The mountain, when Snape had breached the tree-line, was bloody cold -- bloody fucking cold, and he knew he'd pay for his walk with a badly stiffened knee -- but at the moment he didn't give a damn. He needed, just for a moment, to be away from the situation: to be away from Hermione, because trying to think about the problem while constantly in her presence had his guts twisted into knots.

He finally gave up climbing any higher, brushed the snow from a rock out-cropping, sat, and stared out over the valley and the village below, searching for an appropriate person to blame.

It was the bloody barrister who'd done it. Another wise, intent, far-seeing old bastard who'd sowed the seeds of discontent in exactly the kind of soil in which they would flourish (much as Dumbledore had all those years ago to persuade an impressionable idiot that he would find more glory with the Order than with the Dark Lord). Snape should have known Schell was cut from the same cloth from the second the old man had made that dubiously-witty comment to Hermione about Snape's mistrust.

It was true. Schell had hit the nail on the head precisely -- even if he hadn't been aware of the exact situation, and even though he probably hadn't intended it that way. Snape's job -- protecting Hermione -- was very nearly done, and after they'd settled somewhere he wouldn't have one, either with her or, for that matter, one for himself.

Things might actually work out far better than exile, of course. They might be able to return to Britain, to their normal lives... well, he should: Hermione would have to find other work, but she was young and bright and she wouldn't have a moment's difficulty. No, she would be all right, of course, wherever they ended up: there were more than academic avenues open to her, but he was bolloxed unless he could return to Hogwarts. No Continental in their right mind would hire him.

She might wish to go on together anyway, he supposed -- she'd warmed to him in the last several weeks, he thought, and frowned, not able to pin down precisely when or how that had happened -- but he didn't care for the idea of being beholden to Hermione (he would be) or having to work at being congenial if she were the main provider (he ought to).

To be married properly, he now realised -- and it was a shock that he gave a damn enough about properly now to even consider it -- one had to think of it as a job, always remembering the potential pitfalls and treacherous shoals of the other's feelings. And that was in the best of circumstances: it would be even more of a bad job if Hermione had more power than he. Moreover, and far, far worse, a relationship with Hermione would always be a fraught and tumultuous one given their natures, even without the idiocy and espionage that had dogged them the last few months.

It was best to be truthful about his ability to deal with all those potential future difficulties, and the projection wasn't good. Snape didn't have the energy to deal with that kind of emotional upheaval any longer, and he'd never had the patience. Hermione didn't either, in his estimation: she was simply too stubborn to admit failure and give up should the chance arise, especially as she'd apparently made some adjustments -- or got used to him, as the case might be.

The thought of having to constantly pick my way through an emotional entanglement with someone simply because they've got used to me -- because of their tenacity and fear of failing at anything....

Slytherins -- the sensible ones like himself, at any rate -- were much more pragmatic about failure than the average Gryffindor, and he certainly far more than Hermione. The Law of Diminishing Returns figured rather prominently in his assessment of potential success or failure.

What he wanted to do most, in fact, was to put the entire thing behind him, wash his hands of Hermione, of any reminders of his weakness and of some of his more brutal behaviour (for which he was now thoroughly ashamed of himself).

He preferred solitude if it came down to a choice between that and the shame, no matter how pleasant aspects of his experience with Hermione were, or how comfortable certain rituals had become. He could foresee far too many bad times -- even if they were able to return home -- and he wasn't at all sure that he could continue to treat her decently through those inevitable rough patches. In fact, he knew he couldn't, even though he cared for her far more now than he had initially. Sooner or later he'd do to her something else he'd regret, something that would prove absolutely that he was the kind of person he despised.

There was the tricky problem of how to manage it gracefully, of course, and when, and he hadn't any idea how to approach it. He was only certain that now wasn't the time.

A nasty wind whipped round the side of the mountain, blasting an icy spray of fine snow crystals directly in his face, and he ducked his head between his shoulders to ride it out.

He could surely manage that, couldn't he? Keep her focussed on the present, but manage to keep his ethics intact, keep from hurting her physically. He supposed she'd feel more than a little hurt, rejected perhaps, but it couldn't be helped if she wouldn't see the reasonableness of ending the farce.

That shouldn't be difficult, though, given that she never initiated anything. Keep his hands and cock to himself, do his best to behave decently to her, and reason her through a parting of the ways when the time was right.

That had been distinctly odd. He'd been shocked silly for a moment at her admission, and then almost laid into her for choosing liverwurst over a good (and long overdue) fuck. Lucky thing she had, though: between that annoying sense of fairness and his regrettable recognition that yes, damn it, he'd become attached to her, sex was probably the worst thing he could indulge in. No point in risking any further...

Well, whatever they called it, it needed to stop. He'd just have to sidle round sex if she brought it up... somehow. He wouldn't blame her for being suspicious -- he would be too, considering how important sex had been to him hitherto -- so he'd have to find a damned good pretext.

He caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye -- that cronish old cook in her crimson shawl had invoked the stupid Liechtenstein speed-walking charm, shot from the Swiss border down the mountain, and was headed for the house with their dinner -- and he sighed and stood, groaning when his knee refused to straighten at first.

He ignored the little voice in his head that pointed out, quite reasonably, that there were options that didn't involve putting weight on his knee if only he could persuade Hermione to try them; shook the ice-crystals from his hair and cloak; took up the blasted staff once more; and stumped his way back to the house.

*****

Snape couldn't quite remember ever being as shocked as when Hermione's hand drifted across his chest and continued southward. (The Potter boy speaking Parseltongue was a close second, but there really was no other good comparison.) He let her hand wander for another moment, intrigued with the possibility and wanting to see exactly how far she would go, and then remembered his earlier resolution and stopped her.

He hadn't expected her to argue about it, either (so much for deciding that it was a ridiculous possibility), but in the long run, it was a happy accident. He'd been able to introduce the topic foremost in his mind.... (...All right, foremost in his mind was the thought that he should have shut his gob and let her have her way -- it would have been her fault and not his doing at all -- but it wouldn't have been worth it, really.) In any event, he'd been able to avoid both lying outright and saying too much. There was no sense in upsetting her by telling her the full truth, anyway, not with another week or so of muck to get through.

And there was always the faint possibility that he would change his mind, given the right persuasion and benefits....

He stretched in the bed, trying to keep the damned knee from locking up totally, and basked in a totally-warranted feeling of accomplishment.

He still didn't intend to, of course, unless she came up with some very convincing arguments indeed for him to remain shackled to her.

On the other hand, in the best-case scenario she might agree that it was all bolloxed, and there shouldn't be a need for any further quibbling -- that was rather a nice option, he thought: he shouldn't have to hurt her any more than he already had, and they could part amicably. (He couldn't see them ever being friends, precisely, but an ally one could count on in some future difficulty -- an ally he shouldn't have to work at via blackmail or bribery -- wasn't something to be sneezed at, even if one couldn't quite imagine the circumstances in which one would need them.)

Snape had the nasty feeling, as he tucked Hermione a bit closer to him (for the warmth, of course), that the next two weeks or so were going to be very, very uncomfortable, her agreement to abstain notwithstanding.

*****

The waiting was excruciating. They'd dutifully presented themselves at Gutenberg Castle at quarter-nine on Monday, Hermione craning her neck upward, peering at their late, erstwhile "quarters" -- presumably in hopes of catching Fudge desperately hanging out the window -- until she skidded on a patch of ice, and Snape grabbed her elbow and pulled her forward.

"Give the surprise away, why don't you?" he'd muttered.

"Well it hardly matters now," she shot back, jerking her elbow away -- and then she slipped her arm though the crook of his. He doubted the she did it for surer footing alone: she squeezed his forearm in what he took to be thanks for saving her from a fall on her arse, and then relaxed and let her hand rest there rather than clutching at him.

It was now, however, going nine-thirty, they'd been sequestered in one of the Witness-Rooms for forty-five minutes, had heard absolutely nothing from the bloody silent guards (Snape suspected they might have been zombies save for their healthy skin tone), and he had absolutely nothing with which to occupy himself. The inactivity was all well and good for Hermione: she'd wheedled yarn and knitting-needles out of the nasty old cook, and was busy massacring something or other. The misbegotten product, which might be a muffler, looked exceedingly nubby and knotty, and Snape hoped it gave whoever it was intended for a rash -- until he considered that Bloody hell, she might be making it for me.

The thought of Hermione as a Molly-Weasley-in-training was not a comforting one. In fact, it was absolutely frightening.

The door scraped open, Snape whirled to see who the intruder was, and relaxed when it proved to be Schell.

"What's going on?" he rapped out at the old man before Schell could even say hello.

"Oh, I've no idea," Schell said. "Not my case and I'm not a British citizen, so not allowed in. But," he added, his expression going very sly, "Fudge was late. Very late, so they've only just started. Oskar is not pleased, to put it mildly."

"Late? But how --" Hermione blurted out, and then her face went red, and she dropped several stitches. "You mean they didn't have him in custody before?"

"No. Diplomatic courtesy, I believe, to allow him to present himself to the Court, rather than under guard."

"Merlin's bloody balls," she sputtered. "Of all the.... What if he'd scarpered?"

"Too arrogant, I should think. I wouldn't worry about him being given much more courtesy," Schell soothed her, obviously amused by her choice of words. "Especially given Oskar's mood.... I shall be allowed to observe from the gallery in the full trial, so I will tell you later the things you miss today." And with a polite nod, he nipped out of the room.

"Bloody hell. How do you like that?" she muttered, awkwardly wrestling the dropped stitches back in. "We're hauled off like common criminals, while he --"

"What do you expect?" Snape said.

He said it cautiously. McGonagall had forced some wretched Muggle book on him once during one of his convalescences, in which a demented woman knitted while the French nobility had their heads lopped off -- not that he minded the lopping-off of Frog heads, royal or otherwise -- and at the moment, Hermione reminded him of no-one so much as that disgusting character.

He shook himself out of his fascination with the idea and added, "It's one of the privileges of Power. We are -- or were -- common criminals, while he isn't yet. I thought the whole point of our fiasco was to be dragged off at short notice."

"It was," Hermione muttered, head bent over her work again. "Doesn't make it fair."

He agreed, but there was not point in telling her that her fit of sulks was unreasonable. If she hadn't learned by now that rightness and fairness had nothing whatever to do with Life, another lecture from him wasn't going to help.

"And you realise," she added, jabbing the needles quite viciously through the yarn, "he said he'd tell us what we miss of the full trial. So we can't see or hear any of that, either."

*****

It was two hours before one of them was called to testify -- and it was Hermione, not Snape. He nearly cracked a molar from grinding his teeth when the Bailiff told her to leave her wand and escorted her off; cursed himself for not insisting that they stop at the bookseller's before the day's proceedings; and, deciding unconsciousness was better than dying of ennui, he threw himself onto the settee for a nap. (It didn't work: he'd got too much sleep the night before.)

The only thing in the room to muck about with was Hermione's knitting.

He resisted that temptation mightily, but eventually he couldn't take it any longer ("it" being either the boredom or the thought that he might have to wear such a wretched piece of knitting, as he wasn't certain which was worse), and so he pulled his wand and practised a few elementary knot-tightening charms on the bloody thing. (It was a vast improvement. Why Hermione insisted on knitting manually when there were perfectly good Auto-Knitting charms that wouldn't go nubby, he couldn't imagine.) The guard, alerted to the use of magic, poked his head in the door and ill-advisedly sniggered when he saw what Snape was about: Snape produced his long-disused, particularly-for-Potter glare, and the guard retreated post-haste.

