Hermione decided that while she'd like nothing better than to make him squirm for the entire year mandated by law, there was no point in punishing herself. (God only knew what the bastard would do if the Ministry kept the bloody laws on the books, and he failed to find some other poor, idiot female to take advantage of.) So she filed a counter-writ, prepared to wait out the six months before she was a free woman once more, owled Snape a cheque for sixteen hundred Galleons (promptly cashed, she noted) and did her damnedest to ignore that he still existed.

This was all very good in theory. Unfortunately, in practise it wasn't nearly so easy.

She could not let it drop. It niggled at her on a daily basis that Snape should have the arrogance to apply for a divorce without so much as a single word or comment beforehand, after that bloody tripe he'd fed her that night in Schellenberg, and for the reasons he'd given. (Even if she suspected he wasn't being truthful about those reasons, or at least all of them.)

She got on with her life quite effectively, however; there was no point in letting him ruin the rest of it. As far as work went, she took her time making a decision. (She hardly had a choice: Arithmancers weren't generally in great demand, unless one wanted to work for Harrison Wards and Booby-Traps, or the Ministry, and the latter was obviously out.) She didn't have to rush as the flat was nearly paid for -- God bless her grandparents and the inheritance -- and she didn't need much to get on with, not with some creative adaptation to her lifestyle. It was a while before she could afford to replace the appliances that had been mysteriously damaged while she was in Liechtenstein; she broke down and used magic for what she could, and only then began to realise how much she'd missed using it on a daily basis.

She decided, in the end, to study Law -- Civil Law, since there was absolutely no call for Criminal law in Britain, the Wizengamot having that avenue blocked. She found a partnership willing to take her on despite her lack of experience, and began a whole new apprenticeship as a clerk, with a view to becoming a solicitor herself. The partners -- Arbuthnot, Marley, and Patterson, three ancient old men who looked likely to pop their clogs any day (Marley already had, in fact) -- were intrigued rather than appalled with the idea of a female clerk and apprentice, and at first treated her like an oddity, a child to be coddled. But that wore off when they realised that she pulled her weight and managed their research and briefs quite nicely, and that she could throw together a respectable tea (even if she squandered the petty cash on nicer-quality biscuits).

Those were the positive measures she took to rebuild her life. She also took her fair share of negative ones.

Molly Weasley's pot-holders and tea-cosy made a rather pitiful fire in the back-garden, and every bloody sausage Hermione had left in the deep-freeze joined them when she decided to renew her commitment to a meat-free diet. (Every dog in the neighbourhood came calling that night, lured by the smell.) She was tempted to throw the heating-pad on the flames as well, but settled for putting its cover through the wash. Her wedding-ring was the last to go into the fire, an admittedly childish gesture; but then it wasn't worth much, not even the trouble of taking round to a pawnbroker's. (She was rather ashamed of herself when, poking through the remains of the fire next day, she found the warped remnants of the ring -- pathetic, really, that such a small fire had twisted even low-karat gold. Only then did she begin to wonder how cheap of her it had seemed, and whether Snape had noticed and been insulted.)

Snape's letters nearly went up with everything else, but common-sense prevailed there, and she later shoved them into her tiny vault at Gringott's in the event she needed legal ammunition someday. And while Ron, who dragged her up to Chudleigh at the first opportunity to hear the whole story, frequently nagged at her to get out and meet some blokes, she refused to do it: she finally resorted to telling him he was definitely Molly's son given his attempts at match-making (which shut him up nicely).

She didn't want to "meet some blokes." She suspected that if things got serious -- and it was a big if -- then she'd have to confront the issue of sex and her potential reaction to it. She wasn't ready to do that. Speaking with Tallchief about the war was one thing: admitting she was afraid that she might have been turned off sex was another, his good sense and trustworthiness notwithstanding. In any case, early on her bank account couldn't have stood the strain.

She kept an eye on the Prophet, telling herself that she wanted to keep abreast of what the Ministry was doing with the bloody genetics problem. Remington, the new Minister for Magic -- not a Ministry man at all, but a former member of the Hogsmeade Council -- appeared to be handling it quite well, actually. He'd rescinded the damned marriage laws first thing, and had established a research division into Muggle genetics -- especially assisted fertilisation. It was early days to be able to tell if it would do much good, but it was certainly a more sensible and compassionate approach.

