oskar's. If she is worrying about your reactions, distracted by what you might be thinking, then I won't be able to do my best by and for her. I need her total attention on my questions, on the way I ask them, and on answering me as completely as she can."

"I understand."

"I thought you should, once you could see the difficulty." Schell poured Snape another cup of tea, and added, "For what it's worth, she impresses me as a very bright young woman, Professor Snape. She is honest -- in the main," he added with a sly smile, "and presents herself very forthrightly. I truly doubt that we shall have much trouble shifting Oskar's attention to the real criminals."

Karl the clerk returned to the courtroom, and informed them both, in rather worse English than Schell's, "Madam Snape prefers that her husband remain. Unless he otherwise wishes."

"Good, thank you very much, Karl. You told her the verdict in Professor Snape's case, and that it would only be a few more minutes' wait?"

"Yes, Magister."

"Very good.... Drink up, Professor Snape, Oskar will be most displeased if he catches us imbibing."

Snape raised his tea-cup to his lips, and nearly dropped it when the courtroom doors banged open. It took him a moment to recognise the man underneath the layers of muffler: what should have been a shock of red hair was almost completely white with frost.

"Bloody hell, Weasley -- You'd damned well better have --"

"Sorry," Ron Weasley muttered as he stumbled toward the Defence-table, shedding flakes of ice and water-droplets every step of the way as he unwound the muffler. "I was out of town, and Laura didn't know what McGonagall was talking about."

"You've very nearly destroyed Hermione's testimony for lack of evidence, I hope you realise that."

Weasley stopped dead and glared at Snape. "I left home at one o'clock this morning, less than ten minutes after I got back the first time -- bugger, I didn't know there was anyplace bloody colder than bloody Hogwarts . Flew all morning through the grottiest bloody weather.... You owe me an overhaul on my broom, you ungrateful git, I'm sure the stabiliser's bolloxed from all the ice --"

"Who --?" Schell tried to interject.

"Where is it, Weasley?"

Weasley fumbled at his coat-clasps with numb fingers.

"Which is this, Frederik or George?" Schell whispered, tugging at Snape's coat-sleeve.

"Neither. Even they wouldn't cut something this important this finely."

"I told you --" Weasley retorted through chattering teeth. "And I'm Ron. Ronald."

"Oh, and you have Flaherty's documents? Goody," Schell said, and hopped about, unable to contain his anticipation. "Karl, quickly, come -- I shall need you to do a transla-scription for me before the panel comes back in --"

Weasley finally got his blasted coat open, fiddled with a knotted rope that held whatever-it-was to his chest, and withdrew... a soggy, stuffed pink rabbit. One ear looked as though a garden-gnome had been chewing at it.

Snape, Schell, and Karl all stared at Weasley: he stared back, the ridiculous toy clenched in his hand, and then shrugged and said, "It's what she gave me. Threatened to hex me silly if I mucked about with it, so I didn't try to undo the transfiguration."

"She's transfigured it," he managed to tell Schell. "It's... it was all of Flaherty's original notes, and documents from Mangel and Mortars."

"Actually," Schell said thoughtfully, and delicately plucked the rabbit away from Weasley, "I think it will be far more impressive this way."

Schell giggled -- not chuckled, but giggled -- and handed the toy to Karl. "Put it in the valise, Karl, and let's get the tea-things cleared away too."

"Is that --?" Weasley said faintly. "Blimey, I feel like an ice-cube."

Schell smiled and handed Weasley the flask, and the man gulped what was left of the tea straight from it: Karl took it from him with a smile and a nod when he was finished, and took Schell and Snape's cups as well, and burrowed into Schell's valise -- it must be a bottomless one -- to stow cups, flask, and rabbit out of sight.

"Am I allowed to stay?" Weasley whined. "I don't know what the hell it's all about. And if Hermione's in that much trouble I bloody well want to --"

"I should prefer that you do stay, even if not in the courtroom," Schell said, rapidly flipping through his notes and scribbling marginalia. "I may need you to testify that the... documents have been in your possession all this time."

"Right-o, no problem," Weasley said (damn him), and struggled out of his sodden coat.

The anteroom-door banged open, and the justices trudged back in. (Oskar must have enjoyed his cocoa: there were stains of it in his beard.)