He only abandoned the knitting when luncheon was served, and was, in fact, considering filching Hermione's dessert when the guard escorted her in.

"Well?" he demanded before the door had closed behind her.

"Took me through the whole bloody thing all over again," she grumbled.

"No, no, how does Fudge look?"

"Stunned at first," she said as she sat at the table and spread her napkin. "I don't know whether he thought I was still in Ministry hands or in custody here, but he didn't expect to see me. Then he looked angry as hell, and he kept muttering to his barrister to interrupt my testimony, and the man kept shutting him up." She took a bite of her meal, grimaced, picked up her wand, and cast a warming charm at the food.

"And?"

"And," she mumbled about a mouthful of food, "they've broken for lunch, and the Defence has their turn at me afterwards...."

Her eyes drifted over to the settee, she noted the higgledy-piggledy pile of yarn and needles, and her face went red.

"What did you do to my --"

"What --? Not one bloody thing."

"You mucked it up!"

"I certainly did not. I just smoothed out the nubby bits. Stop fussing --"

"What damned charm did you use?" she demanded.

He told her: she winced. Then she got angry -- nearly as enraged as she'd been at Cane Hill in the Mortuary, he thought.

"That," she said, stabbing with her fork toward the ridiculous pile, "is my --" (stab) "-- project. Mine," (stab). "If you're bored, get your own bloody project and keep your paws off mine."

"I was trying to help," he said defensively. (He felt stupidly guilty about it, as though he were a Third Year caught with his hand down a girl's knickers -- not that he'd ever been, as he'd never had the opportunity. His powers of persuasion hadn't been nearly as good as his hexing skills, then.)

"Don't. It'll all have to be unravelled and started over, now. We," she said as she attacked the food on her plate, "are definitely stopping at the bookseller's on the way back to Schellenberg -- if they're still open when we're done -- and you're getting the thickest and most abstruse thing I can lay hands on to keep you from mucking with my things."

He tried to snarl back, but it wasn't an effective attempt. He knew he was in the wrong: he should have had better sense than to mess about with such pointless, womanish idiocy, no matter how bored he'd been.

"Fine," he muttered -- though he couldn't quite bring himself to apologise. "If you're going back in there, though, the least you could do is cast a scrying-glass so I can see what's going on."

"No."

"Look, there's the water-carafe, and there's a perfectly good marble-topped table --"

"Cast it yourself," she said firmly.

"Can't." (He did snarl, this time.) "Divination is not my field."

"It's not my field, either," she said. "Besides, if the guards catch you, who knows what will happen?"

"Hermione, I am not going to sit here for another bloody two hours and.... You can't do it at all, can you."

"No. I dropped Divination Third Year, well before Scrying."

"Granger the Swot dropped Divination?"

In retrospect, perhaps chortling after that statement wasn't a good idea: judging by Hermione's reaction, he'd slighted her honour. Badly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, voice unnaturally calm.

"Nothing," he said, striving for nonchalance. (That is, stalling as he tried desperately to reconstruct the timetable for Hermione's menses. Even the bravest bloke sounded retreat in the face of female hormonal rage: if they didn't, they were either exceedingly stupid or had a death-wish.) "I didn't take Divination beyond Fourth Year, myself. Nothing wrong with that."

"Oh, there is, or you wouldn't have laughed. Why wouldn't you know, anyway? It's in my record."

"Deputy Heads have to look at the whole transcript. Bloody overworked Potions Masters who don't give a damn except for your Potions marks don't."

"Ah. But I take it you think dropping is a blot on my record, nonetheless."

"Theoretically, yes." (Hedging was definitely warranted, in this situation.) "Why did you?'

"Because it's a piss-poor discipline based on chicanery instead of Natural Science," she retorted, abandoning her entrée and wading into a huge piece of cake instead. "And because that manky cow Trelawney was an old fraud -- in the main -- and I hated her guts."

"In that case, I agree with you entirely and the dropping was justified," he said, relieved to have got out of that mess. "Hating her guts is a bit extreme, though. Even I felt she was more to be pitied. Why on earth should you hate her?"

Hermione glanced up at him, expression sour. "I believe the phrase she used was, 'old maid as dry as your books.' Or some similar drivel. At least that prediction's been resoundingly debunked."

(That was unkind, even for Snape -- especially if she were every-so-slightly unbalanced, at the moment -- and he mentally chastised himself.)

"You're just going to have to deal with it," Hermione said. "The boredom, I mean."

"Will," he muttered. "Shall I... undo the charms?" he asked of the knitting. (Appeasement seemed in order.)

"No," she said, scraping the last bits of chocolate icing from her plate, and then savagely sucking the fork-tines clean. (He had to try very hard not to conflate the image.) "I'll need something to keep me busy when you go in."

Snape fervently hoped that the Defence would make short work of Hermione, and he'd be called soon: having something else to concentrate on might help him feel marginally less hen-pecked, and stop him from wondering how close Hermione had been to hexing him.

*****

He finally got his crack at Fudge later that day (thank Merlin). The guard brought Hermione back to the Witness-Room, directed Snape to leave his wand behind, and guided him to a different courtroom entirely: far larger than the Hearing-Room, it contained a second-tier gallery for observers -- and it was packed with people.

Fudge's trial seemed very popular and sensational indeed, though you wouldn't have known it from the media. Liechtenstein had no wizarding newspaper, only a weekly circular which was only available at the bookseller's -- and as they hadn't been, yet....

Schell, wedged onto one of the benches in the gallery, caught Snape's eye as he was escorted in, and gave him a solemn nod. The justices -- the five who had presided at their hearing had been joined by another seven -- were, again, seated up front on another dais, at a rather longer table (but they still looked like crows).

Fudge himself was in the pillory, leaning down toward his barrister and whispering frantically; but his head shot upward when the bailiff bawled out "The Court Zeveruz Znape calls!"

Hermione was right: Fudge was immensely shocked to see Snape. His reaction a moment or two later, though, was quite different: rather than seeming angered, a slow, confident smile creased his fat, well-fed face, and he bent down to whisper in his barrister's ear again.

That smile was a mistake, for it told Snape exactly the tactic Fudge was advising his barrister to take.

Snape stepped into the Witness-box, and steeled himself to keep both temper and wits.

"Your name, nationality, and occupation, please?" the arse of a Prosecutor rapped out.

"Severus Snape, British. Potions Master at Hogwarts School."

"When, sir, did you become aware of certain criminal actions on the part of Cornelius Fudge?"

"I became aware of a conspiracy," Snape said carefully, "on Christmas Eve of last year. The full scope of matter and Minister Fudge's possible involvement did not become clear to me until December twenty-seventh, and his involvement proven toward --"

"Objection," the Defence interjected at a hiss from Fudge.

"Overruled," the Chief Justice -- not Oskar, for good or ill -- testily informed the Defence. "I've told you three times, now, Odo -- we're not idiots, we know it's the witness's opinion. Save your objections for the Prosecutor's questions. You should've said before."

The Defence nodded; Fudge glared at the justice.

"Continue, Professor Snape," the Prosecutor prodded Snape.

"-- proven to my satisfaction toward the end of January, the twenty-third, I believe," Snape continued as calmly as possible. He knew damn well that the bloody Defence hadn't objected to the question because that wasn't the point: trying to throw Snape off his stride was.

His testimony continued in this vein for a remarkably long time, with him wading through the events at the Prosecutor's bidding (with frequent objections from the Defence, and occasional re-wording of the questions); but they eventually got through it all, and the Prosecutor called for a new piece of evidence to be introduced.

"I would like you," the Prosecutor asked Snape, "to give us the details of the alleged potion once again, if you please."

The tangent looked likely to prove interesting, though: two burly guards were wrestling a crate through the courtroom doors -- a crate with the distinctive M&M logo branded into the side. (Fudge momentarily lost control, and his eyes bulged when he saw it, too.)

"Objection," the Defence said in a supremely bored manner. "The witness is a schoolmaster, for pity's sake. Is he really qualified to testify as to this supposedly dangerous potion? Any half-witted wizard with a decent amount of magical skill and the sense to follow a receipt closely can teach brewing from a text."

"Not every brewer can extrapolate the likely effectiveness of an untried potion, true," the Prosecutor drawled back. "As it happens, Professor Snape is qualified, and I want his understanding of the potential dangers of this potion recognised."

The Chief Justice stared at Snape. "Suppose you tell us what your qualifications are, then."

"I apprenticed with Master Horatio Bluett, receiving High Distinction on my journeyman's project," Snape said evenly. "For the record, Bluett's projects were Class C potions, not B. He held his apprentices to a higher standard than the norm."

Bluett's name held a certain caché even on the Continent, as Snape knew well, for the observers in the gallery murmured, and the Chief Justice's eyebrows shot up toward his receding hairline.

"Overruled," the Chief Justice grunted at the Defence. "Continue."

"The potion, as hinted at by Flaherty and further detailed in Petherbridge's notes -- as best I can recall without my journal," Snape said slowly, "is compounded from a standard medicinal Grade-B base of glycerine and saline. The two constituent potions are added separately, with the aphrodisiac potion being mixed with the base first, in the following order: two ounces of finely-ground Nadder-Skin, allowed first to steep into the base for two minutes, and then stirred in until fully dissolved and incorporated..."

It was rather more detail than the Prosecutor had intended, apparently, for his lips thinned -- but he let Snape go on through "... the potion is to rest for three hours, at which point it is ready to be decanted. At least, that is to the best of my recollection of the receipt. You understand, I've never brewed it myself."

"But it should, theoretically, work as postulated?" the Prosecutor asked.

"Theoretically, yes. The application of Nadder-Skin to aphrodisiacs for human use isn't proven in any published literature, but the clinical trials performed in Azkaban seem to bear out its effectiveness. Distressingly so, in fact -- as I believe Minister Fudge can attest. If asked under oath or Veritaserum, of course."

Fudge glowered at him.

"I will now submit," the Prosecutor said, "a report by Wolfgang Blücher of the Swiss Institute of Alchemy and Potions, which confirms Professor Snape's speculations on the potion's effects as not only possible, but highly probable." His apprentice/runner bounded up to the panel, distributing the report among the justices. "Moreover, we were so fortunate as to seize samples of a substance recently shipped from Mangel and Mortars and being stored at St. Mungo's Hospital, London -- given the willingness of this court to issue the proper documents -- " he added hastily, as the Defence shot out of his chair to object, "-- on advice that this might be that self-same potion, and that substance I now present to this Court as evidence --"

"Objection!" the Defence bawled. "We've no way of telling whether the crate's been tampered with --"

"The crate was still nailed tight when it was retrieved, and the proper evidentiary wards and seals were placed upon it for transport," the Prosecutor continued smoothly. "Both were unbroken when the crate arrived in Vaduz on Saturday morning. It was opened in the presence of Justice Meyer, in accordance with standard procedures, and after the contents were examined and a sample obtained, it was resealed."

Fudge went a bit green about the gills at that.

"'Zat so, Oskar?" the Chief Justice asked Meyer, and Oskar nodded and grunted an affirmative. "Right. Overruled. Sampling implies you've had it analysed, I take it?"