She also scanned the marriage announcements, every day. She fully expected to see Snape's name attached to some Pureblood's the moment their decree was final: it probably would be Vector, she thought. That would be like him. Olivia was certainly intelligent enough for him, she was Pureblood, she was already at Hogwarts -- sex on demand, and separate but conveniently close quarters -- and as far as Hermione knew, the idiot who'd jilted Vector had never made a re-appearance. And eventually she did see Vector's name, and nearly a year later, a birth announcement, for which she dutifully sent congratulations.

But neither event involved Snape.

At some point she decided she was taking an unhealthy interest in her ex-husband's activities, even something as relatively innocent as scanning the paper; and, admittedly, she still had nightmares in which she'd find herself back in the Hogwarts Infirmary, cradling Neville's gauze-wrapped hand in hers, trying desperately to see something of her old friend in the swollen, charred face that lay motionless on the pillow.

She decided in the end to take Snape's last bit of advice, and to return to Bill Tallchief.

*****

"It's no use," she told Tallchief after a particularly frustrating session. "I'm a bloody mess, always will be, and that's that."

"At least you admit it, now," Tallchief said. "That's half the battle."

"Thanks."

"It's true. And you have let go of a lot of the early stuff. Realising you had no control over the way the war played out, for example. It's not just what happens to you, Hermione, it's how you --"

"-- choose to deal with it, I know," she muttered.

"In both ways, intellectually and emotionally. And accepting that sometimes, even when you do your best, things just aren't going to work."

She sat, silent, processing that.

"Yeah, that too," Tallchief finally said.

"What?"

"You know. What happened last year."

"Oh. That was just political idiocy --"

"Hermione, I'm not talking about that and you know it."

"All right, all right. I suppose you saw the announcements?"

"Nope, I never read the paper -- it doesn't tell you anything about the human race that you don't already know it's capable of. I saw you running errands in Diagon Alley one day -- into that tailor's at the far end -- and I noticed the ring. Next time you show up here, over a year later," he said, waving at the interior of the medicine lodge (conjured into one of the lecture halls of the Cross-Cultural Institute), "poof -- no ring."

"That simple?"

"Would it be more impressive if I said the Great Spirit sent Raven to tell me? It's not true, though."

"Next time I ever feel mad enough to try this," Hermione muttered, shooting Tallchief a glare, "I'm checking the counsellor's smart-mouth rating, first."

"Smart-ass, Hermione, smart-ass. Stop changing the subject."

"I hate failure, that's all."

"And?"

"And I...."

She drew her knees up to her chest, and clasped her arms about them.

"And," she said, taking a deep breath, "I did it for the wrong reasons. Not the usual way, not.... I didn't convince myself I was in love, I mean, or.... My reasons were very selfish. And very cruel. And he knew, but he went along with it anyway."

"This was because of the marriage laws?"

"Right. But I didn't intend to follow though on it, it was just a stop-gap. He was a right bastard about it, but it forced me to confront some things about myself that I didn't like, things I've been trying to change since. And then we got mixed up in the mess with the Ministry and the ICW, and everything... well, it didn't change, exactly, not the, the... the way we'd agreed to handle the situation. But the context did. I'd begun to understand him a bit better, you see, why he is the way he is, and I started to... appreciate the investment, I guess you could say."

"To see him as a human being?" Tallchief suggested.

"Yes. Yes, I think that's a good way to put it, unfortunately. There was a history there, you see, he'd been one of my teachers at school, and we'd all thought him a tremendous git. He is a tremendous git. But he was also very brave, apparently always has been, even as a child. Even if I hadn't known that before we'd married, I figured it out last year. And he took a horrendous risk to help me."

"So what went wrong?"

"I don't know. We got through all that, there was the call for the new election, some of the laws were repealed, and.... and I suppose," she said slowly, "that I'd hoped we'd be able to continue on a more equal footing. We'd worked well together -- on the problem, I mean, eventually. And I'd got used to his ways. But he simply called it all off. Filed for the separation and divorce without even telling me first."

"Wow. Body-blow to the ego."

She glared at Tallchief, and he grinned back unrepentantly. "Well, you said there wasn't love involved, but getting dumped isn't easy any way it happens. You didn't learn to love him, did you?"

