"Department of Wizard Resources?" Snape enquired of the runty-looking man at the reception desk as he registered his wand.

"Why?" the man said with a suspicious look. (He recognised Snape, he could tell: there was hardly anyone who didn't, given all the publicity after the last battle.)

"Because," Snape said, narrowing his eyes, "I should like to take my wife to luncheon, and it appears that she's forgot. I'll have to retrieve her. Hermione Snape, Populations Consultant?"

"Oh. Er, Level Three, turn right when the lift opens."

"Thank you very much," Snape muttered, and made his way over to the lift.

He'd lied, of course. Not that he didn't intend to take Granger -- Hermione to lunch: he certainly did. The lie was that she'd forgot, because he hadn't bothered to inform her in the first place. Snape knew he had every right to simply show up on her doorstep later that evening, but he thought it wouldn't hurt if he made an appearance at the Ministry, to allay any suspicion that the marriage wasn't as it should be.

Not to mention the fact that he thought he might enjoy the look on her face when she discovered him in her territory.

He stepped from the lift when it stopped at Level Three, made a sharp right, and negotiated the rabbit's warren of hallways before he finally saw something approaching reasonable directions: a placard on the wall pointing down a dark little corridor, with H. Granger, Populations, Room 376 etched on it.

Hmmmph. I wonder if the Ministry was too bloody cheap to change it or whether she didn't bother, he thought, intensely annoyed. Careless, if she didn't. She's not making the most of the situation.

After a moment's consideration he dismissed the idea of withdrawing his wand and changing the damned placard himself. Security was bound to pop up to investigate any unusual magic performed on premises: he'd simply have a word with her about it, at luncheon.

He finally located Room 376: the door was open, and he could clearly hear an argument ensuing inside. Rather than showing himself immediately, he put his shoulder close to the wall and slithered a bit closer. (Old habits, engrained from years of espionage, died hard.)

"-- afraid I don't see it the same way, sir," Hermione was saying: she sounded terribly tired to Snape, even though he hadn't got to know her well yet. "The resisting Purebloods are already feeling harassed, and going this far may well --"

"Oh, bollocks, Granger," a man's voice retorted. "Firstly, that bloody group's a tiny minority -- the rest of us have sucked it up, and they can too. What can they do, storm the Ministry? In any event it will be the law, and they've flouted the others long enough. They deserve a damned good put-down, or they'll just keep on dragging their feet."

Snape felt the fingers of his wand hand twitch.

"Secondly," the idiot man was continuing, "it's not your concern to worry over them, anyway -- you're just here to provide me with the data."

"Not true," Hermione shot back: Snape could hear the anger and wounded pride in her voice (and he didn't blame her, though he longed to tell her that showing emotion weakened her case). "I am a consultant, sir, not merely a statistician, and I have a responsibility not only to the government and your department, but to the ICW as well. I'm basing my argument on past ultra-conservative Pureblood response. Being a minority didn't stop a small faction from wreaking havoc in Britain for nearly twenty years, and it won't stop them now --"

"And how do you know this? How can you possibly know what such an isolated group might do? I wasn't aware you'd conducted surveys and polls among them, Granger. I suppose your husband still has a finger in every pie --"

Well, that was quite enough: beside the fact that Hermione was entirely correct and that the man, whoever he was, was an absolute, fucking idiot with a grudge against him, Snape knew a good entrance line when he heard one. He sidled around the doorjamb and lounged against it.

"-- and is keeping you apprised, hmmm?"

Hermione saw Snape a split second before he spoke -- her desk faced the door, and the idiot's back was to it -- and her eyes widened in shock.

"Actually, no," Snape said coolly. "'No' to the finger in every pie, that is. But I think my wife's fears are not groundless."

The idiot whipped around, ready to lay into the interloper, and stopped himself when he recognised who it was.

"Snape," he said, obviously shocked.

"Of course, some people never seem to learn their lessons," Snape added. "And Snape is my wife's name as well as my own, by the way. Corcoran, I presume? I'm not at all certain as it's been thirty years. If so, the acne has cleared up rather nicely -- congratulations."

"What are you doing here?" Corcoran demanded, face purpling and highlighting the old scars. "You don't have clearance, surely."

"The reception clerk didn't mention any clearance, and I registered my wand as required. I'm taking my wife to luncheon, actually.... Did you forget?" he asked, turning to Hermione.

"Lun--?"

"It's nearly one, and I expected you at twelve.... Or were you delayed?" Snape added with a glare at Corcoran.

"Oh. No, I'm terribly sorry, Pr- Sssseverus, it totally slipped my mind...."

"Ah. While I quite admire Hermione's devotion to her work," Snape informed Corcoran, "I have made a special trip. I assume your... conversation can be continued at another time?"

"Go ahead," Corcoran muttered, pushed past Snape, and stomped off down the corridor.

"Oh, bugger," Hermione muttered.

"And good afternoon to you as well, Madam Snape."

"Wha--? Oh. Hullo and thank you. I think."

"Think?" Snape stepped into the office and pulled the door closed.

"Well, the acne comment wasn't exactly called for, was it?"

"Un-called for, but true. Spottiest student ever. It drove him mad to have it pointed out then, and I don't imagine he's changed in the least."

"He already can't stand me."

"I think you sealed your fate with your choice of marital partner, judging by his opinion of me. Not that I think you should give a damn, anyway. He's clearly an idiot."

"Agreed, but there are certain idiots you don't.... Oh, never mind," she muttered. "I suppose this means you're ready to...."

"I mean to take you to luncheon," he said dryly. "Unless, of course, you've already eaten. And we may discuss the other arrangements later."

"Oh. No, I haven't.... I often work through lunch."

She glanced at the wall calendar, and then back up at him.

"Yule Break?" she asked weakly.

"Your grasp of the academic schedule is breathtaking."

"No need to be shirty," she mumbled, and scrabbled behind her for her handbag and coat. Snape took the opportunity to take stock of her office.

The bulk of the floor space was taken up with filing cabinets, all neatly labeled in her hand, recognised from their brief pre-wedding correspondence: he didn't doubt the files inside were exceptionally orderly. The rest of the office looked as though a Hippogriff had rampaged through it, though: huge piles of parchment littered every surface, including her desk, and the few shelves contained only tottering binders labeled "Genetic Reports 2004-05," "Demographic Data 2005-06," and the like. There was a framed picture on the desk as well, but he couldn't see the subject.

"Not much of an office, considering the supposed importance of your work," he noted.

"It's not that bad -- you should see Arthur Weasley's," she said, and quickly shooed him out, doused the light, and closed and warded the door.

They took the lift to the Atrium without speaking: only after they were in the centre of the room did Snape take her elbow and steer her away from the Departures floo to Diagon Alley."

"But --"

"Not Diagon Alley. I refuse to eat at Fortescue's -- I have no desire to have people staring at me, and I certainly don't wish to see any students until next term."

He escorted her to the call-box lift instead, and then out into the London streets; and, taking her arm, he led her a few blocks away (quite neatly glamouring his own clothing to appear more Mugglish for the walk -- hers were adequate) and to a dingy shopfront with boarded-over windows.

"Hang on a moment," he muttered to her, and tapped at the door.

A little peep-hole shot open and a rough voice said, "No solicitations."

"I come bearing flobberworms and dragons' blood," Snape shot back sotto voce.

"Right, sir," the voice said: the peep-hole slid shut, numerous security bolts were thrown back and the door opened, and Snape escorted Hermione into the marble-tiled entryway of a very nice establishment.

