"Think of it in this way. If you pass McGonagall's eagle eye, there is no way the Ministry is going to trip you up."

Hermione briefly interrupted her case-packing to glare at Snape -- he was taking this far too lightly, damn it, lounging against the doorjamb with a self-satisfied smirk on his face -- and she said, "I'd prefer to take my chances with the Ministry."

"I thought the two of you were great friends."

"Not bloody likely," Hermione muttered, and snapped the case shut. "I said we kept in touch. It's not quite the same thing."

"Does she still bother you about refusing the Transfigurations apprenticeship?" Snape asked.

"Constantly, whenever she writes. 'Waste of potential -- might have been a great Transfigurationist.' Even said that on my Ministry reference letter. Never mind that I didn't want to be one."

"Yes, she's always had the propensity to know what's best for everyone. Nothing at all to do with being a Gryffindor busy-body, of course."

Hermione ignored the mockery, and yanked her case off the bed.

"I'll get that," Snape murmured, took it from her, and strode off down the corridor. "Are you ready now?"

"As I'll ever be. I need to take out the rubbish, first."

She darted into the kitchen, emptied the bin -- she certainly wasn't going to leave it, not with the remains of the steak and the take-out in it (God only knew what alien life-form might have evolved by the time they got back) -- and trotted out the front door and round to the rubbish tip in the mews. She stood there as long as she could after dumping the lot, shivering in the cold, away from Snape's sharp, observant eyes.

She could tolerate the situation overall: she'd had two months to get used to the idea. But she hadn't expected Snape to be so courteous about it. Rescuing her from Corcoran's nasty little tirade, taking her to lunch -- well, that could very well be for show, but still; behaving more patiently than she'd ever seen him while she fiddled with preparing supper, when she'd assumed all he wanted to do was bed her and get the bloody hell out.... More manipulation, probably, or enjoyment in seeing her grasp at anything to put it off.

But when it came down to the act he wouldn't simply get on with things: he insisted on taking his time, on touching her in ways that... well, that made it nearly impossible for her to keep from responding. She resented that, even as she grudgingly admitted that he hadn't bothered to gloat, as he had that first horrid time. He didn't insist on having a light on any longer, either, for which she was grateful. She was actually able to forget, for brief moments, that it was Severus Snape touching her: to pretend that the stringy hair that tickled the side of her neck as he hovered over her wasn't his at all; to ignore the thought of his crooked, stained teeth as they grazed her ear-lobes and collarbones, and that she remembered all too well from that first experience, as he grimaced in the midst of the act.

She could explain all that behaviour away as what she'd come to think of as his grand manipulation, meant to lull her into accepting him and responding to him.

What she couldn't quite explain away as easily was his behaviour last night.

He never touched her if it wasn't necessary, other than certain basic courtesies (usually in front of others). But last night when she'd... ...flipped out, she ruefully admitted, he'd held her in an unsexual way until she was calmer, and reasoned her through the problem when no doubt he wanted badly to tell her she was being an idiot.

I think I let something rather bad slip, there, she thought, and worried through what she could remember of the conversation leading up to the hysterics. I can't really remember much beyond telling him to take his prejudice and shove it....

But the specifics eluded her, and she gave up. Whatever it was, it hadn't kept him from fucking her later. She supposed she ought to be grateful that he simply hadn't dragged her straight to bed after dinner; and he had actually been rather gentle, and she hadn't had the energy or willpower to resist in any way.

I've got to be more careful. I have to tolerate him, but I oughtn't give him encouragement, even by seeming to give in.

A gust of wind came down the mews: she shivered again, and reluctantly turned to go back inside. She didn't want to go to Hogwarts, but it seemed the only option. At least there would be distractions for him there (and the double-edged sword of the need to socialise with people, which she didn't feel at all up to managing). That might keep him at a distance, even if it was indisputably his territory and not hers.

He was in the sitting-room when she went back inside, one arm draped across the back of the sofa and his long legs stretched out toward the empty grate, the fingers of his other hand drumming on the arm-rest.

"I was just trying to figure-up the probabilities," he informed her.

"Of what?"

"Whether you'd skived off down the road in fear of facing McGonagall, or of two days in the dungeons with me." His lips remained thin and immobile, but one brow quirked upward.

"50-50," she retorted as she pulled on her coat. "Probably should have done, if only I'd had my coat."

"You're not wearing those, are you?"

"What?"

"Those ridiculous shoes. There was at least two feet of snow when I left, and we'll have to walk up the drive unless McGonagall's thought to send a carriage to the gates."

"Oh. I'd forgot. It's so much milder, here...."

Embarrassing, how quickly you forget those things when you're stuck in your own little world.

She rummaged in the hall cupboard for a pair of boots and slipped them on in lieu of her shoes, while he flung his cloak about his shoulders and hefted her case in one hand.

"Ready?" he asked, rising and joining her in the hall. "Come here."

"I'm perfectly capable of --"

"I'm sure you are, but I'm perfectly capable of a Double Apparition. Come here," he said impatiently: and since he was apparently back to his usual arrogant, demanding self and she didn't particularly want him irritated with her, Hermione stepped over to him and wound her free arm -- the other hand held her handbag and shoes -- about his waist.

"There," she muttered. "That's what you wanted, isn't it."

"Yes, as it happens," he said. "Just in the event she's sent someone to wait for us, for appearances' sake. Hold on tight."

There was a brief tug at Hermione's navel, a flash of absolute blackness, and then a distinct crack that made her ears ring as they Apparated in front of the Hogwarts gates: she had to drop her things and fling her hand in front of her eyes to protect them from the sudden, blinding-white light reflected off the unbroken expanse of snow.

-- hell, she finished the thought sourly as she wrestled herself out of Snape's grip, and bent to pick up the dropped shoes and bag.

"Ah. Good," Snape said, and when she stood Hermione discovered that McGonagall had sent a carriage -- a small one with isenglass curtains, drawn by a single Thestral.

She shivered.

"Not used to them?" Snape asked as he led her over and helped her into the carriage, and then stowed her case.

"Not to seeing them," she muttered. "I can't say riding one was a pleasant experience, either."

"When --?"

"The night we.... The night Black was killed, at the Ministry."