"No, but I certainly respected him a hell of a lot more, by the end. I thought perhaps he'd learned to respect me. Apparently not. He was... really quite nasty in the reasons he gave me. Very old-school Pureblood reasons."

Tallchief thought about it for a very long moment, and then said, "Huh."

"I'm paying you how much per hour, and all you can say is 'huh'?

"Well, what do you expect? You know him better than I do."

"I thought I did. I'd learned.... I'd learned more about his past than I ever let on. It wasn't pretty, but it explained a lot. He might have been a very decent person, if.... He was quite instrumental in Voldemort's defeat -- both of them -- and he sacrificed a great deal to do that, over the years."

"Badly screwed-up, hmmm?"

"That's fair to say. Nightmares almost as bad as mine, post-traumatic stress, the whole nine yards. Hard to tell with him -- he's very adept at covering it, had to be to survive -- but things leaked out. It doesn't make any sense," she blurted out. "He was simply awful at times, no possible way you could call him nice. And very selfish. But he tried, in his own way. Considering how he might have been, I think he did try. And I was looking forward to seeing if... if things would be different, without all the political nastiness hanging over our heads. But he didn't give it a chance."

Tallchief digested that for a while. "It's entirely possible," he said slowly, "to dislike someone's behaviour, but to care about them anyway. Not necessarily love them, but to care about them. You think that's a reasonable statement?"

"Yes. Yes, I think it is."

"You think that's the case here? For you?"

"Probably," she said.

Tallchief laughed.

"All right, yes," she said admitted. "Yes, I think I do. Did. And it's utterly ridiculous, because it was all so wrong."

"No, it's not ridiculous. It's one human being discovering worth in another without all the messy complications of Eros. What a Hindu might call recognizing the Divine in another."

"How would you put it? Religiously, I mean?"

"Very like that. Understanding that we're all children of the Father and Mother, and respecting that. Finding the similarities, the common ground, seeing ourselves in the other, and respecting the differences."

"Don't give me the old 'walking a mile in --'"

"Naw, I wouldn't do that to you. I only trot that out for the ones who come here hoping for the Noble Savage routine. Not that it's not true...."

"Well, it doesn't matter, anyway -- it's over. I just wish he'd talked to me about it, first. I'd... I'd got used to him acting a bit more reasonably than that, and what he said really hurt."

"I think you probably listened too hard to the words," Tallchief said gravely.

"Of course I did."

"You can't always leave it at that, Hermione. You say he was really screwed up -- don't snort, it's a layman's term for a valid psychological condition.... Would you say he was a proud man too?"

"Christ, yes."

"And he went to a lot of trouble to help you through a rough time, seemed to try to be decent about the whole thing, and then sent you away?"

"Yes."

"Well, people deal with things in odd ways, Hermione. First possibility, it sounds like he might have been afraid you'd hurt him first. A lot of people don't deal with that gracefully, and they do everything they can to protect themselves, including making the first strike. Saving face, as the Japanese say."

"You're mixing your cultural metaphors quite badly, today."

"Hey, I'm a multi-culturalist, I go with the best metaphor I can find. What do you think?"

"Possible. Very like him, actually. Though I don't think he cared enough to be hurt. Cared enough for me, I mean, not about his pride."

"Or.... He might have thought he was doing you a favour."

"How?"

"You said 'the way we agreed to handle the situation.' Were you really happy with that?"

"No. No, not at all, and I didn't make a secret of it. But I got used to it. It might have been acceptable if we'd worked at it."

"Maybe he didn't like it either."

"Oh yes he did. It was very much to his advantage."

"Thanks -- that was exactly my point."

She glared at him and muttered, "Sneaky bastard."

"That's my job. Look, he knew you weren't happy with the status quo. And just maybe he let you go, rather than sending you away. That's a hard thing for anyone to do, but for a proud person? Excruciating. And if you put the two of those together.... Maybe he felt he needed to let you go, but he found a way to do it that protected himself as well."

Hermione thought about it a while, and then shook her head.

"I still can't figure it out. I don't think it's possible."

Tallchief laughed. "You're looking at it like an intellectual puzzle, Hermione -- you always do -- and emotions don't work that way. I can't think of anything more logical than that, not unless you drag him in here so I can pick his psyche apart."