"Good afternoon, Professor Snape," Rough Voice said as he closed and bolted the door: he was well-heeled, with a certain oily Continental look about him.

"Good afternoon, Smithers. What looks best on the menu today?"

"The roast pork with apricots, sir, and you know that the beef filet is always quite nice. There's a very young but promising Sauterne available as well."

"Very good -- No, it's quite all right, Smithers, I'll give the lady the tour on the way to the dining room. Is the coast clear?."

"Yes, sir. Only Master Bluett, and he was sleeping as usual when I last checked."

"Where --?" Hermione whispered as Snape walked her into the right-hand wing of the building.

"My club," he said. "Guild of Potions Masters and Brewers, established 1643."

"Oh. Somehow you've never impressed me as the clubbable type...."

"Well, I don't socialise," he retorted. "But it's handy to have a room and decent dining available. I don't care to stay at Hogwarts throughout the entire holiday. And as you can see," he said, cautiously peering into a side-room and then pulling her in, "the library is excellent."

"Oh my God."

The room was lined floor to ceiling with shelves full of books: some of them were securely locked behind grilles -- Dark Arts texts, presumably, and many scrolls, probably very ancient. Old Master Bluett sat snoozing in a wing-chair by the window.

"Alchemical texts and herbals as well, of course. And anything you were unable to find in your numerous forays into the Restricted Section," Snape said dryly, "is undoubtedly here."

"I didn't make that many," Hermione muttered. "Are women allowed?"

"Of course -- anyone in the Guild, that is, which includes apothocaries. There is an auxiliary club next door for women which shares access to the library, laboratory, and dining room. Lodgings are separate, as are the recreational facilities."

"I had no idea something like this still existed outside the pages of a Mills and Boon."

"It's the last remaining private Wizarding club, I believe. Now any fool can buy into a membership at the others."

He drew her out of the library, walked her toward the back of the building, and ushered her into the dining-room; a discreet waiter (no lowly serving-elves for the Guild of Potions Masters) led them to a table near the long windows that lined the far wall.

"Do you have a preference?" he asked as he slipped into his chair.

"Fish, if possible," she murmured. "And anything but sprouts or aubergine."

Snape placed the order, and the waiter hurried off.

"Let me guess," Snape said, given that she'd avoided red meat in Queerditch as well, "you refuse to eat anything to which you might, in different circumstances, form an attachment?"

"Is that so awful?"

"No, but from someone who plotted an Elf-insurrection it's utterly predictable."

She coloured up, glanced about the room where a few antiquated men were dozing over their lunches, and compressed her lips to avoid retorting.

"Go on, say it," Snape said, amused. "Silencing Charms on every table."

"It wasn't an insurrection," she hissed. "And I didn't plot, I.... Oh, forget it."

"It was one of the more entertaining student follies of its year, I'll grant you that," Snape said. "There were wagers made in the Staff Room as to how long you'd persist."

"And who won?"

"McGonagall, of course. She already had a good grasp of your tenacity. Or at least that's what she called it. Others of us had a less complimentary phrase."

"I can imagine," Hermione said. "Don't tell me."

"I shan't, then."

They sat quietly until the waiter silently poured their wine, got Snape's approval of the vintage, and left.

"The window panorama is very fine," Hermione ventured, staring out the windows where the Thames glinted dully in the weak sun. 'Better than the Ministry's, certainly."

"It's not. We are precisely where you think -- very near the river."

"But.... All right, where was it?" she asked, and sighed. "I didn't feel it at all, and I should have done...."

"The threshold of the entryway. There are several thresholds, actually, scattered about London. I don't pretend to understand the Arithmancy, but I imagine you should -- you might ask Smithers on the way out."

"I might grasp it if my brains haven't ossified," she muttered, looking a bit sick at the admission.

"Does Corcoran always give your advice so little respect?" Snape asked (tactlessly, he supposed, but then tact was a useless commodity if espionage wasn't involved).

"Usually. Let's just say that my competence is often called into question and I'm not utilised to best effect."

"Idiot."

"Yes, you said that. I have other, less polite names for him."

"Why on earth do you stay?"

"Firstly, no-one else wants the damned job and I've given up looking for another. Secondly, I still have a hope -- vain, in all likelihood, I know that so don't say it -- that I might actually make a difference."

He snorted.

"And what -- if you're at liberty to tell me -- were the two of you arguing over?"

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"No, you needn't tell me --"

"It's.... You're certain the Silencing Charm is working?"

"Yes."

"You know they went ahead and banned all Pureblood unions December first?"

"Of course. I could hardly miss the uproar."

"Yes, well, there was fallout from that that the Ministry hadn't anticipated. You were quite right about refusal to marry at all -- there have been absolutely no new licenses issued for Purebloods. But what's worse is that there were several licenses issued for Mixed unions which have been allowed to lapse, and inquiries to the jilted parties proved that the Pureblood families demanded the engagements be broken."

"So they're organising," Snape guessed. "Putting pressure on those who were willing to compromise."

"Exactly, that's my best explanation, too. The Ministry is proposing to haul the Purebloods to court to face charges, sort of a governmental Breech of Promise suit. And as they're afraid that the jilted parties may go reactionary and choose other Mixedblood spouses, they're going to outlaw anything but Pure-to-Mixed unions for them, as well. For us, rather."

Snape toyed with the stem of his wineglass for a moment, and then gravely pronounced, "We have left the land of the merely absurd, and entered the realm of the horrific."

"I don't think a lottery is too far away. Corcoran's given up any pretense at reasonable behavior. I think he's under a great deal of pressure from Fudge." She hesitated, and then asked, "Do you know the Purebloods organising?"

"No. I shouldn't put it past them -- the Isolationists, at least -- but I was being truthful with Corcoran. I no longer have good contacts."

"Really?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "The Parkinsons were the only family I was really on social terms with...."

"Yes?"

"And the fact that I refused to court that stupid cow Pansy and then promptly married you has rather blocked that avenue of inquiry, I'm afraid."

"You're joking!" Hermione gasped, leaning forward, and then straightened abruptly as the waiter brought their meals.

"No," Snape said when the man had left. "I'm not certain which was the worse sin in their eyes -- telling Horace Parkinson that I wouldn't marry his daughter if she were the last breathing female on the face of the earth, or effectively announcing that I preferred a Muggleborn instead. So unless I mend fences -- which I'd prefer not to do -- I really can't be of much use."

"Oh, I didn't expect that you should, though it would have been helpful. Poor Pansy," Hermione said softly. "We'd all assumed she and Draco would marry, and then.... She won't be likely to marry anyone now, not unless the lottery goes through." And then she began to eat.

They worked away at their meals, largely silent: Snape noted that she hadn't much of an appetite, and that in fact she seemed more drawn and pale than when he'd seen her last. It certainly wasn't his presence that might have put her off her feed for two months, so Corcoran must really be giving her hell.

If the truth be told, he was a bit surprised by her reaction to the information on the Parkinsons. He knew she probably didn't care for Pansy, though Millicent Bulstrode had always seemed more her personal bête noire; but she hadn't seemed offended by his off-hand reference to her as a Muggleborn, either. (But then, it was true: she was. He was probably worrying unduly. In fact, why worry at all? It was her look-out.)

It was only after the waiter had brought them coffee that Hermione finally addressed what was, apparently, the most pressing issue for her.

"I suppose you'd like to... resume where we left off," she said hesitantly.