"Ready, Willi?" he barked at Schell.

"Almost, Oskar.... Karl, would you fetch Madam Snape, please?"

Karl scurried for the corridor.

"And who is that dribbling water on my floor?" Oskar bellowed. (Weasley nearly jumped out of his frost-bit skin.)

"Ronald Weasley, Oskar," Schell said in his most soothing voice. "He has flown a very long way in very bad weather to be certain that we have important evidence."

"Well, let him go dribble somewhere else --"

"I may need him to testify, firstly. And secondly, he is a British wizarding citizen in good standing who has every right to observe the proceedings, with your permission."

(Snodgrass, hunched over in the corner of the dais, scribbled Weasley's name down in her blasted notebook for posterity -- though Snape was pleased that she glared at Weasley every bit as nastily as she had Snape himself.)

"Fine," Oskar admitted grudgingly. "But you do the mopping-up, not the bailiff. You there, Snape -- your case has been dismissed. Bugger off."

"Ah, Oskar --"

"First Defendant I've ever seen who wanted to loaf about afterwards --"

"As you noted before, Oskar, the next case is his wife's," Schell said quickly. "I am asking you for permission to allow him to remain. I may need him to testify as well, in any case -- and I know you'll have to delay your siesta if I'm having to bring witnesses in and out all the time."

Snape detected impatience in Schell's voice, and snorted inwardly: so much for counselling patience and even-temper.

"Are you threatening me, Willi?" Oskar said, eyes narrowed.

"Oh, of course not, Oskar. What sort of man would I be, to deny you your well-earned nap? But it's an unfortunate truth that we shall probably overshoot one o'clock if we can't get through all this expeditiously."

Oskar considered that, and then grudgingly allowed, "He can stay, then. But, sir," he added, and fixed Snape with a glare, "no interruptions."

Snape nodded.

"Right. Let's get going, then," Oskar said, and plopped down in one of the chairs on the dais: the other justices followed suit.

Schell turned his back to the dais and shooed Snape and Weasley to one of the benched behind him.

"I'm not joking, I really hauled arse to get here," Weasley muttered to Snape under his breath as they sat. "The boss sent me out of town last Wednesday. Didn't even know she'd been arrested. Fred flamed McGonagall when he couldn't reach me --"

"Fine," Snape muttered back, drew his boots away from the expanding puddle under Weasley's wet ones, and tried to ignore the smell of wet, steaming wool and overheated, sweaty Weasley. "Stop dripping on me. And shut up."

"-- but I was totally incommunicado, even Laura didn't know where I was. Look, Snape, you know I wouldn't do anything to put 'Mione in danger --"

Pounding from the dais startled both of them: they looked up and found Oskar staring at them, hand poised above table, and boot in hand. "Silence in the court," he hissed, "or I'll have you both removed."

They both sat up straight, chastened; Schell murmured something about "Beg the court's pardon," turned to them, leant across the rail that separated the Defence-table from the benches, and whispered, with a pained expression, "Please don't make him take the boot off again. He wears his lucky socks to hearings. Hasn't washed them in a decade."

Judging from the other justices' rush to pull their handkerchiefs out and cover their noses, Schell wasn't exaggerating at all.

"Blimey," Weasley muttered, and peered at Snape through wet, straggling hair. "And I thought Wood was bad, him wearing his stinky lucky pants to every game."

Snape risked kicking the idiot in the shin, and gained the satisfaction of a stifled whimper in response. (Oskar didn't notice, thankfully: he was wedging his noxious toes back into his boot, much to the relief of the other justices.)

The courtroom doors opened behind them; Schell turned back to the dais as Hermione was led in and toward the box. Snape felt marginally better when she gave a sidelong glance at him as she passed, face grave --

-- and then felt immensely worse when she noticed Weasley. Her eyes widened, and she smiled: Weasley, damn him, grinned back, and he made a wiggly little two-fingered gesture that it took Snape a moment to translate as rabbit rather than sod off.

"For the record," Oskar intoned as Hermione entered the box, "name and nationality again."

"Hermione Granger Snape, British," she said, voice clear and strong.

"Populations Consultant, British Ministry, correct?"

"Former," she corrected him. "Currently unemployed."