"Not bloody likely. And if anyone needs it...."

She could almost feel her eyes glaze over as it hit her.

"Hermione?"

"He.... Ah, you know, I probably shouldn't have come back, if it weren't for something he'd said. I'd told him about you -- about the Occlumancy, pretty early on -- and the last thing he said to me was, there wasn't a need for me to keep struggling with all the baggage. The... Harry and Neville, and everything, and perhaps I ought to see you again. 'Time for a well-earned rest.'" She glanced back at Tallchief, uncertain. "I took it as an insult, of course, and implied that he could use help as well. But I think, now, that he was really serious."

"Did he respond to your comment?"

"Yes. Sod off, more or less, very politely phrased. He won't.... He's not the type to admit to any weakness, and the last man on earth to actually talk to anyone about himself."

"And yet," Tallchief said softly, "perhaps he wasn't willing to see you go through it the way he has, or as long as he has, so he gave you a nudge. I think he gave you the best advice he was able to, considering, and in the only way he knew how. And if that doesn't prove some kind of respect and caring, Hermione, I don't know what does."

"Maybe," she said, and stared at the rough wattle wall of the lodge.

"You can't change him, his decision, or the circumstances," Tallchief gently reminded her. "But you can try to make peace with it, and open yourself to the things it can teach you."

"Find my centre?" she said, smiling wryly.

"Yup. Find the Central Point."

"That's damned hard, Bill."

"So is finding an available Muggle taxi near Trafalgar Square, but it's do-able occasionally."

Well, that shattered her melancholy nicely: she couldn't help but laugh.

"Okay, out, you," Tallchief said amiably. "I've got a load of paperwork to finish before I head home."

"Oh, Christ, Bill," she said in shock, glancing at her watch, "fifteen minutes over -- you should have stopped me."

"No, I'm glad I didn't. Prying stuff out of you is absolute hell -- I've gotta take the advantage when I see it."

"You're going back this weekend?" she said, rising.

"Yeah, my granddad asked me to come back for a ceremony. I get to put up with him complaining about my newfangled techniques -- he's never forgiven me for going off to college. And Psychology? Forget it. It'll be fun, though -- he's quite a character, and he knows what he's doing, even if he is an irascible old coot. Old-school, like you say."

"Do people really come to you for the 'Noble Savage routine'?" Hermione asked, brushing off her skirt.

"Oh, yeah. You'd be amazed. Very ethnocentric attitude. I tell most of them to get lost, the ones that are just into the novelty. Once in a while there's one who's really interested, and them.... They get the whole package, if they can accept the basic premise."

"You never tried it with me."

"You're a sceptic. You can accept stuff intellectually, but I saw your eyes cross the first time I mentioned the Great Spirit, so.... Doesn't matter, different paths. I just have to put it in terms you can accept."

"Why all this, then?" Hermione said of the lodge.

"For me, mostly. It's what I grew up with, and it keeps me grounded. Reminds me where I'm from, and who I am. Speaking of which...."

Hermione stood dutifully still while Tallchief lit a smudge and wafted the fragrant sage-smoke around her; and then he carefully set it in a burner, and shooed her out with an arm around her shoulders.

"Call me when you need to talk again," he said.

"I will. Thanks."

She exited the lecture-hall, and made her way out to the threshold that let into Trafalgar Square: there were, indeed, no taxis to be had, and she smiled. (Bill Tallchief was no ordinary wizard, that was certain: a full-blooded Native American, he seemed to revel in busy London Muggle life. 'Imagine a reservation four times the size of Greater London,' he'd said to her once, 'and now populate it with less than a tenth of the people. That's home, to me -- but I like to be around people.')

Hermione wondered if she could persuade Tallchief to take her to the reservation, some time. She thought she wouldn't mind the solitude at all.

*****

"I say, Miss Granger --?" Arbuthnot called out to the corridor after her one afternoon, when she returned from lunch. "Would you be so kind as to step into the Conference room?"

(There seldom were. Of the three Wizarding solicitors' firms in London, Arbuthnot, Marley, and Patterson was the least prestigious and busy.)

She pushed her way through the door, and dropped her packages on the side-table.