"That was the general idea, yes. I don't imagine you've applied for leave, so I'm perfectly content to stay here in town and visit in the evenings. And perhaps make my presence known once or twice more at your office."

"I see."

"You'll work entirely through the holiday?"

"No, I'll.... Everyone has Yule Day off, of course, and Boxing Day. I hadn't made any plans, though."

"Blast."

Her eyebrows shot up.

"I have been informed that I'm expected to escort you to Hogwarts for Yule Day dinner," he explained.

"Professor McGonagall hasn't ragged you too terribly, has she?"

"I haven't been so soundly lectured since.... Well, never mind. Suffice it to say that I'm in disgrace for not bringing you back immediately and for not telling her before she read the notice in The Prophet. Not that I care, but as your presence confirms the validity of the marriage...."

"That wasn't me, you know, they're automatically submitted when the license is witnessed --" Hermione said.

"Yes, I know. It's no matter. Although you should have -- what's the point, without publicity?" Snape said idly, and sipped at his coffee. "And by the way, I noticed that your name-placard still lists your maiden --"

"Not in the budget, I was told," Hermione said wryly, "and I haven't had time to look up an appropriate charm to change it myself. It's untrue about the budget, of course, it's not that expensive. Corcoran just doesn't want to see your name every time he walks down the hall. Whatever did you do to him at school, that he hates you so?"

"Nothing proven.... Although I might have switched his spot-ointment for a formulation of my own that turned his skin a fetching shade of green. Viridian, to be precise."

"Oh, for God's --"

"Retribution for many rather nastier pranks on his part, I assure you."

Hermione snorted disbelievingly.

"Which shall it be?" Snape prodded, impatient.

"I suppose it's Hogwarts for dinner, then. Or my parents'," she added hastily, "though I hadn't planned to go there. I still haven't... haven't told them."

That was... predictable. Still ashamed of the whole matter, Snape thought. He assumed the idea of two whole days absolutely alone with him was so disturbing that two days with her estranged parents might actually be preferable.

"Hogwarts on Yule Day it is, then," he murmured. "And in the meantime.... I have research to do this afternoon. Shall I meet you later at the Ministry, or shall I have Smithers give you a pass in for dinner? We'll eventually wind up at your premises as I can't have you in my room here. And I'd prefer not to waste money on an hotel."

She glared at him. "The Ministry, five-thirty," she finally said, "at least if you're willing to risk my cooking. I've a bit of.... Never mind, trust me. I oughtn't let it wait, and I don't want to waste it."

"What is it?"

"Plaice," she admitted with another glower that dared him to mock her again.

"If your cooking is as good as your potions work," he said, "I've no doubt it will be acceptable."

They finished their coffee, and Snape walked Hermione back to the Ministry -- he normally shouldn't, as she was fully capable of walking there on her own; but then he had an ulterior motive, of course. The Atrium was crowded with people using the Arrival and Departure floos, and he made certain he and Hermione had been noticed before he bent, swiftly kissed her, and strode back to the call-box lift and then back to his club.

He spent much of the afternoon trying to forget that when he'd kissed her, she'd looked more shocked than appreciative.

Bloody Gryffindors. No dissembling capabilities whatsoever, he thought as he quite illegally made a viciously-worded notation in the margin of a very old and very incorrect text.

He resigned himself to an inedible dinner, and ducked into the laboratory later to brew an anti-acid -- among other things.

*****

Hermione Granger -- Snape -- was certainly the most perverse specimen of female humanity Snape had ever met, with the exception of Bellatrix Lestrange (although in an entirely different way, thankfully). The bloody woman hadn't taken a flat near Diagon Alley, or even in one of the old squares like Grimmauld Place where wizarding houses were concealed between Muggle ones: she'd taken a Muggle flat, a run-down floor in an equally run-down house in an otherwise decent neighbourhood which was further away from the nearest available floo than Snape cared for.

"For the gods' sakes, why?" he asked irritably when she'd shown him in and flipped -- actually, manually flipped -- a little toggle to light the electricity.

"Why what?" she said, surprised and indignant.

"Are you or are you not a witch?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"I said I'd thought you were unclubbable," she said as she dropped her handbag and briefcase and shrugged off her coat. "I didn't say unhexable. If you really need proof...."

"It's foolish. I suppose you picked it for some idiotic, sentimental reason. Reminder of your childhood, perhaps?"

"It was chosen for my convenience and pleasure, not yours. If it's that distressing, you're welcome to leave," she said with a sniff, and walked away from him down the narrow little hallway.

He strode after her into a tiny, cramped kitchen that was all too obviously equipped with Muggle cooking implements.

He was rather put out, actually. He'd imagined a quick, magically-prepared dinner followed by an efficient and thorough fuck, and then a return to his club well before ten: but that was doubtful now, if the way she fired-up the battered cook-stove was any indication. (He was also amused by that -- Muggles apparently named their cook-stoves, for Hermione's had a placard labeled "Aga," and yet he knew there was no possibility of it having sentience like any respectable wizarding stove.

"It takes a while to heat," she murmured. "I feel rather grotty, actually -- I think I'll have a shower. Can you amuse yourself for a bit?"

"But --"

"Sitting-room's back up front.... I shan't be long," she said, and then she trotted across the hallway and firmly closed -- and locked -- what he assumed was her bedroom door.

On reflection, he thought it likely that she did. He hadn't been terribly subtle or patient last time, after all. Wasn't feeling particularly patient today, either: he'd greatly enjoyed their encounters in Queerditch, for a variety of reasons.

There was the simple matter of physical release, of course -- and he admitted that it had been far too long since he'd sought that out -- and, as he'd told her, turning the tables on her in that manner and having her submit to him had been quite gratifying -- and arousing. There'd been a certain feeling of... possessiveness involved as well, though, which had made it seem all the more exciting. Not entitlement, not merely in the legal sense with which he'd verbally bludgeoned her -- but possessiveness, as in 'my wife,' despite his insistence that it was purely a business transaction, like any between a whore and a client. He hadn't expected that: it had nearly made him go off the rails at one point, and he was anxious to see if he might feel the same again. (He wasn't certain yet if it were a good or bad thing, but he intended to find out -- and if it was bad, to quash it.)

But there was no point in fussing now: she'd darted out so quickly that he'd had no time to protest that he didn't mind a little honest sweat, or that she might as well save her energy until afterwards.

He wandered back down the hall and into the sitting-room, and engaged in a wanton rummaging-through of her things (carefully, of course, so she shouldn't know). It was very much as he expected of her: everything neat and orderly. She'd acquired as many books in her twenty-seven years as he had by forty -- an impressive number, but of course her collection included Muggle fiction, so those didn't count. There was tiny, glass-paned box which he recognised from his long-ago Muggle Studies class as a Tellyvision -- a kind of electric scrying-glass that, if memory served, they used for the totally frivolous purpose of entertainment; he couldn't quite suss out the purpose of a similar box that sat on the desk, however, although he suspected it was some kind of correspondence device, given the alphabet-keys that were connected to it. (He had absolutely no idea what to make of the odd little oval... thingey that was similarly attached.) While the buttons labeled "Power" on each box had seemed ever-so-slightly intriguing, he knew better than to meddle with them -- one never knew what dangers might have been stuffed into those boxes. Pandora had found that out the hard way.