Snape climbed in beside her and flipped the lap-robe over their legs. "I'd wondered. None of you had your Apparition licenses yet and all the brooms were accounted for -- although that didn't mean a damned thing where your lot was concerned." He clicked his tongue irritably at the Thestral, and after a mean and moody glare over its shoulder at them it started off down the drive.

"I didn't actually see them until... until I was with Neville when he died. Lucky, I suppose, but then I guess most people don't see them for a long time. When did you?"

He was silent for a while -- she thought he hadn't heard her, for a moment -- and then he said, as he peered at the snow-draped trees through the curtain, "I've always done. From the first."

Snape sat back in the cushions, lips tightly compressed, and didn't say another word or look at her all the long ride up the drive.

*****

No-one met them in the Entry Hall, thankfully -- not even Filch or McGonagall -- and so Hermione trotted along behind Snape as he made for the dungeons, her case firmly in his hand.

"I didn't request a room for you," he said under his breath when she caught up to him, "for obvious reasons. And as I don't allow the elves to clean when I'm not about, you'll just have to put up with the clutter."

"You didn't move elsewhere, after the promotion?"

"No -- why should I? I'm still Head of Slytherin. It's better to be close by." He halted at a thick oak door that had the Slytherin crest carved into is, unwarded it -- several wards, actually, Hermione was unsurprised to note -- and ushered her in. "Not what you'd anticipated?" he murmured as he brushed past her, taking her case into what she assumed was the bed-chamber.

"I hadn't formed an opinion," she said, and surveyed the room as she took off her coat. His were much like McGonagall's rooms -- including several large windows, which she hadn't expected of the dungeons -- but much dustier and not, counter to expectations, smothered in Slytherin green. "Of course," she added when he stepped back into the room, "I know several people who would be disappointed to learn they'd lost wagers on there being chains and manacles on the walls."

He stopped dead in mid-step and sneered at her.

"I refused to speculate," she said.

"Wise -- although you haven't seen the bed-chamber yet, so perhaps you shouldn't make assumptions. That," he said with a jerk of his head to a door next to the fireplace, "leads to the office, and I should prefer that you don't muck about in there. Or in the private stores," he added with a glare. "The bath is through the bed-chamber, and I suggest you freshen up now. McGonagall is likely to keep us occupied until dinner." He pointedly turned his back to her, flipping through the correspondence and back-issues of The Prophet that must have arrived while he was gone.

"Very well," Hermione said, and fled in the right direction.

She ignored the huge four-poster in the bed-chamber, washed her face and hands in the bathroom basin, and stared into Snape's blessedly silent mirror for ten minutes, talking herself into the right frame of mind to pull this off.

*****

Snape was on the floo when she returned, his back to the bed-chamber door.

"-- very tired, Headmistress, and --"

"Nonsense," McGonagall's sharp voice came through the floo. "It's Yule, for goodness' sake."

"Yes, and it's the first holiday she's had off since the ICW conference, which can hardly be called a holiday, at any rate."

"It's tea, Severus -- I shan't ask her to run rings about the Common Room, you know. Or are you simply too jealous to share her with us for long?"

"I am worried," he said -- Hermione fancied she could hear those awful teeth of his grinding -- "about letting her rest. Her job is more stressful than you might think, and returning to Hogwarts can't possibly be as easy or restful as you seem to think."

Or, more likely, you wanted to shag me silly before dinner, Hermine thought, and an hysterical giggle escaped before she could stop it. Snape whipped around and glared at her.

"Hermione? My dear?" McGonagall craned her neck further into the room, through the flames. "Oh. Oh, my, you do look tired --"

"I am, but I think a lie-down before the feast will solve that," Hermione said, crossing to the fireplace. "Tea sounds quite nice, actually. If that's all right with you," she belated asked Snape.

His lips compressed tightly, but he nodded.

"Good. We shall see you in the Faculty Common Room in a few minutes, then," McGonagall said, with an 'I told you so,' nod to Snape, and broke the connection.

Snape snorted.

"I thought you wanted us to parade ourselves about?" Hermione said.

"I do. But it would look rather odd for me to act against my nature and seem particularly happy about it," he said coolly. "She'll either think I am, indeed, a jealous bastard -- which is how the other faculty prefer to think of me, at any rate -- or a terribly solicitous husband. Preferably a combination of the two."

"Oh. I should have known you weren't serious," Hermione said.

"I am in some respects, you don't look particularly well today. I suggest you use that, especially if they pry into Ministry affairs. If you could brighten a bit when felicitations are offered, however," he added caustically as he moved to the door, "that would be useful as well. But don't overdo it."

Hermione reminded herself she was dealing with Snape -- all Slytherin, three-quarters bastard, and half social-inept -- drew herself up to her full height, sailed out the door past him with as much dignity as she could muster, and ignored him all the way to the Faculty Common Room.

*****

The felicitations were blessedly short as only McGonagall, Sprout, Vector, and Pomfrey had remained at school over the holiday. (And Binns, but then one never really counted him.) Everyone was too upset over the latest Ministry action to whitter on about the nuptials: Hermione barely had time for a single biscuit when the questions about her job, and the recent legislation, started.

"What does a Populations Consultant do, Hermione?" Vector asked. "I was rather surprised to see you'd gone that route, a Ministry job."

"Technically I'm answerable as much to the ICW as the Ministry," she explained. "And in short the job consists of taking raw data -- the populations and demographic data, and the assessments of the health and genetic welfare of the population -- and preparing reports for my superior which explain the terminology and implications, and forecasts trends and developments. Generally to act as a consultant to the Ministry on effective and socially-responsible measures to meet ICW guidelines. In reality, though...." She paused, and took a deep breath. "In reality, I churn out the damned numbers, submit the reports, and my superiors do their best to ignore my suggestions."

That met with dead silence from the others. Hermione felt Snape stiffen beside her, and could practically hear him swearing mentally.

"You mean they don't bother to consider your --"

"No, they don't. Minister Fudge and Corcoran -- Dennis Corcoran, I understand he was here around Severus's time -- are far more concerned with appeasing the ICW than they are with dealing with the problem in a sensitive and sensible manner. And they do that," she added, "by ignoring most of the scientific data, underfunding research, and then blaming the lack of progress on segments of the population they claim are 'intransigent.' Their only worry as far as the population is concerned is whether they can manage to stay in office, and as long as the majority aren't affected and have someone else to blame for any severe ICW measures, they probably shall."