"Come along, have a seat, my dear," Arbuthnot chivvied her while he poured her a cup of tea; and as he was busy with that, Hermione checked to make certain everything was all right. Nothing seemed amiss: no clients foaming at the mouth about something-or-other; Patterson was sprawled on the sofa, totally preoccupied with his third nap of the day; Marley floated in the corner, looking over a brief she'd left for him that morning, and scowling so much that the handkerchief about his jaw was working loose; and Arbuthnot was his usual fussy, old-maidish self.

"We had a very interesting letter from Minister Remington's office last week," Arbuthnot said as he handed her the cuppa, and then daintily settled himself in the ancient chair at the head of the table. "It seems he's lobbying for an overhaul of the Judicial system, to something more along the lines of the ICW's."

Hermione snorted. "They won't care for that."

"Oh, fighting like cats and dogs is nothing compared to it, I understand. He's concentrating on Criminal procedures at the moment, which is why he's asked for a survey of past cases that demonstrate the need for changes -- for a more transparent system, if you like." (Marley shot Arbuthnot a dirty look. They weren't the most amiable of friends, and Marley took offence at anything that might be a jab at his non-corporeal state.) "He's asking the solicitor's firms to do the preliminary work, and we," Arbuthnot stressed, smiling and displaying the distressing gap between his front two teeth, "are to look at the problem of Defendant Representation. Or lack of it, rather."

"Because of my experience, no doubt," Hermione shot back, more amused than offended.

She'd been quite forthcoming with the partners before her hiring: they knew more about what had happened in Liechtenstein than anyone in Britain, save her and Snape.

"Just so. We, erm, lobbied for that particular matter with you in mind, in fact. If we can write up a good, thorough survey," Arbuthnot said, wriggling in anticipation, "-- and by that I mean a good, thorough survey, not that our recommendations must be adopted -- we are prepared to consider it your journeyman's... erm, journeyperson's project. And.... Oh, for Merlin's sake, Jacob, let me tell her."

Marley glowered at him, tried to speak, and then gave up; with a nod, he tightened the handkerchief about his head, with much clanking of his chains.

"Good. And we would be honoured to offer you a junior partnership. You're under no obligation to accept, of course," Arbuthnot added hastily. "You'd be free to go elsewhere, though we'd be sorry to lose you -- and we can't pay much more at present. But, ah, let's face facts -- we need new blood. Marley can't argue a case in court, and Patterson's practically useless, given his nap requirements."

Patterson let loose with a snore just then, underscoring Arbuthnot's point.

"We'd be very happy to have you aboard, my dear, and perhaps someday you could buy into full partner. Probably shall, quite soon, if Remington's proposals are adopted."

It was a very tempting offer. Not that Hermione wouldn't do the survey anyway: it was her job, and she'd been waiting for the chance to get her journeyman's papers, and nearly despaired as there'd been nothing meaty enough to prove herself with. But that and junior partner to boot -- because it would be a good, thorough survey, Hermione didn't do things by half-measures....

Remington's proposal would likely fail, though. He didn't have the support of the Wizengamot majority. She thought it was probably an exercise in futility, in the long run.

"Let me think about it tonight," she said cautiously. (She'd learned that, at least, out of the Ministry muck: not to rush in headlong.) "It's a tall order, and I'd like to consider how best to approach it. What resources are available?"

"Remington hopes to get us access to the Wizengamot's archives," Arbuthnot said. "Smashing, if he does -- not likely, but possible, and we should know in a day or two. I'd suggest beginning with interviews of people who've been brought before the Wizengamot -- the ones found innocent, of course. And if you can find them."

"I'll have an answer for you tomorrow -- on the partnership, I mean," she said. "Of course I'll do the survey for you."

"Smashing! Here, have a -- Oh dear, oh dear me, you've gone and bought those expensive ones again, haven't you? Never mind, have a biscuit," Arbuthnot said, and pushed the plate over to her. "You just wait and see how long that continues, when it's coming out of your share of the partnership's profits."

Oh, you'd be surprised, Hermione thought as she picked out a nice, chocolate-drenched biscuit. Arbuthnot, my man, there will be some changes around here if you bring me aboard....

*****

She accepted the challenge, and spent the next two days in her poky little office, wrestling with the assignment and staring out the window and into the quad, where a tiny reflecting pool attracted more birds and assorted wildlife than one saw anywhere but in Muggle London's parks.