A quick run-through of the files in the desk revealed nothing much -- mundane paperwork, paid bills, personal documents (including a copy of their marriage certificate, hastily stuffed into the file, one corner bent rudely back). There was also a file of letters from her parents.... But the latest postal-date was 2005. He opened that one and read it thoroughly: the tone held that false brightness that masks insincerity or awkwardness, and there was absolutely no mention of anything remotely magical, or even a query as to how her work was going. She also had a wireless system of some sort, with odd little disks that, he determined, encoded music in some way. No Wyrd Sisters, thank the gods, although the names of some of the Muggle artists were distinctly more bizarre than that. (Beatles? What genus and variety, pray tell, and is the mis-spelling significant?)

The only other furniture, besides the desk, was a small, shabby settee, a low table, and a side-chair, clustered about an empty fireplace.

There were no photographs on the mantel or the desk. There were no pictures on the harsh, white walls; no garish Yule decorations about, not even a card tacked to the mantelpiece. The overwhelming sense was one of sterility and utility: even his own rooms were more colourful and inviting. This was almost certainly calculated to give the impression of order, coolness, self-control -- but it was only an impression: Snape knew otherwise. The woman couldn't control her temper to save her life -- probably literally -- and she was far too easy to throw off-balance. She might like to think of herself as controlled, and she was certainly better than some, but by no means to this extent.

He was engaged in experimenting with the wireless system when Hermione emerged from her bath. (She'd apparently -- and thankfully -- missed his first, unfortunate attempt with the genus-unspecified Beetles, when the volume she'd left the machine at had been far too loud.)

"Oh," she said, standing in the door.

"Rather ingenious," Snape murmured. "Music on demand, and in such a compact form."

"I hadn't realised you liked music."

"On occasion, when not detrimental to the concentration. I don't claim to have much knowledge. Do you have a preference?"

She thought about it a moment, and then said faintly, "Anything but Ravel," and disappeared back in the direction of the kitchen.

He finally located something he recognised -- Monteverdi, one of Dumbledore's less-objectionable favourites -- slipped the little disk in to the machine, punched the Play button, hastily turned down the volume, and adjusted it when the music had begun before following her to the kitchen. She was cleaning vegetables, slicing them, and chucking them into a steamer.

"Anything I can --?"

"No, no, I've got it," she said.

So he sat on one of the stools at the counter instead, and watched her. It seemed to unnerve her -- that amused him: by the time she'd reached her NEWTs she'd been nearly immune to his hovering, one of the few students who could perform under his watchful eye with equanimity.

"Must you?" she muttered as she filleted the plaice.

"Why not? You said you didn't want help."

"Must you stare? Go read a book, or something."

"This is much more interesting."

"Watching me cook?"

"Yes."

"It can't possibly be that different from Potions."

"It is, though. Potions are always the same, with proven physiological effects -- you seldom find they are ineffectual from person to person, except in cases of allergic reaction. They're either made properly and work, or they don't. Food, however.... It's much more mysterious. Much more creative. How one ingredient can appeal to the palate, but a minute quantity too much or too little can overpower or underwhelm.... Or how a particular combination can totally change a dish from something mundane to something extraordinary."

She froze, knife in mid-slice. "I've never heard you wax eloquent over anything but Potions before, and that only the once."

"They're both Arts. And this is one I'm not well-acquainted with."

"You must have seen plenty of meals prepared," she said dismissively, and focussed on her work again.

"No," he said, and continued watching her until she slapped the knife down on the counter, glared at him, stomped over to the... whatever it was (he couldn't remember the name, after thirty-odd years), pulled out a chilled bottle of wine, and thrust it at him.

"Make yourself useful, then," she demanded, and went back to her task.

He drew his wand, uncorked the bottle with a well-practised Charm, and set it aside to breathe.

She may have resigned herself, but she's not taking it at all gracefully, he thought, and suppressed a smile. I wonder how long it shall take for her to acquire an ability to conceal that from me?

All in all, he suspected she was going to keep him entertained for a very long time.

*****

"I suppose I did it in part for sentimentality," she confessed over dinner.

"What?" he mumbled. (He was intent on the plaice. It wasn't quite to the standard of the club, but it was much better than many restaurants, and certainly better than Hogwarts' kitchen-elves. Granger -- Hermione -- had surprising talents of which he hadn't been aware.)

"The flat. Partly that, and partly because it was useful."

"How so?"

"I'd seen -- when I stayed at the Burrow -- how poor Arthur could be dragged from his bed in the middle of the night over the slightest, most stupid incidents, and I didn't fancy that. Especially when I realised what a bastard Corcoran is. So I wanted to put myself beyond easy reach. I'm not on the Floo, obviously, and I want to keep it that way."

"Would he be a nuisance? Doesn't seem likely, with a job like yours."

"It's not only entirely possible, it's proven. When I was living at the last place -- in Diagon Alley -- he'd take reports home, and then flame me at all hours to explain or justify something. So I put paid to that pretty quickly."

"Sensible, then. Although I don't like the fact that you're so far from the nearest floo."

"What in the world does that matter?" she said irritably. "So I have a longer commute. Why should it matter?"

"It wouldn't matter ordinarily, no. But you do realise," he said, and blotted his lips with his napkin, "that if the situation reaches a crisis and there are attempts at... reprisals, you and Corcoran are top of the list."

"Oh, surely they wouldn't --"

"Remember," Snape interrupted her, and stared at her steadily to impress her with the gravity of the situation, "with whom you are dealing, and of what some of them have been capable in the past. I highly doubt that my name will protect you if they should mark you down."

"I'm very careful," she retorted. "I can defend myself, no matter what Albus bloody Dumbledore thought...."

"I'm sure you can, under normal circumstances. But not against a whole group." He made a mental note to consult certain contacts of his who were particularly skilled at warding. (She shouldn't like that: so he decided he'd take advantage of her work schedule and have the necessary things done while she was out.)

She set her own napkin aside, and began fiddling with the stem of her spoon again. She'd done it off and on throughout dinner, and Snape thought it should drive him mad: he reached over, clamped his hand over her fingers, and stilled them.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out.

"I thought perhaps you'd got used to the idea, given your behavior at luncheon."

"I am, it's just.... "

"Was it so terrible, then?" he asked, and bothered to take a sip of wine to clear the fish from his palate. "I quite clearly remember reminding you that it hadn't been."

"No, you were... very kind," she muttered. "At least physically. It's just too new. Too awkward."

"Ah. Well, years of pedagogy have proven to me that the only solution is practise," he retorted, tugged her out of her chair and toward him, shoved his chair back slightly, and pulled her into his lap.

"But there's afters," she protested.

"But after what?" he mumbled, face buried in the curve of her neck.

His groin was already tightening with anticipation.

"I haven't... I really had forgot, you know," she said. "I haven't been to the apothecary."

He fumbled in his coat-pocket with his free hand, pulled out a vial, and plunked it on the table.

"You --"

"-- perfectly capable Potions Master who shows a great deal of forethought and covers every contingency?"

"That would not have been my choice of words, no."

Snape never got the full, official tour of the flat (not that he wanted one). He was too preoccupied.

*****

Hermione's bedroom, the wee hours
December 22nd, 2007

A piercing shriek rent the darkness, and Snape jolted upright, grabbed his wand, and shot a surprisingly accurate hex in the right direction: the shrieker wailed forlornly, burped once, and died.

"My God, Snape --"

"Who or what the bloody hell was it?" he slurred, sought vainly to see in the darkness of the room, and cursed when repeated commands of 'Lux' were ineffectual. (He was horrified: he was so sleep-stupefied that he'd been taken utterly unawares. Shocking, for a man who used to wake at the slightest sound.) He was absolutely mortified when his bed-partner began laughing, and then she chortled, "You've killed my alarm-clock, you suspicious bastard."