"Scape-goating the Isolationists," McGonagall muttered. "I suppose they're playing that tune to the ICW as well."

"Yes, exactly."

"But why?"

"Slogans and jingoism are cheaper than medical research," Pomfrey offered, jabbing at her knitting, "and they avoid the indignity of lowering themselves to looking into the Muggle science on the relevant subjects. My grandson's been submitting research grants on Muggle genetics techniques for years, and every time they tell him the equipment is 'too dear.'"

"But some of the, the propaganda is absolutely asinine.... What are they thinking, Hermione?" Sprout fussed. "I've received no less than three owls hinting that I ought to consider marrying and doing my part. I finally had Madam Pomfrey write them after the second, pointing out that I couldn't even have babies any longer --"

Hermione felt Snape wince, and she mentally agreed with him: Too Much Information where Sprout was concerned, like realising one's quite proper grandmum and granddad still had sex.

" -- and they still sent the third letter."

"It's an automated system, like the Hogwarts letters," Hermione explained. "Any witch even remotely of child-bearing age and any unmarried wizard is sent them -- form letters, you see -- and I doubt they'll stop until you're well past the cut-off age. I doubt there's even a human being on the other end to get Madam Pomfrey's note."

"I suppose they think it's a waste of resources," McGonagall said, sniffing.

"Very likely. The ICW regulations have strained Wizard Resources' work pool past tenable limits, and the Ministry won't hire additional staff."

"I can verify that," Snape murmured. "Hermione is swimming in paperwork, and she isn't even allowed an assistant."

McGonagall looked suitably chastened.

"I've got those letters as well," Vector said, her expression miserable. "They make you feel guilty for not doing your part, even if you can't. Some of us have no opportunity, after all. I mean, they can't force someone to take you on."

Hermione quickly brought her cup to her lips, to prevent herself from correcting the woman.

"It's quite ridiculous," McGonagall said. "Poor Filius Flitwick has been dead for seven years now, and I still get letters on his behalf. How they persuade the owls to deliver the blasted things when the birds know he's gone, I can't imagine."

"I'm sure he's not the only one," Hermione said. "They probably consulted an old Census when they charmed the system. I'll have a word with my superior and see if it can't be fixed. It shan't help most people, of course, but you're quite right, Headmistress -- it is very wasteful."

"It certainly reflects upon the Ministry's competence," Snape said, leaning in toward her. "I should think that would be an effective argument."

"Far more compelling, yes," Hermione agreed, overly-conscious of the way his elbow brushed hers.

"Hermione," Pomfrey said, "I know there's a great deal you can't tell us, but really...." She leaned forward, very serious. "It's going to get a great deal worse than it already is, isn't it? I don't mean the legislation alone, but the situation overall, the children themselves. I'm not asking for specifics, mind you, but...."

Hermione stared into her cup, and then met Pomfrey's eyes. "You of all people know that, I think," she admitted. "You see the problems in the Infirmary every day, after all, and Severus has told me he brews many more therapeutic potions for your patients than in earlier years. St. Mungo's is nearly overwhelmed, and the waiting-room is constantly full. The Occupational Demographics show that healers are leaving the field -- they're too demoralised and stressed to keep up. And I know the rest of you must be seeing the proof in the classroom...."

They did, apparently -- there was a murmur of agreement from all, and Vector looked on the verge of tears.

"If it's not the marriage-mad ones who won't apply themselves, it's the ones who simply can't keep up," McGonagall muttered. "We've all had to revise our curricula downward to adjust. And obviously we shan't see any improvement for six or seven years, at best."

"I'm terribly sorry to spoil everyone's holiday, but I think that's a very accurate forecast. And," Hermione said cautiously, carefully phrasing the statement, "I think you should expect even stronger measures from the government and the ICW to address the problem."

Snape didn't have to pretend worry over Hermione's supposed exhaustion: that statement put a significant damper on everyone's enthusiasm, to the point that they began excusing themselves (Vector much more ineptly than the others), until only Hermione, Snape, and McGonagall were left.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said. "Not the cheeriest tea-time news."

"No, the question was asked, and you answered it," McGonagall said. "There's no point in avoiding the issue." She sipped at her tea, grimaced when she found it cold, and Banished it. "At any rate, you wanted a lie-down. Although I had hoped to show you...."

Snape rose quite suddenly, setting his cup and saucer on a side-table.

"I have some work to do before dinner," he informed them. "I'd like to finish what's accumulated in the past few days -- I'll be returning to town with Hermione, unless you need me."

"No, Severus, that's perfectly acceptable. It's Yule Break, for heaven's sake, and I know the two of you haven't had much time to spend together."

"Thank you," he said, and turned to Hermione. "I'll ward the door for you, and I'll be in the office if you need me."

"Yes, Severus," she replied, and he turned and left the room.

"Come along, Hermione," McGonagall said as she rose. "I should have shown you this when you visited at the beginning of Term."

Hermione followed her down the corridor to the doors of the Great Hall: the doors parted for them and they slipped in, and McGonagall commanded the candles to light.

Hermione, startled, sucked in a breath.

"I didn't want you to see it for the first time tonight," McGonagall said.

A mural now ran along the walls on both sides of the Hall: a depiction of the war since Hermione's First Year, starting with the wizard's chess match that protected the Philosopher's Stone. Harry had predominance throughout, of course, but there she and Ron were, along with Neville and the rest.... And on the wall directly behind her, to either side of the doors, was painted the last battle, most participants accurately rendered (though in symbolic, heroic garments, and with rather less blood than Hermione gathered there had been).

Harry isn't strictly accurate, she thought critically. He looked far more imposing than he ever had in life, and he practically glowed with the kind of aura one saw on saints' icons. (Dumbledore greatly resembled God as drawn by William Blake, and Hermione had to repress a shudder.) She herself wasn't shown on those two panels, of course, no doubt in the interest of accuracy once again. No, her last representation was much further down the adjoining wall, bent over an Arithmantic chart in the bloody Room of Requirement.

"We'd debated having the usual memorial brass," McGonagall explained, "but it didn't seem enough. And the blasted artist had it moving, of course, but it was too unnerving and distracting, so we charmed it still. We let it play out on the anniversary."