"Just so," the Prosecutor said, and smirked at the Defence as his apprentice ran the new reports up to the dais. "By both Blücher's laboratory and that of the Académie d'Alchimie et Philtres. This substance -- which was, as I said, stored at St. Mungo's, ready to be administered -- contains the same ingredients found in the receipts left by the apprentice Petherbridge."

The Chief Justice had to pound with his gavel to still the noise from the gallery. (It was a good thing he was distracted: he, and the others, seemed to have forgot about Snape entirely. He wasn't about to object for once, since he badly wanted this side of the story.)

"And it's been tested for effectiveness?" the Chief Justice demanded.

"Ah, regrettably, no. Both organisations are understandably reluctant to test given the potential side-effects, which may have irreversible consequences. They will endeavour to do so should the Court require it of them, and given suitable substitute test subjects. We have, however," the Prosecutor noted, "Debdale's own reports on the clinical trials he performed at the British penal institution at Azkaban, which were found in the effects of Dennis Corcoran."

At his nod, his apprentice trotted up to the dais with the evidence: the justices passed around the ragged little document, and their reactions varied from a judgemental tutting to mouth-gaping outrage.

Fudge's Defence looked as though he'd like to vomit when he got a look at the report, but like all semi-competent defence barristers, he recovered quickly.

"As of Friday afternoon the operation at Mangel and Mortars was raided, the personnel barred from the premises, and the facility sealed," the Prosecution continued. "Reports from the Enforcers and specialists sent in indicate production of the substance on a massive scale, given the size of the population. Moreover, the originals of the documents that Martin Flaherty copied, and the receipt for the potion -- minus the proprietary ingredient, Nadder-Skin, which is listed as 'secret' and provided by the Ministry -- are now in ICW hands."

The Defence now looked as though he needed to vomit. Fudge didn't look much better.

"And has any of it been given to the population?" Oskar demanded.

"No, despite considerable interest in the population caused, we think, by leaked reports in the media of a 'wondrous' genetic treatment," the Prosecutor said. "Oddly enough, St. Mungo's Chief Healer Pius -- while perfectly willing to begin treatment, according to his statement -- had a bit of a mutiny on his hands when it came to the stuff. His subordinates refused to administer it, and apparently he doesn't care to treat patients himself, so it had not yet been inflicted upon the citizenry."

"It's quite ingenious," the Prosecutor continued, nodding to the guards, who broke the seal and wrestled the lid of the crate open. "The 'treatment' consists of nothing more than eye-drops." He reached in, brushed wisps of excelsior-packing aside, and pulled from its individual nest a fat little bottle, a parchment, and a brochure from the crate. "The first dose was to be administered at St. Mungo's by a healer, and the patient -- both of them, as married couples were to be treated together -- sent home with the remainder, with instructions to continue the application for two weeks. Presumably this allows the potion to build up in their systems gradually, so as not to worry them with sudden onset of the... desired effects. The instructions to the healers point this out, in fact, though it's a note for them to caution the patients not to expect immediate results. The brochure sent home with the patients themselves," he added, and walked the bottle and documents up to the dais himself, "characterise the substance as a genetic treatment which will, if properly used, repair any damage to the patient's DNA -- that would be, the genetic building-blocks which govern heredity -- and prevent any defect or malformation occurring in future offspring."

"And would it do any such thing to the Dee... ...the whaju-thingies?"the Chief Justice asked, staring at the bottle as if it were the deadliest phial of Eternal Sleep.

"No, certainly not. Muggles are on the verge of developing such technologies, but none to date are entirely successful, and none involve anything so simplistic as eye-drops. This potion is purely magical, according to all the expert testimony, and it works only on the libido and biochemistry of the patients. It would have no effect on the genetic structure of either patients or of any offspring produced. That, and the new strictures against contraceptives, merely serve the purpose of boosting the birth-rate in British wizards, with reckless disregard for the health of offspring and the female in question. The male as well, if the Azkaban trial is accurate."

The Chief Justice got a very nasty look in his eye: the Prosecutor smiled, and the Defence.... The Defence looked only just this side of committing hara-kiri. Fudge glared at the Justices, defiant.

"Right," the Chief Justice barked. "It's near five. We're breaking now --"

"-- and re-convening at nine tomorrow, when we've had time to go through all this -- Yes, I know, Prosecutor, you've not done with the witness, he'll be back. Court adjourned for the day."

*****

It was fair to say that Snape was enraged by the time the guard got him back to the Witness-Room.

"What?" Hermione said, and started when he slammed the door behind him.

"Held over until tomorrow," he muttered, grabbed his wand and shoved it up his sleeve, and wrapped his cloak about himself. "Come along, I'm not in a mood to discuss it here."

Hermione shoved her knitting into her hand-bag, grabbed her coat, and trotted out of the castle after him.

"What's got you so --"

"Not here," he hissed, and pulled her along behind him.

"Don't tell me they pulled all that Death-Eater rot on you."

"Not yet, but they will. Bloody inefficient system, if you ask me --"

"Severus --"

"-- although I did learn quite a bit about what's been going on, but still --"

"Severus --"

"What?" he bellowed, and stopped dead in his tracks -- except they didn't: they kept gliding along on the damned Liechtenstein invisible conveyor-belt pavement.

"We're going in the wrong direction," she whispered. "And I can't change it, no matter how hard I think about it."

Bloody hell, they were going in precisely the opposite direction as they should -- and Snape couldn't change their course, either. He pulled his wand and hid it in a fold of his cloak, pushed Hermione behind him, and braced himself as they approached a tidy little house and walled garden at top speed. They seemed likely to plough squarely into the wall, but at the last millisecond the gate slammed open and a side-door gaped wide --

Snape blinked when they ground to a halt in a neat, warm kitchen, and with a fat little woman, sauce-streaked ladle in hand, ready to cosh in his head. (He seemed destined to be bashed about by old ladies with kitchen-utensils: another thing he should have to investigate someday, along with his nose-cock connection.)

"Apologies," Schell's voice came from an interior door. "Telling what happens in court before a verdict's given isn't exactly done, so I didn't want you seen here and I couldn't give you any warning."

"Marta, don't be silly -- put that down, you're dripping sauce on the floor," Schell added to his cook as he stepped into the room. "You two come along to the dining-room, and we'll talk while Marta finishes our dinner."

They followed the old man in to the next room -- comfortably messy in that particularly bachelor-scholar way, with legal texts and parchments strewn across the far end of the table, the sideboard, the extra chairs, and the phantom smell of many evenings' fragrant briar-pipes -- and Schell took Hermione's coat from her and flung it over the nearest stack of books before seating her, and gesturing Snape to another chair.

"Well, that was instructive, wasn't it?" he asked Snape brightly. "My word, Rutger's thorough, isn't he? Bit of a snob, but then he had perfect marks on his apprenticeship. Damned difficult to attain the ICW Bar now, so many nationalities' code to take into account. It was much simpler in my day."

"Could have got through twice the testimony if he hadn't mucked about so with the potion," Snape grumbled as he tossed aside his cloak and sat. "Pure showmanship."

"But you wouldn't have heard any of the details, then," Schell said sagely. (Blast him.) "It's for the best, believe me. The wheels of ICW justice -- and of its Prosecutors -- grind exceeding slow, but exceeding fine. You'll be done with it all by noon tomorrow, I should think."

"I wish," Hermione said plaintively, "that someone would tell me what happened before and after I was in."

"First off," Schell said, and nipped over to the sideboard to pour each of them a glass of wine, "Fudge was very indignant to be charged and brought to full trial. He claimed to know nothing of it -- any of it, except for the legally-legislated bits -- and blustered about it being Dennis Corcoran's purview, and if they'd questions they ought to ask him." He returned to the table, distributed the wineglasses, and sat before continuing. "It was then pointed out to him that as Corcoran himself wasn't available to testify --"

"He's not?" Hermione blurted out.

"No. Seems he's in MLE custody under investigation for something-or-other, and the head man there, ah --"

"Bretchgirdle," Snape supplied, sipped at Schell's excellent wine, and congratulated himself for bolloxing-up Corcoran's life royally.

"-- yes, Bretchgirdle -- refused to honour the extradition request. They've sent a writ in response, of course, but the justices weren't kindly disposed enough to delay beginning the trial -- Fudge mucked that up himself anyway, I suspect, as he acted so arrogantly this morning. The Defence wouldn't want a dual trial in any case, as Fudge wouldn't be able to blame Corcoran after all. At any rate, Oskar pointed out to him that he is responsible for the actions of his subordinates, and then Rutger introduced the memos between them straight off, so his complicity's been proven despite his protests. He met and discussed the situation with his Defence for a half-hour -- his choice, he might have had all day, if he'd wished -- but he barged on into it, presumably thinking he could explain away the evidence."

"Bloody hell," Hermione muttered.

"So, all that bit -- the conspiracy angle -- was presented even before Madam Snape entered the court this morning. She did beautifully under examination and the Defence's cross -- thank you, Professor Snape, for that document dropping the MLE's charges against her, by the way, that came in very handy -- and you know the rest."

"He does, I don't," Hermione objected, even as Snape muttered "No, I don't --"

But they were both staring at Snape expectantly, so he sighed, told his headache to go away, and launched into the important bit -- the details of the potion. Their dinner of stew and new-made bread was cooling by the time he'd done: a pity, because Marta's cooking smelt far better than the Swiss crone's.

"Cripes," Hermione said when he'd finished, her eyes wide. "So they were that close to giving people the damned stuff --"

"Correct," he said, and bit back a grudging admission that perhaps she'd not been so hasty to act after all.

"All that remains for you, then," Schell told Snape gravely, "is to finish out whatever Rutger wants of you, and hold your own against the Defence. That won't be easy, I'm afraid. I did see that look Fudge gave you when you entered the court, and they'll have all night to come up the maximum possible nastiness."

"Nothing I haven't had to face before," Snape muttered, and pushed his stew about the bowl.

"Have you heard anything from London?" Hermione asked Schell. "We haven't got any news from McGonagall lately."

"I imagine they don't know anything yet," Schell said. "Not out of the ordinary for a head of government to be called at short notice to the ICW. It won't even have reached our local circular -- tomorrow, perhaps."

"What," Snape asked Schell as the old man dug into his meal, "do you think Fudge's tactic will be? Damned hard to explain away the potion."

"Yes, I think your testimony and the potion evidence has nicely blocked that avenue for him," Schell said between spoonfuls of stew. "I imagine they'll try to blacken your character. They tried to paint Madam Snape in a bad light, and claimed she'd manufactured much of the documentary evidence, but Oskar and Rutger -- bless them -- had all of it definitively verified by three different experts over the week-end, so that's a moot point as well. They will, of course," he added gravely to Snape, "bring up your association with Voldemort."

"Such as it was."

"Does Fudge know anything?"

"Yes," Snape said, ripping apart a warm, fragrant rye roll and slathering it with butter. (His appetite hadn't been quashed for long, and he appreciated the excellence of Liechtenstein's dairy products if nothing else.) "He saw the Dark Mark in..."

"1995," Hermione quickly supplied.

"Yes. He knew before, of course, he could hardly not -- I'd been implicated during the trials in 1982, but Dumbledore vouched for me in court. I'm sure Fudge will conveniently forget that, however."