The unneeded adrenaline hit Snape's system like the Hogwarts Express at full throttle: he growled, dropped his wand, and rolled atop his mocker.

"Se-- oh, don't, please, I'll be late for work --"

"Good," he muttered between savage nips at her skin. "Use it. Stammer out a preposterous excuse and blush. Especially if it's Corcoran doing the ragging."

*****

When he woke a considerable time later, she was gone: light was spilling through the curtains, the sheets and her pillow had gone cold, and he didn't hear any movement in the rest of the flat.

He hadn't planned on spending the night. Had wanted to avoid it, in fact. He didn't usually sleep well in unfamiliar surroundings, and was surprised and unhappy that he had in this instance. (Not that he thought she might hex him in his sleep: after all, he'd taken the precaution of physically hiding her wand under something heavy -- something that should fall and make a great deal of noise if she Summoned it -- while she was mucking about in the kitchen last night.)

No, it was just the principle of the thing.

He dragged himself out of bed, wincing; he must have strained a muscle, that last time. He pulled on his pants and trousers, and surveyed the potential damage to the room.

His autonomic responses hadn't degraded, even if his subconscious awareness had. He had, in fact, quite neatly hexed her alarm-clock, and the display was winking a persistent 5:00 -- 5:00 -- 5:00, although it was clearly much later. He supposed he'd nearly fried whatever electronic wizardry made the damned thing go.

Didn't even scorch the wall.... The old man still has it, apparently, he thought smugly.

He stumbled out to the kitchen, and found she'd left him a note on the counter.

Plenty of breakfast things about -- I suppose you'll go back to your club, but if not, help yourself. Do try not to burn the flat down, however. I will be back after seven tonight.

I found my bloody wand, no thanks to you. Bastard -- I wasn't serious about the hexing. Don't try that again, or I shall use it on you at first opportunity.

H.

Hermione Granger Snape obviously had no idea of proper wifely respect for ones' husband. (But then, she wasn't a proper wife.)

Snape badly wanted to return straight to the club, but both that muscle at his hip and his knee were aching abominably; that ruled out walking to the floo for at least an hour, and he simply didn't feel up to Apparating without some form of morning stimulant. He thought he was probably a bit whiffy, as well -- waking to that damned alarm has put him into a significant lather, not to mention the subsequent exertion -- so he wandered to the bathroom instead. It was still faintly humid, and he could smell a trace of her perfume in the air: but he ran a bath anyway, and had a hot, soothing soak. (She quite sensibly had mineral salts in the cupboard, for which he was grateful.)

Hermione behaved quite oddly yesterday, he mused. She must have thought everything through in the last two months, and accepted the generalities, somehow -- perhaps, given that she hadn't objected to bringing him to her flat, even accepted some of the responsibility. (Her invitation had surprised him. He'd fully anticipated having to take her to an hotel, but she'd fallen for the bluff and fed him an acceptable dinner, besides.)

Not that everything had changed. She'd still been uncomfortable with her nudity and his deliberate visual and tactile observations, and he'd had to work bloody hard to get her in a state where he wouldn't hurt her. But once it was underway she'd lain unresisting and silent, though tense. She'd managed not to touch him this time, bracing herself against the headboard rather than him.

Better than he'd expected, he supposed -- he'd thought she might actually fight him, as she'd had plenty of time for that Gryffindor righteous indignation to work itself up to an hysterical pitch.

Good, then, he thought. Perhaps she's not as hopeless as the rest of them. I'd hate for any spawn to acquire that particular bone-headed trait.

His stomach growled, demanding attention, and he decided he couldn't ignore it any longer.

On the other hand, in previous years all his energies had been focussed on staying alive, not on shagging Hermione Granger Snape nearly senseless (and himself, as well).

He muttered a cleaning charm at his pants and shirt, left the tub, dried, dressed to his waistcoat, tidied the bath -- force of habit, to be certain he hadn't left anything potentially damaging about -- and went back out to the kitchen. He opened the...

-- and found eggs and butter (no rashers or sausages, damn the woman's nearly vegetarian eyes), and bread and oatmeal in the cupboards. He wasn't quite certain how to accomplish toast: there was an odd, squat, shiny thing in the corner that looked just the size for sliced bread, but he wasn't in the mood to risk it. There ought to be a long-handled fork somewhere about, however, so he should simply have to do it the old-fashioned way.

He eyed the stove warily and experimented with lighting it, as he'd seen Hermione do it last night: the flames sprang up immediately, far too high. He hastily adjusted it down and moved the tea-kettle onto it.

"All right, Aga," he grimly informed the monster as he rolled up his sleeves. "Play nicely, and perhaps I shan't have to do to you what I did to your compatriot in the other room."

Aga remained silent and inscrutable, and aside from a minor incident with flaming toast, Snape had a surprisingly decent breakfast.

*****

He didn't return to her flat that evening, but stayed at the club.

He wasn't entirely certain why, at first: he tried to explain it away to himself as solicitousness toward Hermione, an attempt at self-delusion that he later found shocking. He'd been terribly enthusiastic early that morning -- so much so that he thought he very well might have hurt her a bit -- and while it wasn't precisely his fault (it was the damned shrill alarm she used), he thought she deserved a rest. She wasn't used to frequent sexual activity, after all, and certainly not with the male need to exercise off excess adrenaline. (It was a common and documented side-effect of going into battle, one he was well-acquainted with, and his nervous system had convinced him that the situation that morning was battle-worthy.)

Eventually, though, he had to admit that the last bit was closer to the truth than worry about her: he was embarrassed by his lack of control. That he still, nine years after the danger was over, jumped at unexpected noises and pulled his wand with very little provocation. And while he had every right to be more forceful and passionate if he chose, the incident that morning hadn't been about choice, but the working-off of fear and stress.

He didn't like that at all. It made him weak, and it made him appear vulnerable. Given enough incidents like that, Hermione would eventually find a chink in his armor and exploit it.

He couldn't deny that, either. He was enjoying Hermione's body a great deal, even though he had to be terribly persuasive and careful before satisfying himself.

Well, he'd have to make it up next night instead. And, of course, there would be the night over at Hogwarts. (He didn't intend to let her slip back to London after Yule dinner, not after she'd confessed that she needn't be back Boxing Day.) He had high hopes that once he'd had her in his rooms and in his bed -- in his own territory, so to speak, and in several more inventive ways than he'd hitherto thought wise to introduce her to just yet -- this odd fascination with having her would abate.

She was just another female, after all. There was no physiological difference between one and another, and no difference to him (with the exception of extreme examples like the Parkinson bint) other than the fact that one day Hermione Granger might have to bear his child.

After a half-hour he finally located the text he'd been searching for -- in Bluett's lap, well-concealed under the old man's messy, egg-stained beard; carefully slipped it out of the man's fingers and brushed away the biscuit-crumbs; and locked himself into the laboratory on the premises to experiment.

He didn't think to send an owl to her flat, to say he wouldn't be by after all.

*****

"What's happened to your nose?" Hermione blurted out when she opened the door.

After a moment of extreme disorientation in which Snape groped at the bandage that covered his nose and then winced in pain, he confessed, "Accident in the lab. Some bloody careless fool tainted a reagent I needed --"

"Did you have it looked at?"