"It's.... ambitious," Hermione murmured. "What do the students think of it?"

"Most of them now are too young to remember, of course -- it's ancient history to them," McGonagall admitted, and laughed quite cynically, Hermione was surprised to note. "They've no idea of the sacrifice this represents. I'm afraid Harry Potter is just that Boy Who Lived bloke who made Seeker First Year, and Albus Dumbledore a very odd, old wizard on their Chocolate Frog cards."

"And those who forget their history...."

"Yes, precisely. Even if they manage to retain the facts, though, they can't seem to understand the implications for today. Understanding how the decisions their government makes affects them, for example."

"You are preaching to the choir, Headmistress."

"I suspected as much. So your probably quite-sensible views aren't given much weight, then?"

Hermione shook her head.

"I thought that, given all the ridiculous measures being enacted," McGonagall said, "but I hadn't realised precisely how bad it must be for you...." She stopped abruptly and cleared her throat, eyes fixed on the mural. "I'm terribly sorry that I've given you grief over your decision. Not that it isn't true, but it musn't be easy, dealing with that and hearing from your former Head that you've chosen wrongly."

"I'm used to dealing with disapproval by now, you know," Hermione said, and attempted a smile.

"Yes, but it wasn't fair of me." McGonagall studied her with those shrewd, assessing eyes: that look always meant trouble. "Are you happy, Hermione? Aside from the work?"

She thought about it a minute, staring up at the mural. "I haven't been happy since beginning of Seventh Year," she finally admitted. "But I've learned to take satisfaction from whatever I can. That has to do."

"But what about Severus?"

"It was totally out of the blue, you know," McGonagall went on, oblivious to what must be Hermione's reddening face given how hot it suddenly felt. "I didn't quite believe him, when he'd said you two had reached an understanding at that conference. Is he...." She hesitated, and then plunged ahead, "Is he treating you well, my dear? I realise that he's far better than his reputation, he's very conscientious about some things, but...."

Well, there was nothing for it but to brazen it out. "It's not a very conventional marriage, I suppose," Hermione said, struggling to find a balance between the absolutely unbelievable ('Oh, he's wonderful!') and reality ('I can't stand him, actually, and I wish I hadn't done it'). "But he is kind in his own way, I think. Far more than one would expect given our former relationship."

"Ah -- I didn't imagine love had much to do with it, not with the way the pair of you think. He was better than your other options?" McGonagall asked. "I'd often thought you and Mr Weasley might marry, you see, before...."

"No, I couldn't have married Ron. Far too... emotional," Hermione said. "No, Severus is much better in some ways. He's quiet -- most of the time -- he sees things very logically and practically, for the most part."

"Well, if you're certain it works for you," McGonagall said, and sighed. "Gryffindor-Slytherin matches are often a bit tricky, you see, and I'd worried. But I shan't pry any longer. Go have your lie-down, my dear." She patted Hermione's shoulder and shooed her out the doors: and Hermione did her level best to avoid the woman's ridiculously sentimental, tear-misted eyes.

She was quite angry by the time she reached Snape's rooms, and lay fuming on the bed for a good ten minutes trying, but unable, to sleep.

The bed-chamber door creaked as it opened behind her.

"Tell me you didn't kill her," Snape said from the doorway. "I'm not ready for headmaster."

"Near thing. And you were wrong."

"How?"

"Not a busy-body," Hermione grumbled, not bothering to roll over to face him. "She's a Nosy Parker."

He snorted. "I assume you mean totally presumptuous. Not good enough for you, am I?"

"No, it's not that, just.... concerned if you were being kind, I suppose. I told her you were. I didn't tell her it was love, if that's what's worrying you."

"I'm not worried. I don't give a toss about what she thinks of it, as long as she understands it's a valid marriage."

The door started to creak shut, and Hermione rolled to face him.

"Why didn't you warn me?"

He stopped, and stepped back into the nearly-dark room: his body was backlit by the fire in the sitting-room, and she couldn't make out his expression. "About the monstrosity?" he said. "Some things have to be seen to be believed. What do you think of it?"

"I think you should have hexed the damned artist. My hair was never that messy, and your nose isn't that bloody big."

He froze, gave another strangled snort -- Hermione might have thought it was an attempt not to laugh, if she didn't know better -- and then said, "Count yourself fortunate that you don't have to stare at it every damned day. Try to sleep, and I'll wake you before dinner."

He left, closing the door behind him.

She tried to take his advice, settled her pillow more comfortably, and stared, unseeing, up at the shadows on the ceiling.

How much of his behaviour was for show, and how much sincere? (Sincere as far as being a bit solicitous, of course, not about really caring for her, not the way one should.) Was it even possible to tell? She couldn't forget that he might be trying to lull her into complacency, after all.

There was little chance of her finding out, she knew. He was so private and closed that she hadn't seen anything remotely telling in his rooms -- no photographs at all, even of family, and nothing that appeared to be family heirlooms. There was that reference the other day to mother (or rather to Hermione not being his), but that was a generality, not at all specific.

Disgusted with herself, Hermione pounded at the pillow again, rolled over, and finally dozed.

*****

The Great Hall

On reflection, Yule at the flat might have been better, even with the embarrassment of no presents to or from the other, and the distinct possiblity of a long sexual encounter. No other faculty had stayed at Hogwarts other than those Hermione had already seen, and of the staff only Filch had hung about: even Hagrid had taken off that year, and frankly he was the only one she missed. The Hall, like the corridors, was as gaily decorated as it had ever been during Hermione's residence, but now it only seemed pathetic, a misguided attempt at holiday cheer for people not in the least capable of it. The only other diners were the rag-tag assortment of students who'd had to stay over.

There were far more of them than had ever been in Hermione's time. "There are so many," Hermione noted under her breath while McGonagall was in the midst of a speech to the students.

"Orphaned, most of them," Snape murmured back, his teaching robe brushing her sleeve as he leaned in toward her. "Mostly Muggleborn, though there are a few Mixed- and Purebloods with absolutely no family left. They're no longer sent back to Muggle orphanages of last residence or foster-homes, not after they receive their letters."

"Who finally made that change?" she whispered back. "Riddle was always sent back, wasn't he?"

Snape tilted his head in McGonagall's direction. "Dragged the Board of Governors into agreement kicking and screaming, but she managed it at last."