"Right. You're charged with Falsification of ICW-mandated reports. Your plea?"

"Not guilty," she said confidently.

Oskar snorted. "Your Counsel had us pull the documents in question from our archives, Madam Snape. In fact," he added, and pointed to a stack of parchments on the table, "we have them all here. We've compared them to the raw data -- data that was acquired at considerable expense and at short notice, by the by -- and there is no doubt that the documents provided to the ICW are not accurate to the point of deliberate misrepresentation. How do you think that happened?"

"Because while I compiled the data and wrote the drafts of the reports, mine was not the final hand laid to them," she shot back. "They were submitted to my... former superior, Dennis Corcoran, who approved and signed off on them before they were forwarded to the ICW. In every instance -- every single one, sir -- my drafts were returned, with demands that the facts be changed to give a more favourable slant to the Ministry's progress with the populations problem. And in every instance, rather than allow those reports to go through in a totally corrupted form, I charmed them to seem to reflect Mr Corcoran's wishes. It was the only way I could find to fulfil my duties to both the ICW and the Ministry -- and to myself."

Warty-Chin -- Kitty -- leaned forward, and asked, "Are you telling us that the changes made to the accurate figures can be revealed in the original documents?"

"Yes, Ma'am. It requires the use of a new charm. The incantation is 'Scrabble-Me,' and the wand-work is this --"

She demonstrated the wave; Oskar watched her through narrowed, suspicious eyes, and then shoved the parchments down the table to the hairy little Indian justice. "You try it, Mohatmas, you're the expert in charms."

The Indian man rose -- there wasn't much difference in his sitting and standing height -- cleared his throat, and politely asked, "If you would demonstrate once more?"

Hermione did, watched as he copied her movement, and said, "Yes, that's it, and 'Scrabble-Me.' Give it a go."

The Indian pulled his wand and did: he must have done properly, though Snape couldn't see the figures shift, for the other justices -- saving only Oskar -- bolted from their seats and clustered around the Indian, watching the parchments intently.

"Very pretty," Oskar said, face sour. "However, Madam Snape, that only proves that you intentionally misled your superior as to the contents."

"If I might, Oskar?" Schell asked softly.

"Go ahead," Oskar muttered.

"I am submitting into evidence," Schell said for the benefit of the Dicta-Quill, "Madam Snape's early drafts of the reports. They should contain the accurate data, as well as Dennis Corcoran's notes to Madam Snape -- then Granger -- to change specific facts.... Take them up, please Karl."

"Forgery?" the red-headed justice suggested.

"He's already requested samples of Corcoran's writing from the archives," Oskar grumbled. "I don't suppose she's tampered with these in any way?"

The Indian justice pulled the drafts over, spelled 'Scrabble-Me' as well as other more traditional charms, and said definitively, "No. These are unaltered. Where are the samples?"

Warty-Chin scrabbled in the stack of parchments in front of her, and the justices each examined Corcoran's originals and Hermione's drafts, comparing them in silence; Oskar did so last, his eyebrows shooting up, and then he said, "Vote?"

"Not forged," Red-Hair admitted.

"Not," Warty-Chin said as the Indian nodded agreement.

"I think not," the fifth, mousey little justice -- so nondescript and quiet that he'd never even spoken up before -- said hesitantly. "But then you know I'm hopeless with things like this, just hopeless, Oskar, and I could be wr--"

"Yes, yes, Yuri, we all know how you hate to come down on either side of an issue. I would say it's definitely Corcoran's hand," Oskar said impatiently.

Snape glanced at Schell's back, and just caught the infinitesimal relaxing of the man's shoulders -- and the way he stood just a tad straighter, and how the fingers of his left hand, at his side, unclenched....

"This does not," Oskar continued, staring Hermione down, "excuse your actions, girl. You had a responsibility to the ICW to ensure that these reports were accurate -- and yet you concealed the malfeasance, which amounts to Conspiracy in the same charge. Why on earth didn't you simply turn Corcoran in to the ICW? Why the damned sneaky tactics?"

Hermione looked down at her hands, resting on the rail, and didn't answer.

Schell didn't, though: he stood, respectful, and waited along with everyone else.

"Well?" Oskar demanded. "Or shall I take it that you don't have a good reason?"