She tried, very hard, not to think of Snape, but that proved impossible. His case was a prime example of the problem; he was still living, so even if she couldn't consult his file, she could wrangle an interview and deposition -- provided she could get him to cooperate without outright blackmail.

Remington solved the problem for her, though, on the third day. In the face of the soliciting firms' petitions, and The Prophet's blistering editorials on behalf of the public -- who were all too eager to do anything possible to put limits on the Wizengamot, given the mess it had helped Fudge create -- the Wizengamot caved and announced that it would allow the firms access to the archive.

Hermione got halfway through a five-foot parchment of jotted notes of the particulars of Snape's childhood trial before her hand slowed, the quill sputtering and blotting as her confidence ebbed.

Cripes, he's really going to want to throttle me with his bare hands -- but not as much as if I go ahead without asking leave.

She gave herself a few more minutes to think it through: and then she set aside her notes, pulled out a sheet of the firm's letterhead, thought better of that, drew out a sheet of plain parchment instead, and started writing.

*****

Snape tossed the parchment on the table, stared out across the sea, tried to ignore the fact that his heart rate had risen alarmingly, and that the muscle itself was attempting a fandango in his chest.

The parchment fluttered and lifted on the breeze; he automatically slapped it down with his hand, and then set his whisky-glass on it to secure it.

He'd really deluded himself on that score.

He'd thought he'd wrapped it all up quite nicely, actually. His mother had died of a massive stroke barely six months after he'd last seen her; he'd promptly informed McGonagall that he would be retiring -- preferably immediately, but by no means would he stay past Yule whether she had a replacement or not, and he should be cashing in his pension in its entirety if she would be so kind as to arrange it. (She had, amid voluble and frequent complaints, and had then nearly bawled like a First Year the day he'd left the castle for the last time.) He'd managed not to hex her throughout the prolonged and disgustingly sentimental leave-taking, or to make a fool of himself until he was well past the gates; and he'd grudgingly admitted to himself that he was rather fond of the snoopy old bitch, and would miss her fussing. A bit. For a few hours, perhaps. (It had taken several months, as it happened, and required a determined effort to make his replies to her frequent letters short and to the point.)

He'd got that cottage: not in Dieppe (prices had risen alarmingly in southern France, and the tourist traffic as well) but off the Brittany coast, on a fortuitously uninhabited island near the mouth of the Channel. (It was terrible for his knee, but he had no problem whatsoever medicating himself into a stupor, not when he'd so little with which to occupy himself.) He'd spent the next few months not doing much of anything but staring out over the slate-grey winter sea and consuming what had become an alarming amount of whisky on a daily basis: when that proved an exceptionally boring method of killing oneself by slow degrees, he'd pulled out the Alchemy text Bluett had left him and begun to slog through it, determined to prove the old bastard wrong about his suitability as an Alchemist.

The natives on nearby Ouessant left him alone, he ignored them unless it was absolutely necessary to do otherwise (which mainly entailed hexing any trespassers), and he'd thought he'd reached some kind of acceptable compromise to the great, mucky mess that was Existence.

It appeared that some things could never be laid to rest, not matter how hard one tried.

He nearly ripped the parchment to shreds to send the bits of it floating out to sea, and then thought better of it. The problem wasn't going to go away: if he didn't make a decision himself, Hermione would. He could, at the very least, think about his options for filing some kind of restraining order on the woman, on grounds of her mucking with his privacy. (Or he thought he might be able to -- he wasn't at all certain that such laws existed. Perhaps he ought to write his solicitor.)

He took the parchment inside and laid it on his desk, and decided to give himself a few days to think about it. Preferably three long and leisurely days, and without doubt alcoholically well-lubricated.

*****

A decision was the only thing missing. And he thought, after re-reading said bloody letter again with bleary eyes, that it deserved a more logical and reasonable consideration than he'd been willing to give it in the last seventy-two hours.

Unfortunately, that required considerable dredging of his memory to think back on the experience itself -- precisely what he'd been avoiding for the last three days.

*****

Whisky didn't help much in the current situation. He was feeling far more sober than he had at any time in the last three days, even though he'd had another two over-large glasses in the course of his ruminations.

Injustice was the precise point. And Hermione -- who had, apparently, decided to do something useful with her life after all -- was concerned with preventing that in future as best she could.