"You mean Dumbledore hadn't?" she asked carefully, trying to keep the horror from her voice.

"Remember our previous discussion?" Snape muttered back. "That one may be all starch and no nonsense, but she has a far better grasp of the kind of damage that environment can cause, and of the risk at which it puts everyone involved."

There wasn't time to consider that further: McGonagall had finished her speech, and the meal popped into existence on the table -- a ridiculous amount for such a relative few, but it was a venerable Hogwarts tradition that had only been suspended that last, terrible year of the war.

Sprout -- fat, bustling, totally tactless Sprout was, of course, the one to put Hermione on the spot after everyone had begun to tuck in, perhaps in an attempt to avoid further discussion of the political situation, given her brightness (probably false, a bit too bright, Hermione thought).

"Well, my dear, have the two of you decided upon a house?" she asked.

Hermione almost choked on a bite of roast goose (she'd compromised, as it was Yule).

"No reason you shouldn't, you know, not when it's so easy to pop back down to London," the oblivious Sprout babbled on. "There's a lovely little cottage in Hogsmeade that I pass every time I go in to town, and it's been to let for some time -- it might suit."

"No, I -- er, we haven't...." Hermione stuttered.

"We hadn't got quite that far, Pomona," Snape said smoothly, and Hermione reached for her wine-glass to cover her gaffe. "It's an unnecessary expense at this point."

"Severus is entitled to larger quarters here, after all," McGonagall offered firmly, lips pursed, in an obvious attempt to quash Sprout's enthusiasm. "But I imagine Hermione prefers London. An every-day commute to that distance can't be pleasant."

"Oh. Oh! I hadn't even thought of quarters here, it's been so long since we've had a family in residence --" Sprout said, pursuing that tangent.

Hermione winced, and Snape trod on her foot under the table to send a very clear 'Pull it together,' message.

"-- Oh, my, that would be jolly. And just think, if you should someday have --"

"I don't particularly want her Apparating back and forth, actually," Snape interrupted Sprout. "She works nearly seventy hours a week, and she's quite tired by day-end. I should hate for her to Splinch herself just so I have the pleasure of her company every evening --"

"-- so we've decided against making any great changes, for the moment. When we decide to start a family, of course we shall re-evaluate," he added in a remarkably mild tone.

"Oh. Oh, of course that's far more sensible," Sprout said, disappointment writ large across her face. "Rather difficult for you both, though. And you really shouldn't work so hard, dear."

"Pomona, stop fussing," Pomfrey muttered. "I'm sure she knows her limits, and Severus shall remind her if she doesn't."

Hermione leaned over to Vector to change the topic, and had to stop herself and withdraw: Vector had gone still and pale, eyes plastered to her plate, her lower lip trembling.

Oh, for God's sake.... Who managed to put their foot in it, and how?

"More vegetables, Hermione?" Pomfrey asked, serving-spoon poised above the platter.

"No, thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said. "I don't care for sprouts, I'm afraid."

She was almost certain the shiver Snape gave at that was a suppressed snigger.

*****

"You'll have to do better than that," Snape muttered as he steered her down the corridor after the festivities -- if they could be called that -- were concluded. "I'll wager that Pomfrey guessed, and if McGonagall hadn't worked it out already, she bloody well has now --"

"I told you I'd admitted to her that it wasn't conventional," Hermione hissed back, and jerked her elbow from his grasp. "I said absolutely nothing else. What is it with some people? For years all I've heard is 'When are you getting married, Hermione? Getting a bit past it, aren't you?' even though I'm not, and now it's on to bloody children after only two months."

"Certain people apparently think children are the be-all and end-all. And you'd best cultivate the impression that you're not averse," Snape shot back at her. "Otherwise, you're liable to excite comment -- Marsters, what are you doing in the Slytherin corridor?" he interrupted himself as they rounded a corner and nearly ran into a very small, very messy sandy-haired little boy who could barely be twelve.

"S- sorry, s- sir, I w- w- wanted to ask the l- lady --"

"Well, spit it out," Snape said, glaring at the child.

"Are y- you H- H- Herminey Gr- Granger?" Marsters stuttered. (The speech impediment was rather bad: Hermione assumed Snape's nastiness was only a contributing factor.)

"Hermione, yes," she said, ignoring Snape's muttered, disgusted "Snape, Marsters, Madam Snape."

"You wuh- were Harry P- Puh- Potter's friend?" the boy finally managed.

Hermione took a deep breath: she hadn't got this question for a very long time, and had almost forgot how sick she was of it. But Marsters was just a child, and she supposed it was gratifying, in a way, that at least one current student seemed interested. "Yes, Marsters, I was," she said. "Did you want to ask me something about him?"

He nodded, eyes big. "Wh- what was he like?"

Well, that was surprising: usually the question was, 'Was he really as great as they say?' or, even worse, 'Was he a good snogger?', as if she'd even considered kissing one of her best friends that way. (All right, there was Neville, but that was different -- Harry was more like a brother, damn it, at least until Sixth Year when it had all gone to hell.)

"Well, I, er.... I don't really know what to tell you, Marsters. He was very much like any other boy."

"Oh."

Marsters was clearly disappointed, so she made a special effort.

"He was Quidditch-mad -- would be, of course, as a Seeker -- and he liked Honeydukes and Zonko's a great deal. And," she said, suddenly inspired, and she leaned down toward the boy, "he was terrible at Potions."

Snape snorted.

"Wuh- was he?" Marsters said, perking up.

"Absolutely horrific. Second only to Neville Longbottom," Hermione confided inaccurately, and with a pang of affection for poor Neville.

"Cr- crikey. They duh- don't tell you that," Marsters said.

"I see. What do they tell you, Marsters?"

"Wuh- well, it's.... L- like the painting in the Huh- Hall. And the Slytherins," he added with a nervous glance at Snape, "say he was a big, nasty pr- prat."

"Do they? I shouldn't put a great deal of stock in what the Slytherins say, you know, because the Houses were such rivals. Let's take the painting, then. You mean very grand and heroic?"

"Yeah."

Snape snorted again, and Hermione resisted the urge to glare at him in front of the child.