"Smithers fixed it up, but it's still rather pink --"

"Oh. You might have let me know," she said, every bit as tartly as Minerva Bloody McGonagall.

"Why should I? You're not my bloody mother," he shot back, equally miffed.

"Not that -- you may blow yourself to perdition, for all I care. I expected you last.... Oh, never mind," she muttered, and stepped aside so he could enter.

"I was working last night," he said stiffly, highly indignant and equally confused that he felt so defensive. "Rather late, in fact, and there was no need to wake you."

She ignored him and took off down the hallway in a huff, and he had no choice but to follow.

"Would you mind," he nearly spat, "telling me what the bloody fuss is about?"

She turned, opened the refrigerator, pulled out a lump wrapped in butcher's paper, unwrapped it, and tossed the object onto the counter.

It was beefsteak. A marvelously thick filet, in fact. If the odour was to be believed, it was quite probably aged to perfection -- as of the day before.

"Oh."

"I think it's gone off, now," she said, "so you'll just have to eat what I'm making tonight."

He didn't quite know what to make of the fact that she'd gone to special trouble for him. "I've offended your principles in some fashion, haven't I?" he asked cautiously.

"Shall I count the ways? No, don't bother to get shirty again. I'd just.... I hate buying beef, and it was pricey, besides," she muttered as she picked up the spoilt meat, wrinkled her nose, re-wrapped it and thrust it back into the bottom of the refrigerator. "Doesn't matter."

Snape sighed. "So far, then, I've destroyed one alarm-clock and forced a near-vegetarian to stoop to shopping for expensive and objectionable comestibles.... At this rate, I shall have to give you an allowance, shan't I?"

She glared at him, and then she did the unthinkable. "Sitting-room. Book. Sofa." She flung her arm out and pointed, as though he were an idiot child. "Now."

Snape did the unimaginable. Totally unnerved by the potions accident that morning and with Hermione's ill-tempered response to what he'd meant for once as an actual, sincere offer, he turned tail and did as she commanded.

*****

He woke late again the next morning, again with muscles stiff and strained... but not from the activity he'd planned: he'd fallen asleep on the bloody settee, and Hermione had quite considerately (-- and no doubt conveniently for her, he thought sourly) thrown a blanket about him, neglected to wake him for dinner, and had ducked out for work before he'd wakened.

Again.

He stomped about the sitting-room, restoring the circulation to his legs and cursing quite viciously; went to the loo to address the issue of his aching bladder with a long piss, and peeled the plaster off his nose; and then went into the kitchen and cursed at Aga for a while. (It didn't respond, of course, but Snape made certain it heard precisely what he thought of its shrew of an owner.)

There was another bloody note for him, too.

Repeat performance of two days ago if desired, and thank you for cleaning up after. Left-overs also available. I will not make special arrangements tonight.

H.

Snape supposed he deserved that. A Ministry consultant couldn't have that high a salary, and the spoilt beef was a waste. She must have spent... well, he had no idea what she'd spent, or in what currency.

He was, however, going to make her pay for her shrewishness. Tonight. He decided she'd wanted to put him off her yesterday, and he wasn't going to give her that satisfaction again. He disdained the offer to help himself to breakfast, swore at poor, innocent Aga once more, and Apparated to the nearest club threshold in high dudgeon.

*****

It was nearly six-thirty, and there was still no sign of Hermione.

Damn the woman, but she totally threw me off, he thought as he paced the room. I need to re-focus....

The lift behind him opened, Hermione walked into the Atrium, and nearly passed him by, unseeing.

"Hermione --"

She stopped and stared at him blankly for a second, and then her face crumpled.

"Oh --"

He was alarmed: she looked as though she was about to drop. "What is it?" he asked urgently, stepping close so they couldn't be overheard.

"No, I'm all right."

"Clearly you're not," he said.

"I can't talk here," she muttered.

"Where, then? I was going to take you to the club for dinner --" -- to make up for the bloody beef, he almost said, and stopped himself just in time.

"I don't think I can.... Can we just go home, please? I need to have a lie-down for a bit," she said.

Snape took her by the elbow, escorted her up the call-box, and Apparated her straight to the entryway of the flat, any Muggle passers-by be damned. She refused to talk until she was curled up on the settee and had a cup of tea in her hands: Snape helped himself to a glass of wine, and waited more-or-less patiently in the side-chair until she was ready to speak.

"There was an incident in Calais this morning," she began. "Someone was foolish enough to try to skip with their wand.... Martin Flaherty. Perhaps you remember him?"

"No. In your Form?"

"No, rather older, but not as early as you. Hufflepuff, I think, and Pureblood. At any rate, he'd slipped onto the train early this morning to take the Chunnel across --"

Snape had no idea what that was, but restrained himself from interrupting.

"-- and MLE picked up on the wand trace and contacted the FAS. They followed him until he was in an isolated area and tried to arrest him so they could turn him over to MLE, but he.... He killed himself. Right there in the street."

"Bloody.... It wasn't in the evening Prophet."

"No, it's being withheld. The only reason I found out was because François Delaine flooed me, supposedly on another matter entirely, and told me. He works closely with his Auror Service, so he heard first thing."

"Why should he tell you?" Snape asked suspiciously.

"Why should he have told me about the twenty-year plan, for that matter?" she retorted, and shrugged. "I think he's afraid of any furor over here spilling over into France. He thinks Fudge and Corcoran are incompetents as well, and the only reason he hates Corcoran more is because he's actually met him. He's trying to help, Severus."

"Or working with the ICW to root out corruption and security leaks," Snape muttered. "Back to Flaherty. He didn't defend himself?"

"No. He threw a few shots at them, but they could tell he was just trying to hold them off long enough to.... He poisoned himself. He had it all prepared."

"Good gods. The stupid, stupid fool --"

"Oh, no, Severus, I don't think so," Hermione insisted. "You see, as far as we can tell he had no compelling reason to be over there. He wasn't initially considered a flight risk, and was only put on the list two days ago. He must have got notification yesterday."

"Then for the gods' sakes, why?"

"Martyrdom," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "Upstanding, Pureblood family man takes his own life rather than submit to the Ministry's new proposed law -- the one that landed him on the fucking list. His wife couldn't have children, you see, so he might well be forced to set her aside some day. That's the next regulation coming down the pike."

"Merlin's --"

"As far as his widow knows -- and I got this from Shacklebolt, after I'd talked with DeLaine -- he'd probably run across to buy her a Muggle perfume that she loves, duty-free. He'd always Apparated over and done so, apparently, and their anniversary is -- was -- next week. But why the poison if the trip was innocent, and why take his wand when he knew it would be traced? He wouldn't need it, not to go to a Muggle duty-free shop, turn around, and go right home. Why go at all, rather than getting her something else or paying the damned duty? No, I suspect that a letter will show up in a few days, one meant for The Prophet, explaining why he acted as he did. I almost wish it would happen," she said. "At least people might actually get off their bloody arses and do something, if only they'd print the bloody thing!"

"Are you seriously telling me you want a revolt?"

She shuddered. "No, I don't want any violence, but what if it's the only way? Can you imagine, Severus?" she asked, the tea-cup beginning to clatter on its saucer as her hands shook. "Can you imagine the outrage and the fury a letter like that will cause? The demonstrations in the Atrium were bad enough, before they kicked everyone out and restricted the Arrivals floos --"

She was in danger of spilling her tea: Snape darted from his chair, took the cup from her, and put it on the table.