"I feel it a very good reason," Hermione said quietly. "I became aware that there was a plan to... to dupe a good portion of the citizenry into accepting something injurious to them. Something dangerous to them. I didn't think that turning Corcoran in -- or trying to -- would change that plan, only delay it, and in the meantime I would have been.... Dealt with. Dismissed or otherwise removed. And then whoever took my position mightn't care or be bothered to watch, so...." She shrugged. "Better to leave myself open to censure and punishment by this court rather than risk that."

Oskar eyed her, and then glanced at Schell. "I take it," he wearily asked the Counsel, "that this -- whatever it is -- is the 'larger matter' you kept beating me about the head with in your brief?"

"Yes, sir," Schell admitted.

Oskar leaned forward in his chair. "Twenty blasted times you used the phrase 'larger matter,' Willi. I've only known you to do that once, before now."

"I don't use it frivolously," Schell replied. "And I think it's important that you consider Madam Snape's actions in the light of this particular matter."

"I know you don't throw those words about," Oskar said, nodded, and stared down at his gnarled fingers: he seemed diminished, suddenly, all irascibility gone, nothing more than a very old, and very tired, wizard. "This is going to go far past one o' clock, I can tell. Damn it," he murmured. "And, that being the case.... I propose that we table the charge against Madam Snape for the time being, break for luncheon... and for my nap, which I suspect I'm going to badly need... and re-convene at two o'clock to consider Willi's 'larger matter.' Agreed?"

"Agreed," the other justices chorused (with the exception of Yuri, who muttered, "Oh, balls,").

"Good. Enjoy your meal, Madam Snape.... I think, Willi, that I must direct that she lunch alone -- except for you, Counsel -- for the time being. The two gentlemen are free to do as they like."

"Thank you, Oskar," Schell said softly, and stood as Oskar heaved himself out of his chair and exited by the anteroom door, followed by the other justices. (Snodgrass had fallen asleep, and no-one bothered to wake her. Snape hoped she drooled her notes illegible.)

"Was that all right?" Hermione asked Schell as the bailiff handed her down from the box and began to walk her briskly toward the doors.

"Perfection, Madam Snape. Try not to worry over the recess," Schell replied.

Snape tried to speak to her as the bloody Bailiff rushed her past: tried to say anything, something encouraging, even to spit out her name; but he felt as though he'd swallowed a Two-Ton Toffee, or that his tongue had twisted itself into a knot.

Weasley managed it, damn him. "Stiff upper, 'Mione," he said.

She smiled at the blasted man -- sincere and warm, true, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, which remained worried: and all Snape could do was watch as the bailiff marched her out of the doors.

When he turned back to the front of the court, he found Weasley quizzing Schell.

" -- did he mean, all that about 'once before now'?"

"We never speak of it any longer, Oskar and I," Schell quietly told the obnoxious prat. "It happened a very long time ago, and it was... quite unpleasant."

"Blimey. Of course, if I knew what all the pother was in this instance --"

"Shut up, Weasley," Snape interrupted. "I'm certain Herr Schell needs his luncheon too. You'll hear it all in a few hours, anyway."

"Just so," Schell said, rapidly shoving papers in his valise. "And I think I shall keep Madam Snape company and go over some things with her.... So I will see the two of you when the court re-convenes. Karl, would you see that lunch is brought to Witness Room B for Professor Snape and Mr Weasley?"

Karl darted for the doors, beckoning them to follow him: Weasley, who was (as Snape remembered) never one to turn down anything remotely edible, grabbed his coat and shot off after him.

Snape himself followed rather more slowly. He did not want to dine with Weasley.

It wasn't that he felt badly that Hermione had been happy to see the lout: that was understandable. They'd been thick as thieves (sometime literally were thieves together) all through their years at Hogwarts; even when the Potter boy had acted the ungrateful fool -- for it had been obvious even to Snape that he had -- those two had stuck by each other, and by their prattish friend. It was natural that she would be pleased that Weasley was there. (She should certainly be astonished and grateful that he'd shifted his lazy arse and got Flaherty's documents here at last.)

No, the problem was that Snape wasn't certain he would be able to keep from choking the idiot senseless before luncheon was over with.

*****

Chapter 24 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 25