"I see. Well, he wasn't. He looked rather ordinary, in fact. But I'll let you in on a secret, Marsters," she said quietly. "You don't have to be big and impressive to be a hero, because what it takes doesn't show on the outside. You don't have to be happy or very intelligent, or even particularly nice. It's what's in here," she said as she reached out and gently poked at his chest. "And how you use what you've got up here," she added, and tapped his forehead. "Those are far more important. Most people aren't heroes -- they simply find it within themselves to behave in heroic ways at the right time. Does that answer your question, at least a little bit?"

"Yeah," Marsters said doubtfully.

"Give it time, you'll understand some day," Hermione said.

"Speaking of time, Marsters, you are about to break curfew. Get going before I take points," Snape ordered.

"Yes, suh- sir," Marsters said, and shot off down the corridor, throwing a belated "Thanks!" over his shoulder.

"Bloody --"

"Gryffindor?" Hermione coolly supplied.

"Hufflepuff, they're far worse about hero-worship," Snape muttered.

"You needn't have been so harsh," she shot back as she straightened up. "And it's holiday, not Term. Why be so hard on him? He obviously has problems --"

"I know that far better than you, thank you. And I wasn't harsh -- it's past curfew, it doesn't matter if it's Term or not, and I didn't take the blasted points," Snape said, and hurried her along the corridor again.

"I remember a Marsters...."

"A cousin. This one's an orphan, Muggle mother, and what's left of the family wouldn't take him on. He had a hare-lip that was only healed after we got him, and between that and the blood they were put off him."

"Oh, for God's sake...."

"Yes, it's disgusting," Snape said as he unwarded the door and pushed her in. "He's a Merlin's Scholar. One of many, as I said."

Hermione stopped in the middle of the room, thought a moment, and cautiously turned back to Snape as he was warding the door. "Severus, would you... consider doing me a favour?"

"Not until I know what it.... Let me rephrase that," he said, staring at her as he shucked off his teaching robe. "I am not adopting a Hufflepuff. Not the slightest chance."

"I'm wasn't going to suggest adoption, I just.... I wondered whether the Merlin's Scholars got pocket-money, that's all. Though I suppose it doesn't matter, since he's obviously not old enough to go into Hogsmeade."

"Yes, he is. He's a Third, though you couldn't guess by looking. Their uniforms and necessities are charged directly against the scholarship fund, and there's nothing left for luxuries like pocket-money."

"Oh. Then would you --"

"You want me to give money to one student, while ignoring the rest?" Snape shot back, unbuttoning his coat. "Not quite done for the Deputy Head to behave in such a fashion -- at least not this one, no matter what McGonagall may have done."

"Oh, bloody...." She plopped down on one end of the sofa. "Look, it would be a couple of Galleons a Term at most, and I'd pay you back. I mean, a sponsor or patron might well have taken him on in the old days, correct? Before the scholarship was established?"

Snape muttered, "Yes, I suppose."

"Then what's the difference? I'm just going to supplement his scholarship -- and yes, I know it's not fair, but I can't do it for all of them, not on my salary. Who would I talk to about it? The Bursar, I suppose --"

"You are," Snape interrupted her. "The Deputy Head administers the Merlin's Scholar program, the Bursar only keeps the accounts. However," he said, tossing his coat over a chair-back and crossing to the console-table, "I'd prefer you didn't go through the Bursar, as I don't want any additions to the fund itself. We've been hounding the bloody Governors for four years to increase the endowment, and they'll only put it off longer if they think alumni contributions are possible." He poured each of them a whisky, crossed to the sofa, and handed her a glass before seating himself, wincing as he extended his legs. "I will do it -- on the understanding that he knows it's from you, and not me. No pulling a few knuts from my pocket every week, he'll have to come to me quarterly. I don't care to be seen playing favourites, not any longer," he said.

"Thank you, Severus," she said, quite surprised that he'd compromised.

He waved the thanks away irritably, and muttered, "He's a decent child, all told. I simply can't take an especial interest in the charity cases -- there are too damned many of them."

They sat silently for a while, and then Hermione asked, "What on earth was wrong with Vector tonight?"

Snape sipped at his whisky, and then said, "Jilted only last month by the damned Pureblood fool she's been engaged to for ages. He decided not to defy the Ministry."

"Oh, good God."

"Quite. She seemed to handle it well at the time, but the holiday appears to be taking its toll. Not that I know first-hand, of course -- I avoid the biddies' cluckings as much as possible -- but one can't help hearing bits."

"Poor woman.... No wonder she was a mess. And to have us sitting there, together...."

"Possibly, though she'd professed to be happy for us in October -- surprised I'd got you, but happy. You were her prize student from your Form, after all, and she was very proud when we heard you'd completed your apprenticeship. She actually dared to lord it over McGonagall for a few days afterward." He shifted, uncomfortable, and massaged at his knee.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Wrenched it badly that last battle, and it plays up in winter with the damned snow and cold. One reason London is preferable when I can manage it."

"Can't Pomfrey --"

"Has done, as much as possible." He stared at her, assessing, and then set his glass on the side-table. "One thing's proven effective in terms of distraction, though...."

Hermione didn't care for the look in his eyes at all; and her fear was confirmed when he took her glass away and laid it by, and suddenly pounced on her, pulling her to and nearly under himself. (He might object to the characterisation, but he most certainly was capable of pouncing, on occasion.) And, oddly, he attacked her lips first: he never had before, evidently preferring a more leisurely seduction starting somewhere about her neck.

He was demanding and forceful -- far more than he'd ever been at this juncture -- and Hermione could barely breathe, and struggled with a mix of surprise and outrage that did absolutely nothing to deter him.

Oh, Hermione, just give over, part of her brain whispered. It's Yule, you're stuck with him, and you're stuck here on his turf with no other option but a long hike into Hogsmeade.... And I think he is trying to behave decently, even if only to --

She finally told her brain to sod off, and ignored everything but the softness of his lips on her jaw and his rough, callused fingers as they slid under the edge of her blouse and up her ribcage.

*****

They were twisted into a fair impression of a knot, there on the sofa -- though they hadn't got too far along -- when the tapping started on the window.

Snape jerked his head up from her breasts and cursed.

"Who in bloody fucking hell sends a bird on Yule night?" he snarled, shoving his hair out of his eyes; and then he clumsily untangled their limbs, staggered as he rose from the sofa, and limped over to the casement. (Hermione could have sworn she heard him mutter something about "gods-damned, blasted.... Mother --", but she couldn't be entirely certain: she was too busy fumbling for her bra and, failing to find it nearby on the floor, hastily pulled her blouse back on.)