"Do you have any proof of that?" Schell asked intently. "Anything other than witnesses?"

Snape shrugged. "He gave me some document or other at the time in case of future difficulties, but it's in my Gringott's vault. Can't be got at now."

"Hmmmm. Perhaps something else can be managed, if necessary," Schell murmured, and ducked his head back toward his stew-bowl.

Snape stared at Schell for a moment, mystified and suspicious, and then glanced at Hermione -- but she was working away at her own stew quite assiduously, and seemed not at all interested in Schell's words.

No doubt about it: for all his seeming benignity, Schell made Snape very, very nervous.

"You didn't tell me," Snape said to Hermione, more to distract Schell from himself than anything else, "what you had to do after luncheon."

"More of the same," she said as she scraped the last of the beefy sauce from the bottom of her bowl. "In the earlier session they went straight to Flaherty's documents and everything afterwards. Fudge's barrister tried to shake me with the MLE charges, of course, make me out to want the downfall of the entire government out of vengeance, the silly bugger, but the justices weren't impressed with that."

"Why didn't they ask about the ICW reports?"

"Rutger will if he gets Corcoran extradited," Schell told him. "The Defence might still, I suppose, if they're absolutely desperate, but I think not. There is, as you noted, that reference to 'TM' in Corcoran's hand, which does possibly implicate Fudge. Personally, I think they're better off not having Corcoran testify in any way -- but it should be quite interesting," he added, patting at his lips and beard with his napkin, "to see how soon Corcoran betrays Fudge. If Fudge tries to pin the responsibility on him solely, he undoubtedly will."

As interesting an insight as that would be into the twisted motivations and psychology of those two morally bankrupt individuals, Snape wished someone would simply pull out the bloody Veritaserum and have done with it.

Dessert, when it came, was an incredibly rich apple torte and tiny glasses of a complementary wine, and for a few, brief minutes Snape was -- despite his best efforts -- compelled to set aside his worries over tomorrow and enjoy a simple, decadent pleasure like any other normal human being.

*****

The bookseller's was closed by the time they left Schell's home and reached Vaduz, however, so Snape had something to grouse about after all: and he had even more when Hermione insisted that they stop at a Muggle chemist's.

"Hermione, we had this discussion already --" he muttered under his breath.

"Not those. I need girl things," she hissed back, and sprinted across the road to the chemist's, leaving him in the dark, Uplottable alley to work himself into a right state of impatience. (He couldn't quite, though. Once he'd worked out what "girl things" were, he had a smug moment of satisfaction at his own perspicacity that quite made the wait worth it.)

On the whole, the barrister for the Defence was fortunate Hermione had had to leave her wand in the Witness-Room -- though it might have been worth it had Snape been able to see his face when Hermione lost it and hexed him to kingdom come.

*****

Tuesday, February 21st

The Court re-convened at nine precisely, with Snape back in the Witness-box. The gallery was, if anything, even more tightly packed: the justices looked grumpy and sleepless; the Defence looked exhausted; and Fudge alternated between looking likely to spit nails at any second, and gleefully smug. The Prosecution was the only one of the lot who seemed well-rested and confident: Snape himself, despite a decent night's sleep, felt as if his nerve-endings had been sandpapered.

"We left off yesterday," the Prosecution began, "with your expert testimony as to the probable effects of the potion later produced in court. Can you tell us, sir, if you saw any demonstrations of the potion itself?"

"Not anything that would be considered clinically valid," Snape said cautiously. "And not in the detail provided by the Azkaban trial."

"Yes, that has already been admitted as evidence. Could you tell us what you did see?"

"I saw, first-hand, the after-effects produced in the initial test subjects -- wild elves -- at Debdale's laboratory facility at Cane Hill, Coulsdon."

"Please describe that venture."

"My wife and I infiltrated the facility on... February first, I believe. We entered what was once the Mortuary, and I discovered evidence of Debdale and Petherbridge's forensic examinations of some of the subjects. There were seventeen corpses in all in the Cold Store -- two of pregnant females which had not yet given birth, and several others which were most likely females who had given birth shortly before their deaths. Some appeared to have been alive when dissection was performed."

"And was that all?"

"By no means. Debdale had abandoned the facility himself some time prior to this, leaving Petherbridge behind, and Petherbridge had got... lazy. We were unable to investigate that area further, but I am certain there must be evidence on the grounds of burials --"

"Speculation," the Defence said half-heartedly. (He seemed rather demoralised. He must have realised yesterday that he'd got a pig in a poke with this case.)

"Sustained," the justice grunted.

The Prosecutor nodded to Snape to continue.

"In the laboratory ward itself there were seven... no, six elves, still living. One infant had already died, and its mother was in extremis," Snape said, neglecting to admit to the mercy-killing. "There were another ten or twelve, all told, on one of the other wards, all dead. There may have been more, but we were forced to flee the place before a thorough search could be made. I... sent agents in to check for more survivors the next day, and they may have found more."

"And would you say the experimentation on the subjects had been successful?"

"Judging firstly from Petherbridge's notes, yes. He also verbally confirmed that of all the females they had imprisoned, only one had not become impregnated."

"So would you say that of the... twenty-five or so females that were the test subjects, only one failed to reproduce under the influence of the potion?"

"Of the twenty-five or so that I verified with my own eyes, definitely --"

"Thank you," the Prosecutor said quickly. (Probably to avoid the Defence giving another damned objection, damn it.) "You've provided us with Petherbridge's notes, of course. Why could not Petherbridge testify here today? That was one of your stated purposes for the Cane Hill visit, was it not?"

"The man's dead," Snape admitted. "We had him cornered, and he leaped from a height rather than allow himself to be captured."

"Why might that have been?" the Prosecutor asked, and quickly added, "Fear of the consequences?"

"Objectio --"

"Yes, yes, withdrawn. Professor Snape?" the Prosecutor said blandly.

"He did state that he was worried the Defendant would exact revenge," Snape said. "On the other hand, he said he'd been promised 'a place in the history books' as incentive. But foremost," he added, and glanced over at Fudge as casually as he could, "His master Debdale, whom he had served more or less diligently, dosed him with a potion and with a Dark Transfiguration. He had been warded into the facility with no hope of escape, and was slowly being metamorphosed into an elf."

The blood drained from Fudge's face.

Snape couldn't ensure Fudge would be imprisoned, but he could make damned certain the bastard had nightmares for the rest of his life.

"'Promised a place in the history books', indeed -- very interesting, those were his actual words? Do you have any knowledge," the Prosecutor asked, "of any visits by Minister Fudge to the laboratory at Cane Hill?"

"Petherbridge claimed --"

"Hearsay!"

"-- in his written notes -- if I might finish -- that the laboratory had been visited on December sixth of 2006 by an 'august personage,' if I recall rightly."

"Overruled," said the Chief Justice.

"Come now, 'august personage,' really --" the Defence whined.

"The Defence may spare his knees," the Prosecutor muttered to prevent another rise and objection, as he returned to his table and pulled a parchment from a file. "Petherbridge did indeed state that in a journal entry of December seventh of that year, which has already been submitted into evidence. Let me quote two passages from other documents entered collectively as Exhibit A, firstly: 'D. is quite excited, and would love to get cracking on it. I know he was pleased with your reaction to his little demonstration.' That from Dennis Corcoran to Cornelius Fudge in a memo dated December eighth, 2006.

"And secondly, 'It looks promising, very promising. And yes, the demonstration was quite persuasive. Wherever did he find wild elves?' That," the Prosecutor said distinctly, and turned to face the Defence-table, "from Cornelius Fudge to Dennis Corcoran, December eleventh, 2006. Now," he added thoughtfully, "how many researchers of a surname beginning in 'D' might be conducting experiments with wild elves at the same time that Minister Fudge alludes to viewing a 'demonstration' with such creatures?"

"Whu- why, there could be --" the Defence stuttered.

"Really, a 'D' which happens to stand for Debdale, as Corcoran later slips and reveals in a memo of January twenty-seventh, 2007? The same Debdale referred to by name, explicitly, in Petherbridge's journal, and who was doing experimentation with wild elves at precisely the same time? I suppose you'd have us believe there are two Debdales doing exactly the same research, sir. Are they merely cousins, or is one the other's evil twin?"

The gallery tittered, and the Defence's face turned much the same purple shade as Fudge's. The Chief Justice wasn't particularly impressed, however: he brought the Prosecution over to the dais with a crook of his finger, bent down, and muttered, "I think you've exceeded your sarcasm quota with that one alone, boy."

"I do beg the Court's pardon," the Prosecutor said earnestly. (He wasn't at all contrite, really, and Snape didn't blame him. He'd been thinking more or less the same thing. 'Oskar' did too, apparently, for he sniggered throughout the exchange. Snape decided that he liked the old coot after all.)

"500 wanc fine, pay the Bailiff after the session. And try to behave. Odo's not a challenging subject -- like hexing squid in a barrel, really."

"I shall endeavour to restrain myself," the arse said, bowed politely, and headed back for his table: he only thought to glance at Snape after he'd flung the tails of his robes up to seat himself (Poncey, melodramatic git, that one), and said, "I'm done with the witness."

The Defence was out of his chair like a shot. "Professor Snape," he bawled, "do you bear the Defendant any ill will?"

"How, precisely, do you mean?" Snape said carefully.

"Why, how difficult can the question be?" the Defence asked in apparent astonishment. (He was a far worse actor that the Prosecution, as it happened.) "Do - you - bear - Minister - Fudge --"

"I understand that," he snapped back at the idiot. "I'm asking you to qualify it before the present situation. At present I'm highly unlikely to be kindly disposed toward someone attempting to poison half my fellow-citizens."

"Objec --! ...Oh, damn," the Defence muttered. "Not supposed to do that now, am I?"

"No, Odo," the Chief Justice said wearily as the gallery tittered, and he was forced to pound his gavel for order. "Have a sip of water and calm down a bit."

Snape glanced at the Prosecutor, who was calmly sucking away at the end of his quill -- and the bloody man looked back at him, eyes sparkling with laughter, and winked.

"All right, let's try that again, then," the Defence said, far less inflated and blustery after a quick drink and a blotting of his forehead. "Have you had, in the past, any reason to bear Minister Fudge ill will?"

"He wilfully ignored the return of Voldemort," Snape said coolly. "Denied it outright, in fact, in the face of compelling evidence. He thereby imperilled more people than was necessary, particularly many Hogwarts stude --"

"No, I mean something rather more personal," the Defence interrupted.

"Such as?"

"Such as," the Defence said slowly, darting a shifty glance at the Prosecution, "the... non-awarding of, erm, certain honours?"

"The Order of Merlin and the Sirius Black business? It was later explained to me that I misunderstood the offer, though it seemed a straightforward enough promise," Snape said, and smiled at the idiot. "I thought it was contingent upon Black's capture only, not upon a successful hand-over to the Dementors. Pity as it wasn't my fault that Black escaped, but it couldn't be helped."

(Lies, all lies. It still rankled, deeply.)

"Are you certain there's nothing else?" the Defence wheedled. "Nothing at all you hold against him?"

"I can't imagine anything, no."

"Would you say that Minister Fudge has -- not that he has used, but has," the Defence added slyly, "-- the power to reveal you as a Death Eater?"

(That was a sensational statement. The Chief Justice had to pound his gavel once again.)

Well, there was nothing for it: best face it head-on.