It was a laudable goal. He just wished it didn't involve him.

The situation was, perhaps, a bit more bearable than it might be, he supposed. If he were still teaching, still at Hogwarts -- still in bloody Britain -- he'd inevitably hear about it, or have some blasted parents screaming at the Board of Governors to have him sacked, if there was publicity. And there would be if Hermione was successful, no matter how she tried to keep him out of it: someone would remember the particulars of the case -- that a boy had killed his father -- and connect it with the murder of Julius Snape. Someone would grass, and the whole blasted cycle of rumour-refutation would begin all over again. He'd had quite enough of that at the Bertie Botts Home: he'd lived in terror for years that one of those bastards would show up at Hogwarts, spill everything, and make his life even more difficult than Potter and Co. had done.

He shouldn't have to worry about that now, though. No one knew where the Hades he was but McGonagall; judging by the time it had taken Hermione's letter to reach him, she didn't. He assumed she'd sent the letter to Hogwarts, and that McGonagall had sent it on -- a necessary precaution, warding himself against automatic owl-delivery, to ensure his privacy. (He briefly wondered what kind of comment and speculation the letter had excited in the Faculty Common Room: they'd all behaved as though shocked and been terribly solicitous about the divorce -- until they'd discovered that he had been the one who'd requested it. He'd got the silent treatment from everyone but Pomfrey for several months afterwards, though McGonagall had eventually forgiven him.)

There wasn't really a terribly good reason to refuse Hermione's request, after all, other than his own bloody-mindedness; and while he still raged that she had the stones to require it of him, he grudgingly returned to the fact that it might be useful in preventing such idiocy in future. He couldn't, in good conscience, wish that experience on anyone else.

Snape damned his conscience before finally giving in. (Life had been so much simpler, really, when as a Death Eater you could tell your conscience to fuck off by virtue of a higher purpose....)

He snapped his fingers for the House-Elf, a wizened little specimen who did him the great courtesy of never actually speaking to him directly or indulging in any of that servile, irritating behaviour that characterised the entire species.

"Fetch the owl, Puck," he said when it popped into the room, and after it popped out he wearily drew a sheet of parchment over, reached for his quill, dipped it, and began to write.

He resisted the urge to congratulate her on her apprenticeship or to make foolish inquiries about her health, although he was more than a bit interested in whether she'd got herself sorted out. She'd seemed to take his hint rather the wrong way, at the time...

She hasn't remarried, apparently, or she has and insisted on taking back her maiden name. I wonder which?

He'd half-expected her to storm out of the dungeons and find the first available "decent" male, just to spite him. That had certainly been his intent, to send her off to the arms of some nonentity who was unmistakably solid, stable, and healthy in body and mind. He'd rather imagined such a man would bore Hermione to tears, and might not really appreciate her intelligence and tenacity properly; but someone like that, of unobjectionable character and irrefutable decency, would certainly be better for her in the long run than he should have been.

He was not, after all, such a fool as to think two terribly-damaged people could do anything but continue to harm each other, no matter how badly they might wish to behave otherwise.

But the owl flew in from its perch in the pantry just then, and he shoved aside any niggling impulse to express an interest in her which she might misconstrue, simply scrawling S. Snape at the bottom of the parchment, folding and sealing it, and fixing it to the bird's leg.

"Hermione Granger, at Arbuthnot, Marley, and Patterson, Diagon Alley," he instructed it, and it hooted an acknowledgement and took off when he opened the sash for it.

He very nearly threw her letter in the rubbish, dismissed that knowing there'd be a temptation to dig it out, and decided to burn it and have done with it; but something stopped him before the charm was half out of his mouth, and he carefully folded it and tucked it into the back of his now rarely-consulted Culpeper instead. He shouldn't likely run across it, there.

Some bloody good should come out of the mess, he thought, and tried to embrace the cold comfort of a gesture that might -- if it came to fruition -- help some poor sod that he would never know, and that he shouldn't want to know in any case.

It was pointless to return to the alchemical experiment that waited in the laboratory: he should have to start over, anyway, as he'd mucked about with this ridiculous distraction far too long. So he spent the rest of the day on the veranda, wrapped in a warm cloak with a sterling clasp, staring out at the angry, grey-green sea.

*****

Chapter 27 Footnotes.