By the time she peered over the back of the sofa, Snape had already opened the casement and was wrenching a little packet from the owl's leg.

"Off to the Owlery," he barked at the poor bird. "Fly east, second tower on the right."

The owl hissed at him, and puffed itself up in what Hermione thought was justified indignantion (proper form definitely involved a treat, if not a perch for the night): Snape bared his teeth at it in challenge, and it decided discretion was the better part of valour and flew off through the casement. (Hermione would have flown too: Snape had managed to wrench off his neck-cloth and rip open his wasitcoat, and his hair was mussed every which way. He looked every inch the madman.)

"Is everything --?"

"I don't know," he snapped as he closed and locked the casement. "Let me get the bloody thing open." He ripped into it (another parchment-wrapped packet fell out of it), scanned the text of the cover sheet, and grimaced. "For you, apparently. From DeLaine."

"What?"

"'Professor Snape: I cannot send this directly to Madam Snape...' What, you couldn't bother to change your office placard, but you told the bloody Frog? '... through the usual channels, so I hope you will forgive any intrusion or inconvenience. It is of utmost importance that your wife receives this.' Bloody hell." He stooped to pick up the packet, and tossed it to Hermione: she broke the seal, spread the parchment open -- and an odd little chunk of plastic and metal fell into her lap.

"What is it?" Snape demanded, looming over the back of the sofa.

"I really don't think I need to deal with it now -- Probably just business, and it's holiday, for goodness' sake --"

"Oh, I think you do need to read it," he retorted. "You're up to something, Hermione, and by the gods...."

She glared at him, challenging him to wrestle it from her: he glared back and didn't budge.

He wasn't going to back down. She could sit there all night glaring at him, and he'd do the same.

"Well?" Snape prodded.

"Just a moment," she grumbled, giving in. "Let me read it first --"

H:

I could not drop this through the floo -- someone became suspicious after our last call and a trace has been put on my connection and, I suspect, yours. A contact (very trustworthy) found it among the effects on the body and passed it to me. It does not appear on the Coroner's inventory or report and will not be missed.

The media here have been forbidden to report on the incident, and I assume there was arm-twisting on your end to accomplish that.

There was also a note to the man's contact here in town with instructions that he'd 'know what to do.' It contained potentially identifying information, so I have destroyed it.

This does not fit the facilities at the destination point, so it must there.

Bon chance, m'amie.

F.

"What the hell is that thing?" Snape said of the plastic as he snatched the letter from her hand and read it.

"It's a key," Hermione said, slowly rolling it in her palm and noting the incised number on the end.

"Doesn't look a proper one."

"You wouldn't recognise it. It's a Muggle key, the kind they have for Left Luggage drops in train stations. And I'm willing to wager," she added, "that this fits Box 305 at either St. Pancras or Ashford, the two stations where Flaherty could have boarded the train for Calais."

Snape went very still for a moment, and then said, "Well, well. It appears that you were correct after all. I do hope you've learnt your lesson."

"Whatever do you mean?" she retorted and glared at him, and clutched the edges of her blouse together over her bare breasts.

"First me, and now this. Be very, very careful what you wish for, my dear, because you may get it -- in spades."

*****

"All right," Snape said, and stared Hermione down, looking his most severe and forbidding as he stood at the mantelpiece. (He'd stormed off into the bed-chamber after his last verbal jab, and returned far more neat and presentable, and twice as surly.) "It's time you owned up."

"What do you mean?'

"Don't, Hermione," he warned. "And don't forget to whom you're speaking. I have every right to know what you're mucking about with, as your husband and as one of the parties concerned in the whole bloody mess."

"You don't need to know, Severus, and it's probably better for you if you don't --"

"You and DeLaine are co-conspirators, that's clear. Don't give me that rot again about DeLaine being bored or afraid of a spill-over in violence -- if this is what I suspect, then it is a treasonable action as far as the ICW and Ministry are concerned. I want to know what you are up to -- now -- because you're swimming in very deep and murky waters, and it's very likely you're in over your head."

"I don't want you dragged into it," Hermione shot back. "You're the first person they'll blame if something goes wrong --"

"No, you are the first -- if you're foolish enough not to Obliviate yourself before you're caught -- I'm second, and DeLaine's third. And if I'm going to be hauled before the Wizengamot, the ICW, or chucked into Azkaban," he said very deliberately, "then I bloody well want to know what for."

He took two long paces over to the sofa, leaned down, and boxed her in with his arms, his hands clamped over the wood filigree along the sofa's back. "Which is it, Hermione?" he said. "If there is indeed some kind of testament or manifesto, is it your intention to suppress it or publicise it?"

She dropped her eyes to her lap, where the little key was clenched in her hands: Snape forced her face up to his again, fingers gripping her chin.

"I might simply look for myself," he said. "Considering that I'm potentially at risk, I should feel perfectly justified in doing so. But I shan't, yet. I am asking you to acknowledge that I have a right to know what you are getting yourself -- and me -- into. This is bloody dangerous, and the least we can do is to be honest about it. I deserve that much respect from you."

She almost -- almost -- blurted it all out, and then stopped herself.

When it came down to it, Hermione decided she couldn't live this way any longer -- constantly mistrusting him, always questioning his motives.... Even if he turned her in, at least then it would all be over -- all of it. The bloody marriage, the horrid job, dealing with Corcoran, the agonising decisions....

And, if he didn't betray her, it was just possible that she'd gain an ally.

She took a deep breath. "I wasn't sure at first what I might do," she finally said. "Part of my job is assessing probabilities, trying to extrapolate likely outcomes.... And I knew it might come down to something like this, hypothetically. I thought I'd probably suppress any attempts. But that was when I was still new to the job, and still thought I could make a bloody difference in the decisions that were made.

"Now... now I know how pointless my work is given the environment, and I can't in good conscience sit in that damned office and merely regurgitate the figures. I've known it for a while, I just didn't want to admit it. And given the choice now... and depending upon what, precisely, is in the luggage drop -- if it's what I think -- I'll try to find a way to publicise."

"Did you know what Flaherty was going to do?" Snape asked her, voice rough. "Was he part of the plan to begin with?"