"As a former Death Eater, certainly."

"Former? Is there really that great a difference?"

"My actions should be taken in context,'" Snape said once the furore had died down. "To say that at one time, as an impressionable and ill-informed youth, I supported the Death Eaters' goals is accurate --"

"Answer the question, sir, it's a simple yes or no --"

"Badgering," the Prosecution interjected, idly cleaning beneath his fingernails with his quill-nib, not even bothering to look up. "Extenuating circumstances require something more than a simple yes or no...."

The Chief Justice peered suspiciously at Snape, and then grudgingly said, "I'll sustain. Give the witness some leeway, Odo."

"Forced, I suppose, as some of your friends claimed," Odo muttered.

"Not in the sense you mean. In fact, I became a spy for the Order of the Phoenix before I sought entrance into the higher levels of the Death Eater ranks," Snape said, "and that was the only reason I continued my association with the Death Eaters -- to further the goals of the Order. It was a ruse for the purpose of information-gathering."

"Did you commit crimes while posing as a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"Harassments?"

"Yes."

"Hexings?"

"Yes."

"Torture?"

"Within limits, yes."

Snape's opinion of the Prosecutor was rapidly souring: the bloody man was more intent on his manicure than on the grilling Snape was getting.

"Murder?"

"Did I kill? In skirmishes, I'm quite certain. I was never placed in a position of executing anyone, thankfully."

"Rapes?"

"No."

"And you felt your actions justified?"

"Necessary," Snape hissed. "To obtain information for the Order and to protect the resistance."

"This 'Order' -- not a recognised government agency, true?"

"Quite true."

"Actually, nothing more than a band of malcontents and rabble-rousers who made trouble for the Ministry, was it not? Vigilantes?"

"No," Snape said sharply, and literally bit the tip of his tongue to keep from cursing. After a quick regroup, he said more calmly, "The Order resisted Voldemort in the first war, and was instrumental in defeating him in the second."

"Yet you were not among those listed for honours after the more recent war, were you?" the Defence said. "Your name was not even published as an Order member, was it, in enumerations from either the first or second war?"

"Of what bloody use," Snape asked wearily, "is a spy whose identity is acknowledged publicly?"

"So we have no evidence whatever," the Defence said, "that your involvement in the Death Eaters benefited anyone at all other than yourself and your master Voldemort, including this 'Order.'"

"The Defendant has evidence," Snape said. "He himself must have heard testimony exonerating me at the first trials, in 1982."

Fudge managed innocence and bewilderment -- at least, until he couldn't quite hold back a triumphant smirk.

"For the record, my client denies any such knowledge," the Defence said. "Moreover, you were implicated on the word of another acknowledged Death Eater, one Karkaroff --"

"Objection," the Prosecution murmured. "Hearsay."

"He testified in court --"

"Do you have a transcript to submit into evidence?"

"Erm, no."

"Do you have the witness here?"

"... No, of course not, the man's missing and presumed dead --"

"Then the objection remains," the Prosecutor said, yawned, and peered up at the Chief Justice, who nodded.

The Defence foundered for a bit, glared at Snape, and then demanded, "You do not deny that you were a Death Eater."

"No."

"Fine. I'm done with him."

"Cross?" the Chief Justice asked the Prosecutor, who nodded.

"So you don't deny that you acted within the Death Eater ranks on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix?" he asked Snape.

"No."

"Were you aware that you had been implicated by Karkaroff?"

"Yes, of course. I was informed at the time."

"By whom?"

"By Albus Dumbledore."

The gallery whispered at that, and the Prosecutor sat upright, pretended genuflection on his cuticles discarded. "Albus Dumbledore? Not the late Supreme Mugwump Dumbledore, by any chance?"

"Yes, the same."

"Why would he inform you of Karkaroff's testimony?"

"Because Dumbledore himself refuted the accusation and vouched for my service in front of the entire Wizengamot. Including Cornelius Fudge, although he wasn't yet Minister."

"And who asked for your... participation as a spy within the Death Eaters?"

"Albus Dumbledore, as head of the Order."

"Thank you, sir," the Prosecutor said courteously, and lapsed back into his chair. "I'm quite finished with the witness, Chief Justice."

The bailiff escorted Snape from the court (he ignored the whispers from the gallery as be passed beneath it), and one of the other guards stepped beside him outside the doors to walk him back to the Witness-Room.

The guard stopped dead at the top of the stairs, flinging an arm across Snape's chest to halt him.

"What do you think you're --" Snape hissed, and the guard nodded down over the baluster, where the great doors of the entry were just closing behind a coterie of Enforcers. They were hustling along a staggering prisoner, who shivered in a cloak altogether too thin for a Liechtenstein winter: the man looked about him, and then up, and his eyes met Snape's.

It was Dennis Corcoran.

Corcoran hadn't got the nice treatment Fudge had: whether he'd been deemed dangerous or he'd tried to make a run for it, the Enforcers had gone so far as to shackle him, which explained his awkward gait. Snape was also pleased to note that he had several days' growth of beard-stubble and that he looked terrified nearly bloodless, his acne-scars standing stark against the pallor of his skin.

Corcoran seemed to remember himself: he shuffled to a stop, causing the Enforcers behind him to nearly run him over; and after a second's bewilderment he snarled at Snape and made a very rude gesture, the last bastion of the inarticulate and powerless.

Snape merely smiled back, and took great satisfaction when one of the Enforcers spat out a command and pushed Corcoran forward.

"You will excuse me," the guard apologised (in that peculiar Teutonic way that was more a command than anything else). "The rules precedence to Arrivals give."

"For the chance to see that, mein Herr," Snape said as he watched the Enforcers march Corcoran away, "you could impugn my birth and accuse me of being half-troll, and I'd only laugh."

The guard looked at Snape rather strangely, though whether it was because he didn't understand, or because the idea of Snape laughing was distinctly odd, Snape neither knew nor cared.

*****

Hermione's mood was greatly improved when he told her of Corcoran's arrest, but she expressed it rather differently than Snape was accustomed to her doing: she swore a long, triumphant, and creative blue streak, and stole several of his favourite phrases in the process.

(He wasn't certain that was a good thing. Not only was she used to him, she was now beginning to sound like him. He might prefer his own company, but he wasn't so narcissistic as to wish to live with a copy of himself, either.)

Fudge's trial was not concluded by the end of the day.

They elected to stop at the bookseller's in Vaduz rather than imposing on Schell again, and sent a polite note ahead to decline and thank him: they made their stop, and returned to Schellenberg for a quiet evening in what passed for home. (It was quiet, as it happened: Snape had been forced to drag Hermione away from the bookseller's along with a heavy parcel of new-bought books, one of which she kept her nose tucked into all evening. She had far more interest in the lot than he, as most of the blasted stuff was in German.)

He should, Snape thought to himself late that night in bed, really consider this a sort of twisted holiday. It was very like that week-end they'd spent in Whitemarsh, in some respects -- no work, per se: no mucking about with the dunderheads (he quite appreciated that), but with the advantage of no stupid walks around a vapid holiday-scape filled with over-priced, substandard food and trashy tourist gee-gaws.

He winced a bit, and tried to stretch his arm -- the one under Hermione's head -- enough to keep the circulation going, without waking her. (Not that it was bloody likely, since she still slept like the dead.)

He suspected he'd miss her scent, though. Not that cologne she used, no -- it was pleasant, but it wasn't what she really smelled like: not the almond of her skin when just from the bath, and the citrus and hint of salt when she was a bit overheated. He rather missed it now, actually, because uppermost at the moment was the muskiness of her blood, which he hadn't had to endure much to this point. (Not that Hermione wasn't fastidious, but his sense of smell was acute.)

He'd thought that would bother him more: he'd seen and smelt enough blood through the years to be thoroughly disgusted and unmoved by it. This was different, though. It was, after all, natural -- Hermione's body purging itself, as it must, of the stuff that otherwise should have helped make and nourish a child.

(He was glad, now, that he hadn't suggested a good fuck in the bath all those weeks ago. It was probably a very messy proposition for relatively little satisfaction, especially as she'd whinge about it. Not that he could blame her for that, either: she had seemed rather uncomfortable for the last two days, in contrast to last time when he hadn't noticed any discomfort for her at all.)

More than enough time for her to find some fool and have sprogs, if she wanted. (Assuming Trelawney really was wrong with her idiotic old maid statement, and Snape knew damned well she was, his earlier sniping notwithstanding.)

No, it was better to dodge all that. Twenty-odd years more of a woman's menses, and what, thirteen times a year or so? There were days he could barely stand Hermione when she was level-headed: her mood swings in the past half-week had nearly driven him mad, and he'd often needed to duck out to the woodshed, supposedly to charm kindling, rather than biting her head off as she'd done him.

There was quite a pile of kindling in the woodshed now, as testament to his forbearance and sense of self-preservation.

He shuddered delicately, and put that thought out of mind; and with it he finally laid to rest the still faintly-tantalising idea of the kind of child they might have made together had they been forced to that extreme, and went to sleep.

*****

Neither of them were called to Gutenberg the next day -- surprising, but in a way, welcome (at least it was to Snape). Hermione grumbled about it, but to Snape's mind, it was a good omen: he imagined they'd got round to deposing Corcoran, and, very likely, Corcoran's Defence had let slip that Fudge had blamed him. While there were undoubtedly very interesting things being bandied about the Court, Snape would just as soon miss them if it meant staying out of Gutenberg Castle.

McGonagall finally got round to sending another package, and it included Tuesday's edition of The Prophet. (Hermione got to it first, damn her.)

"Cripes!" she shrieked, and Snape nearly slopped very hot coffee on his lap.

"Don't scr- What is it?"

"Look, look --" she babbled, and he barely had time to set down his coffee-cup before she launched herself out of her chair, around the table, and to his side.

Fudge had made front-page news, and not in a good way.

"'Gutenberg, Liechtenstein, Monday February 20th. Prophet journalist Humphrey Humphries, special correspondent with the ICW, owls in an astounding report on Monday's events in the ICW Courts --'" Hermione began to gabble.

"I can read," Snape muttered, and grabbed the near side of the paper to adjust it to a decent reading-distance: Hermione draped her free arm over the back of his chair and bent over his shoulder so they could read together.

"Notice how quickly they turned on him?" Snape murmured. "Just two weeks ago they were towing the Party line and whetting public appetite for the scheme, and now they're distancing themselves --"

"In the long run," Hermione muttered back, scanning the rest of the article, "scandals sell a hell of a lot more papers than Party loyalty.... Oh, thank God," she added, threw her arms about Snape's neck, and managed, somehow, not to land quite on his bad knee when she plopped into his lap.

There was nothing for it, really, but to drop the paper and put his arms about her: she was likely to slide down on top of his bloody knee, otherwise, and Merlin knew he didn't want that.

She was mumbling something into his coat-front, and he had to lower his head and listen very carefully to pick out the words, "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank --"

"What the bloody hell for?"

"Couldn't have done it without you."

No, of course you couldn't was the obvious response: but all Snape could manage was a delicate clearing of his throat and the caution, "There isn't a verdict yet, you know."