"-- and there's not a bloody thing to be done about it, to stop it even if I wanted to. No way to tell if he had the sense to drop any bloody letter off with a friend, or --"

"Quite right, there's no way of telling," Snape said sharply. "You can't even be certain that you're correct and that a letter exists. Why wouldn't he simply leave it with the wife? It would be all over the Wireless by now --"

"So she wouldn't be implicated and tried as an accessory, that's why,l and no, it wouldn't --"

"Foolish supposition. There's absolutely no point in upsetting yourself to this degree."

"But it's happening all over again!" she cried. "We're back to the same bloody mess with people martyring themselves over the same damned thing!"

"It's not the same at all. The Dark Lord's goals had nothing to do with racial purity, not really."

"You thought they did, didn't you?" she challenged him. "Didn't all the Death Eaters and their supporters, at least at first?"

"Yes," he retorted, far more viciously than necessary.

"Then the only difference I can see," Hermione said, "is that while Voldemort portrayed himself as a martyr to a cause, Flaherty is, whether he intended it or not And that's far more dangerous, because he can't betray himself by showing his true colours later on as Voldemort did."

Snape wanted very badly to tell Hermione she was idiotic and acting like a fool: the problem was, she might well be right.

"Supposing -- just as an hypothesis, mind you -- that you're right.... Why the bloody hell do you care?" he said quite savagely. "You're not only a Ministry official, my dear, you're one of them. What the fuck do you care whether we live or die?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because this is all so very beneficial to you and your kind. It must be very satisfying to see us -- those of us still devoted to the bloodlines, of course I can't include myself in that number any longer -- humbled. Pushed to the brink of a hopeless war and of pointless martyrdom, after all those years of being told that you yourselves aren't worthy to exist in our society."

She stared at him, shocked: and then she drew herself upright and said, very slowly and distinctly, "You, Severus Snape, are a fool."

He very nearly struck her. "How dare you --"

"You may very well think that of my kind, as you persist in calling me," she pushed on, voice going shrill, "but you may stop deluding yourself that I feel the same about you and yours this instant -- don't ever, ever assume that I have the same prejudices as you. Yes, I got more than my fair share of mudblood and muggle trash thrown my way, mostly by that ferret Malfoy and his mates. Did I like it? No. Do I hate all Purebloods because of it? No -- only the vicious, stupid, individual sods like Malfoy," she shouted, her face going an ugly, blotchy red. "I don't hate you as a group and I never have. I wouldn't be doing the bloody job I -- I am if I --"

She stopped, seemed to struggle to finish the sentence, and then gave up and burst into tears.

"Don't. Miss -- Hermione, stop it, now," he barked. "You needn't bother trying that -- it's pointless. You proposed this idiotic scheme precisely because I'm Pureblood, never intending to allow me to touch you, so you can hardly expect me to believe that rot."

"Yuh- you're right," she managed in between sobs. "Because you're Puh- pureblood and I thought you wouldn't have the slightest interest in actually sullying yourself with muh- me. It was duh- dishonest and cruel, but it has nothing to do with my juh- job."

"Really."

"I thought I could make a difference," she managed to gasp. "I thought I might be able to influence Corcoran and Fudge. Make the tr- transition easier for everyone, and keep the stupidity to a minimum. But I can't. I'm exactly what Ron always said, a glorified bean-counter. They don't want my bloody consult, all they want to do is avoid any more sanctions from the goddamned ICW. So here I am, right back in the thick of things again, and absolutely unable to do a fucking thing that really matters while other people.... Just like Seventh Year, stuck in that bloody Room of Requirement strategising while Harry and Ron and Duh- Dumbledore and you and every bloody one else actually did something --"

She was taking in huge breaths again, nearly yperventilating.

Good gods. So that's why she's over-reacting --

Snape was as close to terrified as he'd been the other morning by the bloody alarm-clock. So many of the students in his House had suffered from this... affliction in that last, terrible year of the war that he'd got quite good at dealing with it, but it never ceased to unnerve him. He did as Pomfrey had taught and chivvied him to then, quite automatically: he crossed back over to the settee, sat on the edge, pulled Hermione into his arms, tightly, and let the steady beat of his own heart and the rhythm of his breathing calm her -- or so he hoped. It had worked with most of his students when he'd finally broken down and tried it, in violation of his rules about and distaste for touching them.

Pomfrey had explained it all to him quite clearly and carefully.

Yes, he had understood Pomfrey, intellectually. He'd never felt it himself, of course: he'd been too bloody busy fighting like hell to stay alive to allow himself the luxury and weakness of guilt of any kind. (At any rate he deserved to live, after all he'd gone through for the gods-damned Order, no matter who else had died.) He certainly couldn't deny that the phenomenon existed, though. Slytherin House had been one huge, seething mass of guilt and disruptive, recurring nightmares by the end -- guilt over the deaths, guilt over killing, over many of their parents' humiliating exposure as Death Eaters and murderers, over being on the wrong -- the losing -- side....

Hermione had managed to stop sobbing, now, but she was shivering uncontrollably.

"I told him," Snape muttered grimly as he chafed her arms and back to warm her. "I told the bloody man he wasn't doing you a favour by shutting you up, not in the way he did. You deserved to make your own choice. But you must understand, Hermione, there was a great need for your work, and it precluded putting you in the front lines. You did everything you could -- quite well, in fact -- and it did help."

She shook her head violently against his shoulder and started to sniffle again, mumbling something about "that bloody mess."

"You bloody well did," he said impatiently. "That plan went south because Finnegan bolloxed up his part of it. The rest of us only survived because you insisted on a Plan B, and Longbottom, of all people, finally did something right."

"And we lost him too, anyway," Hermione said, and her shivering re-commenced. "Him, Ha- Harry -- Ron nearly, as well, and Dumbledore --"

"Oh, blast it, Hermione, it.... Look, would you agree that I have vastly more experience than you, in this area?"

She nodded, her hair ticking his jawline.

"Answer me this, then. Are you upset because Potter was your friend, or because perhaps Dumbledore told you Potter was your special care and responsibility?"

"Both."

Snape swore under his breath, and Hermione stiffened in his arms. "No, don't be offended, that's not my point. The former is quite natural, apparently, and there's not a damned thing to be done about it but to accept it, when you're able. But the latter.... I suspected he might have done that to you, it was one of his favourite tactics when he had no time to be subtle. Dumbledore had no business putting that burden on you, and he did it deliberately to assuage him own guilt. He was a duplicitous, manipulative bastard. I know you didn't see that side of him, but I did.

"Those two boys -- Potter and Longbottom -- were marked, one or the other, to be the instrument of the Dark Lord's downfall, long before Potter actually acquired that damned scar. And rather than accept that and do what needed to be done, Dumbledore refused to go about preparing them properly. He did everything possible," he said, sneering, "to protect them -- by which he meant keeping them ignorant of their destinies as long as possible -- and to manipulate them into being suitable pawns instead of training them properly. He kept them in the dark about the Prophecy, because he feared that they might, quite sensibly, tell him to sod off. Longbottom was more malleable, being so thick, but Dumbledore couldn't be at all certain of Potter, not when he hadn't had a direct hand in raising him, or indirectly by counting on the influence of his parents.

"He wanted to cheat Fate, in other words, and he did his best to stack the deck -- including mandating that people take on jobs they didn't want, like you. Like me." He smiled grimly. "I didn't want to teach at bloody Hogwarts, you know. There was no real need to, but I suspect he wanted to keep an eye on me, so he gave me no choice."