"Even if he's cut loose, his plan's bolloxed," Hermione said more distinctly, and loosened her stranglehold on Snape's neck. "And if the media's after him now and gets the population riled, he's going to have a hell of a time convincing the Wizengamot he should stay in office. Worth whatever happens, as far as I'm concerned -- I don't particularly care if we can go back or not, now,"

Snape did. It was, on the whole, a good thing that she couldn't see his face. And then, just when he thought things couldn't get any more awkward, Hermione shuddered, drew in a shaky breath, and started to cry.

He couldn't very well push her off him now: the next best course of action seemed to be locating his handkerchief for her, and keeping his damned mouth shut until she'd bawled herself dry -- so he did.

It was a very long time before Hermione cried herself out, and not before the old cook shuffled into the room to clear the table, glaring at Snape every bit as nastily as if he'd driven Hermione to it.

*****

They were in Vaduz, piddling about in what passed for the Wizarding quarter (bored with staying at the house, as there nothing at all to do, and not much money to do it with but sight-seeing after all), when they heard the verdicts -- or, rather, Hermione heard the newsboy's shrill harangue, froze in her tracks and clutched Snape's arm more tightly, and then pulled free of him and darted across the street to the bookseller's.

"Hermio --" Oh, bloody hell. Thank Merlin there aren't any sleds or carriages about.

He joined her at a marginally more sedate pace, reaching her just as she shoved a few wancs at the newsboy and snatched the circular from him.

"Well?"

"Give me a moment, I've got to translate," she muttered, and pushed a straggling, snow-flecked lock of hair behind her ear. "Fudge is... 'Minister Fudge is found Guilty of violation of Section 497 --' Cripes! '-- and it is the verdict of the Court that, due to the...' hell, it must be something like 'egregious' -- '-- nature of the crime, is sentenced to Life imprisonment --' Oh, Severus --"

"What about Corcoran?" Snape asked quickly, to prevent her from flinging herself at him in a distressingly public place.

"Hang on, they go on about Fudge quite a bit.... 'Dennis Corcoran, former Human Resour--' Former? When the bloody hell did that happen?"

"Hermione --"

Out of the corner of his eye Snape saw Schell poke his head out of the doorway of a café: he'd obviously seen Hermione's race across the street.

"'Dennis Corcoran, etcetera, who was also charged under Section 497, is likewise declared Guilty, and sentenced to thirty years....' ...Bloody hell, why did the bastard get a lesser sentence?"

"Because," Schell called to them, "he... how do you put it? Sang like a canary?"

"Back-stabbed," Snape informed him, at the same time Hermione turned, flashed a brilliant smile at Schell, and called back "Grassed."

Schell laughed, and beckoned them into the café; and they entered and sat at his table near the steamed-up windows, and accepted the ubiquitous coffee that he offered them.

"When?" Snape demanded. And thank Merlin we won't have to testify again....

"Late Tuesday, actually -- it took until last night to sort through his statement and make certain everything was in order."

"The Prosecutor told him Fudge blamed him?"

"No, his Defence did, and counselled a full confession in exchange for a lighter sentence."

"A plea-bargain -- should have guessed," Hermione said. "Is there a chance they might be able to appeal?"

"Not in Corcoran's case, since he confessed. Fudge stuck it out to the last, so it's possible that he might demand one -- assuming he could persuade a barrister to take it on, and I think that unlikely. The evidence is simply too strong to refute, in the main."

"Extradition?" Snape muttered.

"That would depend on how badly the Wizengamot wants to take it on, I imagine. There's something to be said for leaving well enough alone," Schell said, eyes sparkling. "There might be unfortunate questions asked about Wizengamot knowledge of the whole matter, after all."

"Cripes, hadn't thought of that," Hermione said. (Snape had, but kept his mouth shut.) "Some of them were part of the Flaherty inquest, but Lord knows if they were involved in the rest."

"Perhaps the MLE will begin an internal investigation? I don't have anything to tell you of the rest of Fudge's trial, really. It was all wrapped up very simply, given Corcoran's statement, and the justices weren't impressed with Fudge's excuse --"

"Which was?"

"For the good of the population. Rutger very aptly pointed out that the potion certainly wouldn't do them any good -- it would only make Fudge and the government look better to the ICW, and moreover that the government wasn't necessarily the best judge of what is best for individual citizens. So," Schell said, and waved over the waiter and the dessert-tray, "what do you think the two of you will do now?"

There was an awkward pause in which Snape held his breath, until Hermione admitted, "Don't know, yet. I suppose we ought to contact Bretchgirdle and... cripes, I don't even know what Department would issue us the proper papers to return. If we want to -- I'm not certain we do."

"On this end you apply to the Court for your permission to leave," Schell told them, and picked out a custard, thickly overlaid with whipped cream. "That supersedes anything required by Customs, and will give you clearance to travel through the member countries between here and there...."

They left Vaduz for Schellenberg quite, quite late and sugar-sated to the gills, after promising to return to Schell's home for a farewell dinner. (Snape had no intention of doing any such thing, of course -- though he imagined Hermione would insist -- but he couldn't really behave so churlishly to Schell's face, given the man's usefulness.)

Waiting for them, on the table in the main room of the house, was a rather thick and nasty-looking envelope: it jiggled and twitched when Snape lit the lamps in the room, just to be certain he'd noticed it.

He pulled his wand and observed it for a moment.

"I should have told Gerta to stay home tonight," Hermione called from the entry-way as she hung up her coat. "That cake's spoiled my appetite for --"

"Stay back there, would you?" Snape ordered. "I don't like the look of --"

She wasn't paying the least attention to him, for she wandered into the room anyway, a scrap of parchment in her hands. " -- Oh, wait, she's left a note -- 'Something came while you were out. Dinner in basket on table, I'm not staying here with that thing --'" She noticed the envelope, and stopped. "Oh. Cripes. It's a Howler, isn't it."

"Yes," Snape said, and the envelope writhed about some more.

"From who?"

"Won't know until I bloody open it, will I?"

"Well, you'd better hurry, it looks like it's about to blow --"

It was and it did, spewing bits of shredded envelope into the air.

"Severus Snape --"

It was, unmistakably, McGonagall.

"-- I'll grant that you have terrible handwriting, but that is not an excuse not to let me know how you and Hermione are doing --"

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "You just had to exclude her from the ward, didn't you?"

"Don't be unreasonable, Severus, you wouldn't have got the paper or your biscuits if I had."

"-- and I would greatly appreciate knowing when my Potions instructor will be back to work, as one of your students mucked something up and Hooch is in the Infirmary with itchy purple spots --" the Howler continued to scold.

"How the bloody hell do you expect us to get back?" he bellowed at it, and glared at Hermione when she giggled at him.

"They've just said on the Wireless that Fudge is out of it, so there's no excuse for you to put off returning as soon as possible. I would suggest that bringing a supply of Swiss chocolate for Hooch would be a very nice gesture." And the Howler spit out two parchments with such force that they hit the ceiling and fell to the floor halfway across the room, as the envelope itself deflated.

Snape hissed out a frustrated "Incendio," at the damned thing to relieve his frustration, and the envelope burst into flame. (The napkin covering the dinner-basket caught as well, unfortunately, and he had to dart over to smother it before the whole basket went up.)

"She's really very fond of you, you know," Hermione said matter-of-factly after the envelope had crumpled to ash.

"No, she's not," Snape grumbled as he stomped over to collect the parchments. "You're perfectly capable of writing to her, but she didn't shriek at you."

"Of course not. I'm just a former student, but you're her snarky, bad-tempered little boy who she worries over. All parents act like that."

Snape stopped in mid-reach and glared at Hermione again. "Of all the misfortunes I've endured, being even remotely related to Minerva McGonagall is not one, thank Merlin."

Hermione just smiled at him, damn her, and wandered over to empty the dinner-basket. "What's in the parchments?"

He broke the seal on the one marked with his name, opened and read it, and nearly dropped it in his surprise. "Apparition clearance from Calais to London."

"What?"

"And, erm, a temporary travel visa, valid immediately. I presume the other one is yours."

Hermione trotted over and looked at the documents. "Bloody hell. I wonder how she got them so quickly.... Do you think we dare? I mean, do you think someone will be out to get us, if we --"

"McGonagall mustn't think so. I suppose she's spoken to Weasley and Shacklebolt, got the lie of the land. I'd prefer to know we have full Immunity before we set foot on British soil, frankly."

"So would I. But I don't suppose it would hurt to go to Calais straight away," Hermione said thoughtfully. "And we could always stop in Paris and ask François to make inquiries for us. We ought to thank him in person, at any rate."

On the other hand, DeLaine might be useful should they feel unsafe, and have to stay in France....

"Drop a note to Schell tomorrow morning," Snape told her. "Tell him we'll be in Gutenberg for the day to get the Court's permission to leave, and we'll start out for Paris the next day.... Unless that's too soon for you."

"No," she said. "No, I think I'd like to get this settled as well," she said, and gently prised her visa and Apparition pass from his fingers.

It was a bloody shame that Snape didn't feel up to asking her precisely what she meant by "this," because he badly wanted to know exactly what she was thinking.

*****

There were many niggling loose ends to tie up, of course: they ought to have given themselves a few days to deal with it all; but Hermione's money was running low, so it was best to act quickly.

Justice Meyer himself signed off on their release, with nothing more than a grunted acknowledgement of their presence, and then they were free to go wherever they liked.

There was luncheon at Schell's house -- pleasant overall, though while Hermione was in the loo, Snape had to undergo the indignity of leaving the old man with a verbal IOU for his services. (He was right about Schell, though: the man got very cagey when the subject of the rent on the house came up, and merely told him the rate for the hire of the furnishings, which were added to the IOU.) He did his best not to scowl when he saw the bill, and confined himself to a mental Bloody lawyers. It would make a nice dent in his savings -- nearly three months' salary -- but Snape was well aware that of the two, he was in the better position to afford it: Hermione should have to be very careful until she found another job.

He suppressed a twinge of guilt at the thought of cutting her loose in that condition, but it couldn't be helped.

They packed up their things that evening; and early next morning, after deciding they weren't up to Apparating all the way, they carefully warded the little house and set out for Geneva, to catch a Muggle train to Paris as there was no Wizarding train service on the Continent.

*****

The less said about Paris, the better, as far as Snape was concerned. He'd been before, once or twice, for what McGonagall insisted were "professional development opportunities," and hated it: if the Frogs were unilaterally snobbish and self-absorbed, Paris was the epicentre and epitome of those qualities. He quickly quashed any effort on Hermione's part to do any walking about the city.

The one bright moment was a hurried conversation with Shacklebolt, made from DeLaine's office on a secure flue.

"Wondered if I'd hear from you two," Shacklebolt said gravely, seemingly unsurprised when he answered the call. "Professor McGonagall chivvied me into walking through those visas as soon as we heard."

"She didn't bother to tell us in which direction the wind is blowing," Snape shot back. "I'm bloody well not going through with this if we're to be picked up the moment we return."

"Why would you be?" Shacklebolt said calmly. "Madam Snape was cleared on the MLE charges, so why should you worry?"

"Shacklebolt --"

The man looked about, leaned closer to the fire, and said, "No-one here has any knowledge whatever -- the ICW doesn't release the names of anyone testifying. They know you were picked up by the Enforcers, of course, but as long as you've got your clearance from them, there should be no problems."

"Are you certain?" Hermione asked him.

"Bretchgirdle suspects, I think, but he's too chuffed with having Corcoran out of the way to give a damn. And with the rumours flying about at the moment, I don't think you'll need to fear anything in future."

"What do you mean by that?" Snape demanded.

Shacklebolt smiled. "Come home and see. I'll have the MLE seal lifted from Hermione's flat by the time you're here."

"Blast it, man, this is serious --"

"I am. Got to go -- we've finally laid hands on Jarvey, and now the ICW's insisting we look for some bloke named Debdale." And the bloody man cut the connection and blinked out.

"Merlin's bloody fucking balls and beard --"

"Trouble?" DeLaine asked innocently. (Bloody Frog. He'd been there the whole time and heard everything.)

"Apparently not," Hermione told him as Snape continued cursing. "Shacklebolt's quite sensible, no matter the impression Severus is giving you."

"Oh, good."

"Debdale's still on the loose, though," Snape added. "Not the most heartening information."

"You don't think he'd try to retaliate, do you? He doesn't even know we were involved."

"Hell, no, he probably skived off as soon as the Enforcers turned up at Mangle and Mortars. He's in Central America or someplace, by now."

"Then he's not our problem," Hermione said firmly. "And I, for one, want my own home and bed as soon as possible, so we might as well get on with it."

*****

Hermione didn't get her own home and bed, as it happened: there'd been a cold snap in London, the flat's electric fires had been turned off, and the pipes had frozen and burst.

*****

"Cripes," Hermione moaned, head buried in her arms. "Why can't anything be simple and straightforward?"

Snape often wondered that himself. "How much," he asked, cautiously, "will it cost to have it repaired?" He'd no idea what Muggle plumbers charged.

"Thousands," she said. "At least it will if I have to spring for new floors. And I will. And for having the cellar pumped out. And replacing anything electric that's ruined." (No-one in the flats above had noticed the sound of running water, unfortunately.) "No bloody way I can afford it all."

"Ah. Well," he ventured, trying to be optimistic for once, "at least you'll have it all properly plumbed now."

She didn't appreciate that: she lifted her head, gave him a whithering look, curled up even deeper in the chair, and plopped her head back onto her arms.

Snape murmured something about ordering dinner from Smithers -- he'd smuggled Hermione into his room as the flat was uninhabitable, no members were in residence at the Club to object, and they didn't feel like facing McGonagall late at night -- and slipped out of the room and went downstairs.

"Does your, erm, guest require anything in the way of nightwear?" Smithers asked when Snape had found him in the Lounge, clearing away after a pair of noisy and exceptionally blotto apothecaries. "I might, ah, liberate something from the ladies' club. I know the door-keeper."

"No, no, she's fine. Dinner would be acceptable, though -- something light is fine, given the hour."

"Of course, Professor Snape."

"Have you heard anything of Bluett?" Snape asked.

Smithers shook his head. "No, sir. His nephew has promised to contact me should there be any improvement," he said, and glanced upward, eyes tired and worried, at the members' plaque above the fireplace: Snape looked at it as well.

Bluett's name, normally as brightly polished and gleaming as Snape's and the other living members', now flickered beneath a layer of tarnish that none of Smithers' efforts could remove.

"Damn," Snape said softly. "I'll be returning to Hogwarts tomorrow morning. Let me know if you hear anything."

"Of course, sir," Smithers said quietly, gathering up his cleaning-kit and the apothecaries' mess.

"Oh, and, ah.... Do you know any plumbers, Smithers?"

"Plumbers, sir?"

"Plumbers. Preferably very good ones who can do an entire flat in short order and see to repairing any other damages while they're at it. Without costing me an arm and leg, as well."

"I can make inquiries. I've a cousin in the Building trade," Smithers said. "Perhaps he knows someone."

"Very good," Snape said, took the pencil Smithers offered him, and scribbled Hermione's address and his password for the ward on the man's cuff. "Have them send the bill to me."

"Right, sir. Dinner should be no more than a half-hour."

Snape lost no time in going back upstairs: he had a risky mission to accomplish, and he needed it done before Smithers brought up their meal.

"Missed dinner, haven't we?" Hermione asked when he entered his room.

Even without seeing her face -- for she was in the wing-chair by the fire, its back to the door -- Snape could tell she'd been crying while he was out: her voice was thick, and as he walked to the fireplace he caught her swiping at her eyes.

Before Hermione had a chance to notice that his wand was in his hand, he pointed it at her and commanded, "Obliviate."

It almost didn't work: even off her guard she was still quick, and there was a split second before the spell caught her in which she sat bolt upright, shock and outrage flashing in her eyes -- but it held.

Snape laid his wand on the side-table and leaned over her, propping himself on either chair-arm.

"Hermione, we came directly to the Club from the Apparition point tonight," he said.

"Nuh- noooo," she said, fighting the spell.

"You're mistaken -- we did. You wanted to go to the flat, but understood that I was concerned for Bluett, and so you agreed to come here. Isn't that right?" he said, staring intently into her eyes and challenging her to cede her will to his.

She fought it for a very long time -- Bloody hell, I don't remember her having this much resistance when we trained her lot -- but eventually she sighed and whispered "Yes."

Snape shuddered at the tingle of power that sent racing up his spine.

"You have no need to go to the flat for a few days. You'll come with me to Hogwarts -- it's safer if we're together until we're certain there will be no reprisals -- and you'll go without fussing."

"Yes."

"And when you do return to the flat, you'll find nothing at all out of the ordinary. Everything will appear just as it was the last time you left it. Aga will be its usual cantankerous self, but for some reason the plumbing will behave, and you'll decide that it's just bloody luck and not worry about it."

"Yes, Severus."

Another little jolt of power made Snape's nerve-ends twitch.

"And you'll remember nothing of this," he added. "You fell asleep while I was downstairs, and you're just waking."

"Yes, Severus."

Snape passed his hand over her forehead and then down over her eyes: she obediently closed them and sagged backward, and he caught her by the shoulders and eased her the rest of the way down into the chair.

He ought to feel guilty, but he didn't.

She moaned a bit, and began to wake; Snape tucked one of the ever-wayward strands of hair behind her ear, and that was enough to wake her fully.

"Dinner will be up in a few minutes," he volunteered. "I suggest an early bed if you're this tired."

"Right," she muttered, looking puzzled, and wiped away the lingering moisture from her cheeks.

"I think," he said as he moved away from her, "that you'd best come up north with me for now, until we have a chance to see what's happening."

"All right," she said.

She was quiet the rest of the evening -- although he caught her staring at him once or twice over their dinner, as if she'd forgot something very important about him -- and when they went to bed, she didn't cuddle up to him as she had in Liechtenstein.

*****

Much as Snape hated showing a Gryffindor one of the many Slytherin secret passages into the Castle, it was better than dealing with the uproar their return would cause if they walked through the front door. It was also too much to ask that McGonagall leave them in peace, and Snape knew it, but at least the nosy auld bitch brought all the issues of The Prophet that they'd missed, and interesting information as well.

"I shouldn't tell you, really -- your own fault for taking so long to return --"

He held his tongue, but Hermione surprised him with a quiet, but vehement, "Oh, please don't tease him, Headmistress. He's understandably worried about our legal status, and wasn't about to rush back."

McGonagall's eyebrows shot upward, and Snape could practically see her swallow down a tart response; but then she merely smoothed down her robe-fronts, and said, "Riots."

"Riots?"

"About the potion, I believe. Not at St. Mungo's, that's far too exposed, but at the Ministry. They're demanding full disclosure."

"And are they getting it?" Snape asked.

"Not yet. Biggles is acting the fool -- he would, he was a Form or two behind me, so I know -- saying it must have been an error in the manufacture."

He snorted. That was precisely what he'd expected.

"But the people aren't buying it, with good reason -- the ICW's been issuing statements for The Prophet that say the contrary, and the editor's been printing them -- and now everyone's in such a state that they're demanding Biggles be removed as well."

"Good try," Hermione muttered, "but who's the next most senior Interrogator?"

"That's the thing -- they're calling for a Minister from outside the Wizengamot, who shan't be allowed a seat. Something about ensuring that the Judiciary and administration have a harder time getting in each others'... pockets."

Snape had the distinct impression that McGonagall meant an altogether different variety of clothing than pockets. As a consequence, he missed the major point -- but Hermione didn't: she fumbled her tea-cup, and yelped when hot tea sloshed over the edge and burned her fingers. "They're asking for government reform?"

"Yes, exactly. Waste of time, if you ask me," McGonagall said, and sniffed. "A nasty enough individual can find a way to boll- ...to muck up any system, but I imagine it will keep everyone on their best behaviour for a while, at least."

"And the bloody laws?" Snape growled.

"Oh, there've been calls to have those struck off, of course, but Biggles won't do it -- says an Acting Minister doesn't have the authority. Which is another good reason to have him sacked, if you ask me."

"You'll see all the rest in the paper, so I'll let the two of you get some rest. I don't suppose," McGonagall said, and peered hopefully at Snape over her glasses-rims, "that you'd be up to teaching tomorrow?"

"If I must," he said with a grunt, and pulled his feet back and out of Hermione's way when she suddenly darted up from the settee and raced for their baggage.

"Good. Hooch needs bed-rest for the spots to go away, and she hasn't been getting it," McGonagall said as she rose. "And if you can find anything that might help with that...."

Snape nodded.

"Here's, erm...." Hermione muttered as she escorted McGonagall to the door, and handed her a package.

"My word, did he actually --?"

"No, of course not. But if you'd say it was from both of us...."

"Much as it pains me to lie, for you I shall," McGonagall told her, and gave Snape a reproving look over her shoulder before she left them.

"You didn't," he said to Hermione.

"Of course I did, Severus. Geneva's best chocolate," she shot back as she returned to the settee, grabbed for one of the papers, and curled up to read. "She covered for you, didn't she?"

"It's an occupational hazard," he muttered. "Shouldn't be any stupid gestures involved."

"For her, falling off a broom or getting a bludger to the head is an occupational hazard," Hermione said, radiating sanctimony. "Being potions-hexed is above and beyond the call of duty."

Just a few more days. Please, Merlin, let me hold on for just a few more days, was the only thing Snape could think for the rest of the evening,

*****

In the end, he was too busy catching the students up to be much-afflicted with Hermione's presence. She stayed out of his way when he wasn't in the classroom: Monday she went so far as to do an adequate job of setting the ingredients store right (damn Hooch for being a disorganised wench), and he assumed she checked up on that little bleeder Marsters, but other than that she stayed put in his rooms.

He also noticed that she spent a great deal of time looking at the Employment listings in The Prophet, for which small mercy he was grateful.

"I think," she said on the Wednesday night, when they'd gone to bed, "that I'd best go back to town tomorrow."

"Really," he muttered. "You aren't worried about the Ministry?"

"I'm not, no. I've got my MLE ticket-of-leave, after all. And I want to get cracking on applying for jobs."

"Ah."

"I need to check the flat, anyway -- I'm not comfortable leaving it empty, what with the weather they had down there while we were away."

Thank Merlin the plumber's bill had arrived earlier that day: everything had been tidied up. The cost of managing it had quite ruined Snape's lunch, though.

"So," Hermione said, and wriggled round to face him, "there's really.... There's really just the two of us to sort out, isn't there?"

"Are you ready to make a decision?" he asked quietly.

"No, not really. I feel very much at sixes-and-sevens, at the moment. I think you're right, and it's too important a choice to make while discomboblutated."