"Then why are you still --"

"What else am I fit for, now? No-one in their right mind will hire a former Death Eater as a Potions researcher, will they? McGonagall mayn't like me, particularly, but she respects my competence. At any rate, what I'm trying to tell you is that your choice in the matter was negated because Dumbledore not only needed your tactical skills elsewhere, but because he didn't want Potter -- or Weasley -- to be distracted, to go chivalrous and protective of you if you were pinned down or hurt. Not only a denigration of your ability to protect yourself, but a denial of their right to choose their actions and priorities, as well.

"So," he added softly, and found himself stroking at her messy, tangled hair -- it had escaped many of its pins -- "for the gods' sakes, Hermione, grieve for Potter and the rest all you want, but you have no cause to feel you let the old fool down. He quite willingly kept you from of doing your job as you see it properly, and I for one know he would have sacrificed you if it meant he could keep Potter under control."

"I can't quite believe that," she said. "I never heard him express anything negative about Harry at all, much less say he wanted to control him."

"Of course not. But think about it, woman. While the Potters were alive -- while the Longbottoms were intact, for that matter -- Dumbledore knew the children would be raised with certain values and allegiances, to himself and against the Dark Lord. But when Potter's parents were disposed of, he left the boy with that disgusting Muggle family -- no, don't mistake me, I'm not saying that, I'm saying they were horrid specimens of humanity in general -- and claimed it was for the boy's own good. McGonagall herself offered to take the child in at Hogwarts, if necessary, and the gods know he would have been just as safe. But Dumbledore left him to the tender mercies of those people, despite frequent testimony from Figg that the boy was being mistreated. I saw it myself, in the Occlumency lessons -- persistent degradation. And the older the boy got, the more frequent and extreme the abuse became.

"And why? Why did kind, wise Albus Dumbledore allow this to continue? Because when it came time for Potter to enter Hogwarts, he would automatically find the wizarding world more congenial. He would commit to it as a matter of course. And when Dumbledore would eventually have to tell him of the Prophecy, the boy would feel he hadn't any choice but to see it though. It's a form of mental conditioning, I suppose --"

"Brainwashing," she muttered.

"Is that what Muggles call it? Accurate. And the damned boy never suspected a thing, never questioned Dumbledore's authority or his judgement, until Black was killed. Then, finally, he started to realise the position into which he'd been manouevered, though I doubt he ever actually thought through the specifics."

"How can you possibly be certain of all this? You're not the most unbiased person, you know."

"I tell you I saw it in the boy's mind. Figg's judgement was questionable, but I couldn't deny it once I'd seen it myself, and when I told Dumbledore and pressed him on the issue he admitted that he'd known. He gave me some sop about it being in Potter's best interest to stay with family, magically speaking, but I thought that was rot as excuses go. Absolute shit, in fact. There is no special protection offered by blood, none at all. The impulse to protect the weak, certainly, particularly if they're your own flesh and blood -- but that has nothing to do with being either Muggle or Wizard. It's the same for both."

She was silent for a very long time -- though the shaking had stopped, at least -- and Snape was starting to worry when she finally said, "That's why you always badgered Harry so, wasn't it? Always threw the 'Boy Who Lived,' business back in his face. You wanted him to wake up."

Snape thought it through for a moment -- there were certain advantages to allowing her to think that, after all -- and then admitted, "No. Not consciously, at least, not until the Occlumency lessons. No, I did it because I knew he hadn't earned the right to all that celebrity, and he was the image of his bloody father -- temperamentally, as well -- and I assumed he'd been spoilt and could use a good dose of reality. And gods know he couldn't be bothered to show me proper respect, so why should I show any to him? But by the end of that year, I think he'd begun to understand what Dumbledore intended.... The Fool made bloody King For A Day, and not told that he'll be the evening sacrifice to protect the tribe."

Hermione shuddered at that, and Snape squeezed her tighter.

"I detested the boy, but I also abhor that he wasn't given a decision. Wasn't allowed to realise he had one for a very long time, much less exercise it. And I think that's why it all went so badly in the end. It's much harder to do those things properly if you haven't willingly taken them on."

Hermione went very quiet for a moment, and then she said, "Shit."

"Precisely." He drew back a bit and peered down at her. "Or is that due more to the fact that we might have a common philosophical point?"

"Both. But more on the other matter."

He snorted.

"I can't quite wrap my mind about the possibility at the moment," she said, sounding quite listless and miserable.

"You shan't, not in an evening. But the fact that you're not clawing my eyes out in Dumbledore's defence leads me to suspect that you'd sensed some of it. That, or you resent him so deeply that you're willing to consider it's possible, which amounts to the same thing."

Just then his stomach growled -- Hermione couldn't have missed it, even if they'd been more than a foot away from each other.

"I'd meant to stop at the grocer's on the way home. I'm afraid all there is is bread and cheese --"

"No matter."

"Yes, it does.... There's an Indian take-out just up the road. Do you like curries?"

"The milder ones. And not vindaloo."

"Right, then," she said, extracting herself from his arms. "I'll order a delivery."

He watched her as she rose and rummaged about for a menu, and telephoned in the order: and then she excused herself and left to go tidy up. She hadn't offered to clean up the mess she'd made of his frock-coat -- it was soiled with whatever it was she put on her face -- and Snape grumbled a bit as he removed the coat and performed the cleaning charm himself, and then returned to his abandoned wine.

She'd picked the one person she was absolutely certain would offer no emotional entanglement whatsoever, because she couldn't bear the thought of investing in someone and then losing them. (It was utterly irrational, of course, but then as Pomfrey had said, there was no Reason involved.)

Human nature was, simply, very odd and quite mad. That Hermione Granger, who'd done absolutely nothing objectionable in the war (as far as Snape knew or thought) should feel such guilt over coming through unscathed, while he felt absolutely no guilt at all (and had, technically, much better reason) was ridiculous.

She padded back into the room, hair smoothed (as smooth as it ever got), face composed and skin more evenly flushed, though her nose was still pink: and she put something on the wireless machine, plopped back down on the settee, and they waited in silence for the Indian take-out to arrive. She didn't eat much of hers once it had (she excused herself from the table before he'd finished, in fact); went back to the sitting-room and curled up on the settee again; and sat staring at the empty grate.

Instead of immediately shooing her to bed for the vigorous activity he'd planned, Snape -- motivated by some vestigial sense of duty toward a student, he supposed, though she hadn't been in his House (and though he had done his best, since bedding her, to ignore the fact that she'd been his student at all) -- pulled a book from the shelf and sat in the side-chair reading, occasionally checking on her with cautious, upward glances of which she seemed totally unaware.

*****

Somewhere just past midnight Snape set the book aside and decided to try to distract her in as effective a way as possible, short of making himself ridiculous. (It suited him to do so, anyway -- he got what he wanted, though in a rather less exciting fashion than he'd hoped.) And, perhaps because Hermione was so tired and in such desperate need of distraction, she almost seemed to welcome it. She didn't fight her arousal, clung to him rather than the bed, and fell asleep immediately and in his arms.

Probably just... wishful thinking on my part, Snape decided muzzily as he dropped off. She's just got used to the idea, now, or she's too worried and heart-sick to care. I suppose any warm body willing to hold her would... do....

Thankfully, he didn't remember the 'wishful thinking' bit for a very long time: and by the time he would, it was far too late to do anything about it.

*****

CHAPTER 4 FOOTNOTES

LINK TO CHAPTER 5