He'd said no such thing, actually; he'd said once they were settled, and to all intents and purposes they were, now. But he let it pass.

"Then we wait until we're... calmer," he speculated. "Until we're certain of our minds."

"Right," Hermione said. "Suppose I.... Well, what say you that I stay in town over the week-end and next week, and come back up the week-end after? That should give us plenty of time to get back into some sort of normal routine."

"Excellent idea," he murmured. "You'll floo me if you have any difficulties with anyone, of course?"

"Yes, I will.... And I'll... I'll stop by an apothecary's just in case, all right? Good night, Severus," she whispered, and caressed his shoulder before turning and tucking herself back under the covers.

He was in an exceptionally foul mood next day in class: he hadn't got a wink of sleep, and was confused even more by the fact that he'd both wanted Hermione to leave, and was rather sorry to see her go.

*****

Snape jotted a quick note to a former acquaintance who was quite good at tracking people and things, and sent it off.

Bluett, bless the blasted old man's memory, had on March 6th quietly gone off to wherever it was that old Potions Brewers and Alchemists went when they'd brewed their last, so Snape had no further worries there, either. (There was a thick and ominous-looking package which Smithers had sent on, something Bluett had left to Snape, and which he hadn't had the guts to open yet. Snape suspected he knew the contents, anyway: Bluett, like Dumbledore, would have made an effort to tweak Snape's conscience, and he didn't wish to deal with that at the moment. It could wait.)

Which just left the problem of Hermione.

She might have changed her mind since then, of course. She might have found work by now and begun to feel more independent, or even realised that he'd Obliviated her and got narked at him -- he'd be surprised if she hadn't, although she'd seemed comfortable enough with him before she left -- but he suspected she'd made her mind up well before they'd left Schellenberg.

He was, in other words, saddled with a wife he didn't want. Or at least one he didn't want under these circumstances, not any longer.

But that gave her more ammunition against him. Moreover, there was every chance that she'd fall to pieces again. She wasn't made of stone; he knew that well, despite her ability to pull everything together and soldier on when the situation was grave enough. He didn't think this one was, and he really didn't fancy having to hold her hand through it all. It wasn't in his nature, and what little compassion he possessed had already been stretched to its utmost limits.

Yes, there was another option. He'd sent a feeler out on it Saturday last, and the resultant correspondence he'd received this morning had been encouraging. Fudge and the bloody Ministry hadn't closed all the loopholes. They wouldn't have wanted to close this particular one, in any case -- it was too advantageous for their purposes, just as it might prove for Snape's. It involved some unpleasantness, if he knew Hermione well (and he did); it would be momentarily excruciating, but minor in the long term.

He didn't think she would act differently than he hoped, though. She was still prone to anger before tears or rational thought, still so damned prickly when she thought her honour was in danger of being smirched -- not that he blamed her, that was one Gryffindor trait he understood well -- that he expected her to behave precisely as predicted.

Fine, then. Barring some compelling argument and evidence on her part, it's settled. I simply have to make it absolutely clear to her....

He drew over a fresh piece of parchment and began a terse letter full of instructions, bound for London.

*****

Hogwarts
Saturday, March 12th

He was deep in the middle of the Sevenths' NEWT-preparatory essays (very few, in his estimation, were going to do a decent job of it), when his office door quietly opened and shut. Perhaps it was that -- that soft click, rather than the expected slam -- that threw him off: it took him a moment longer than it should to bite back a vicious comment on entry without leave, to place the cadence of the footsteps, and to ask instead, without glancing up, "I assume all was well at the flat?"

Hermione stopped halfway across the room. "You didn't hex my electric fires and the water-heater last you were in, did you?"

She didn't sound horribly upset; he had to work on the assumption that she hadn't remembered the Obliviate, then -- and that she hadn't got wind of the plan, either.

"No," he answered truthfully. "Why should I?"

"Sheer bloody-minded bastardry, that's why."

He did look up at her then, and realised that while she was doing quite well at controlling her voice, her expression said it all.

She marched the rest of the way over to his desk, and slapped a parchment down next to his hand. "What the bloody hell is this? she demanded.

He resisted the urge to bark back at her, plucked the parchment from the desk, and opened and scanned it. "Exactly what it appears," he said coolly. "A writ for a legal separation and dissolution of our marriage. Rather faster than I anticipated -- I haven't got my copy yet." He dropped the parchment to his desk and picked up his quill to continue marking.

"You know damned well what I mean," she snapped. "You didn't talk to me about this, and you should have had the decency --"

"Decency? Decency isn't required, it's simply the Law."

"How the bloody hell could they grant you a divorce without telling me beforehand?"

"Separation. I regret to say that the divorce won't be final for a year unless you choose to file a writ against me, in which case the decree is effective in six months," he murmured, intent on the essay in front of him. "I don't need your consent, it simply takes longer -- unfair, but true. I might have filed against you for the contraceptive charge and your supposed deception and got an immediate decree, but that would be taking undue advantage, wouldn't it? And I've no desire to ruin your reputation to the extent that would do."

"I thought we'd --" she began, and then clamped her lips shut and began to pace the room.

"Decided to wait until we were calmer? I did, and I am. Reached an understanding? Of sorts. That doesn't mean it's acceptable to continue as we are. Unless, of course, you're saying that you secretly enjoyed the arrangement. That's entirely different," he said, giving up on the essay and staring her down. "I shouldn't mind going on if that's the case, though I should warn you that I would not tolerate any idiocy about a family. And I would expect much more enthusiasm when bedding you, in future. Granted, your little overture in Liechtenstein was... interesting, but hardly acceptable by my standards."

Hermione's face went red. "It that what this is about? Sex?

"It's certainly part of it, and I really don't see why you're complaining. We're no longer preoccupied with dangerous events. There is no longer a need for the deception. I'm bored with having an unwilling or, at best, tolerant sexual partner," he said reasonably. "It's obvious that you don't appreciate sex, that the marriage isn't what either of us wants, and that it never will be."

"I've tried Severus -- I'm trying. I thought you understood what I... ...that night in Schellenberg, that I was trying to --"

"Trying and failing, considering that you admitted you had to work yourself up to it. I accept that you can't stand me --"

"That's not true --"

"-- and I haven't the least interest in trying to change your mind. There is simply no reason for either of us to be miserable, and I would like to get on with my life. Without impediment."

"Impediment? Is that what I am? Is it just me, or would..."

He could practically see the thought forming in her mind; see ingrained prejudices taking over, and he willed her to give in to them.

"Parkinson," she finally said. "If the laws are struck down, you'll be free to marry a Pureblood -- if you're not stuck with me."

"Whether I intend to remarry or not is none of your business," he murmured. "Although, frankly, given that my consent is no longer effectively coerced, it's a much more attractive prospect. And if my options are no longer limited, as you say."

That did it, good and proper: the blood drained from her face. "You can't stand it, can you?" she asked. "You still can't stand that I'm a Muggleborn, for all your comments about my skill. And you certainly don't want to have a child polluted with Muggle blood, no matter what you said last year."

"I don't want children, full stop," he said bluntly. "Neither do you as far as I can tell, and certainly not mine, in any case, which rather makes that accusation moot. I'm afraid the problem has far more to do with your suitability and congeniality -- or lack thereof."

She glared at him.

"Perhaps you'd best admit," he said dryly, "that you're more upset that I beat you to it than anything else. You'll have a very hard time convincing me that you actually want to continue."

"Right," she said, voice cold. "Right, I'll just bugger off, then, and leave you alone."

"If you're unable to behave like an adult, civil human being, yes, I suppose you should."

"You'll have a cheque for the bloody warding on the flat as soon as I can manage it," she said.

"That's not nece--"

"Yes it is. I will not be indebted to you. And for Schell's work as well, or at least for half of it."

He shrugged. "As you will. I thought I'd be generous and not mention it, but since you're intent on beggaring yourself.... The warding came to six hundred, and your half of Schell's is... Merlin's balls, I don't know the exchange rate. Say a thousand." (He fibbed: with the additions he'd had Harrison throw in, the warding was nearly twice that -- but she wouldn't know, as he'd told Harrison not to disclose it. Schell's payment owed was, unfortunately, accurate. )

He picked up the writ between fore- and middle-finger, and held it out to her; she lunged for it, snatching it out of his grasp -- and stood there, watching him, as he returned to his marking.

"What is it really, Severus?" she asked. "That I bolloxed it from the first? That I haven't thanked you enough, somehow, or in the right way, for everything else?"

That was surprising: he hadn't expected that she'd anticipate an ulterior motive -- beyond the Pureblood one, not that it was true. (Neither was the accusation of not wanting to defile his bloodline, and that one stung far more: the only reason he tolerated it was that it served the purpose admirably.)

It reflects rather badly on her that she managed that one.... Oh, Merlin's balls, man, you wanted her enraged, and you've got it -- quit blaming her for doing precisely what you want.

"At least you agree that it was bolloxed from Day One. But my cooperation with...?" he murmured. "No, unless I was mishearing things in Schellenberg, I believe you thanked me quite adequately."

She stood by the desk for a moment longer, unnerving him: and then she turned and walked briskly for the door, and Snape pulled the last ace from his metaphoric hand of cards.

"Miss Granger?" he commanded, waited until she'd turned, and glanced upward to find her glaring at him.

"Well?"

"You do realise," he said conversationally, "that you still have nightmares? Perhaps you don't, as you sleep so soundly."

"Not your problem, is it?" she shot back. "I won't be disturbing you any longer."

"No, but it's alarming when someone still, after a decade, shrieks in their sleep. Not that you haven't cause, I saw Longbottom before they removed him from the field."

"And your point is what, exactly?" she demanded.

"My point, you stupid girl, is that you needn't continue to live with that. What was the name of that... counsellor you said you'd seen? The one who discovered your Occlumancy --"

"Tallchief."

"Perhaps it's time to go back to him. There's absolutely no reason for you, for anyone, to bear that heavy and unnecessary a burden, particularly after what you've been through the past few years. I'm suggesting -- and it's only a suggestion -- that you've done more than enough for others, and it's time for a well-earned rest."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, and then said, "Anyone doesn't include you, of course."

"Some of us," he said distinctly, "are capable of dealing with it in constructive ways. You are not. Take it as you will, or not at all -- you're quite right, it's no longer a matter of concern to me."

She stared at him soberly for a moment, and then, without so much as a good-bye, she turned and left, closing the office door as quietly as when she'd entered it.

True, she would probably go straight home and bawl her eyes out -- possibly after breaking a few things -- but they would be tears of anger and frustration, not true pain, and that was fine with Snape. Anger was a much more constructive and useful emotion than pain, if it could be mastered: and he thought Hermione would do some interesting things with hers.

He should have preferred a truce, armed or otherwise, so as to be able to keep an eye on her occasionally and from afar: he was too honest to deny that he still felt responsible for her safety. And she was, after all, one of the very few of his students in whom he had any pride or interest whatever: he would have liked to see her fulfil her potential. (He was certain now that she would.)

All in all, Snape was thankful to close the book on yet another unpleasant, albeit brief, episode in a life filled with them, and he returned to the blasted essays determined to finish them off that evening.

He chose to interpret the tremor in his writing-hand as relief at having the mess with Hermione over, and only began to doubt his confidence when it shook so badly that he had to give up marking and go to bed

******

Chapter 26 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 27