"No, no, I had no idea, and there's no bloody plan. I didn't even know the man existed before I heard about the incident."

"Hermione, you knew there would be a document or gesture of some sort. You were absolutely certain of it yesterday, to the point of panicking."

"No, I just knew it was likely that someone would decide to... to make a statement, someday -- but I certainly didn't expect this to land in my lap. Flaherty's tactic isn't unknown in either world, you see, although the method's usually different. There was the old man who cursed himself at the Quidditch Championship in 1994, seven Buddhist monks who immolated themselves in the 1960s to protest oppressive government policies.... It's a very... vivid way to make your point without harming anyone else. You won't willingly live under the oppressor, and if you're willing to die so horribly for your cause then others might be moved to protest and fight. But if Flaherty's action isn't publicised...."

Snape searched her eyes for another long moment, and then sank down into a crouch before her -- still keeping her pinned on the sofa, but giving her breathing space. She no longer felt quite so intimidated. "So," he said slowly, "you are willing to incite a revolt to stop the Ministry from further excesses?"

"I don't intend to lead the mob, if that's what you mean. But people need to know what happened, Severus. They need to know what's being done to other people, the lengths of desperation to which some of their peers are being driven. What they do with the information is up to them. I'm not fooling myself that one little action will start a revolution -- in fact, I hope it doesn't, at least not a violent one. But it may send a wake-up call to everyone involved, including the Ministry and the ICW. Including people in other countries who may not know how bad the situation is getting, and those here who think they aren't affected -- because they are. They just don't realise it yet."

"Yes, well, the Ministry and the ICW won't see it that way."

"Of course not. It's always Treason when it's your authority and power being questioned and challenged, isn't it? I can't worry about that. What I do worry over, what's absolutely enfuriating me, is how everything is being white-washed and how information is being withheld. Flaherty isn't the only one who's done something desperate, and I'm not talking about something relatively harmless like running off to the Continent to get married."

"I haven't heard --"

"Of course you haven't, Severus. The Prophet's editor and Lovegood have had their hands tied behind their backs with all sorts of Top-Secret injunctions. You need a bloody Top-Secret clearance to know there are secret injunctions, much less know the contents. I've got a few documents at home.... I'll show you later, if you go back to town with me."

"And who provided you with --"

"No," she said firmly. "No, I can't tell you that. I won't."

He seemed oddly satisfied with that, and moved on to another line of inquiry as he stood, wincing as his knees cracked. "And DeLaine? How does he figure in all this?" he asked as he moved back to the mantelpiece.

"He's something of a subversive," Hermione admitted. "He thinks the whole bloody thing is disgusting. And his mother was English, a Whittingdon, so he has cousins who've been badly affected. Not that he needs that excuse -- I think he's got something of a James Bond complex...."

"A what?'"

"Bond is a -- oh, never mind. Let's just say François likes the idea of bolloxing up the ICW's plan and fucking with its overly-paternal mindset. At least I think that's what he meant -- he drops into very fast and colloquial French when he's fashed, and I miss a lot."

"But isn't the ICW's goal laudable?" Snape idly asked her. "We are speaking of the genetic betterment of the race as a whole, regardless of the Pureblood objections."

"Don't do that," she shot back at him.

"What? Ask you to consider the rationale behind the measures?"

"Don't do it with your bloody pseudo-Socratic questioning -- I'm not a Potions student any longer, Severus. I'd figured out that tactic by early Sixth Year."

"Had you? Brava -- your miserable compatriots never did."

"Yes, there is a valid scientific reason. But what scientists and politicians often forget," Hermione told him, "is that human beings are more than their genetic composition. That there is an emotional and spiritual component as well that they often fail to consider, especially with things like reproduction and bonding. The ends do not justify the means when human --"

She realised what she was saying, and bit her tongue.

"When human feelings are involved?" Snape said sharply. "Yes, it's a hard lesson to learn, and a difficult problem to solve. One we're not,' he added more quietly with a glance at the clock, as it chimed midnight, "going to solve tonight."

"But...."

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do? About me, I mean. I'm know you might forbid me to --"

"Try to forbid," he said dryly. "I'm aware there's not much I can do to stop you, short of handing you over to the Ministry."

"Well?"

"I don't know," he said. "But by now and through hard experience I know better than to make a decision when I'm tired, frustrated, and more than a bit angry. I intend to sleep on it, and then we may discuss it further in the morning."

His tone was final, and the decision -- on not to decide just yet, at least -- was irrevocable, she knew: so she nodded.

He held out a hand to her, and when she took it, he drew her up from the sofa and walked her into the bed-chamber.

*****

She thought Snape had fallen asleep quite a while ago -- without touching her, as it happened, apparently too tired or angry to pick up where he'd left off before the damned owl had shown up -- when he asked, "Who taught you Occlumency?"

Her breath hitched -- Caught me, after all -- and then she laughed. "Bill Tallchief, in a way," she admitted. "He's an American shaman at the Cross-Cultural Institute. He'd been helping me with techniques to centre myself, after.... Well, I was a bloody mess after Seventh Year. Occlumency wasn't the goal, but when we weren't making progress he discovered I was doing it unconsciously, very crudely, of course. Didn't want me to -- it was detrimental to the other matter. But I thought it might be useful, so I worked at it a bit."

"Ah. You're a savant of sorts. People practise for years to attain that level, but then your mind is more orderly than most. Why don't you use it, aside from that evening with me?"

"I do," she admitted quietly, "but only when I absolutely must. When it's very, very important."

"And that evening was an absolute must? Why was it so important? I'm more a liability, given that everyone thinks I'm still in the Isolationists' pockets."

"It was really an entirely separate matter, and I was truthful about my reasoning. Although I admit that I thought the... arrangements, if acceptable, would give me more freedom to pursue whichever course I decided upon, remove some suspicion regarding my motives. How did you guess?"

"The upset last night. It's very difficult to conceal that strong an emotional trauma," he said, "and there is invariably a bleed-through into almost every other area of the life and mind in a subject who doesn't practise Occlumency. It can be bloody difficult to sort through the chaff sometimes, and I should have seen it when I read you."

"Oh. I've only read up on Legilimency, never tried to practise it. For the record, I only use Occlumency when I know I'm dealing with a potential Legilimens and a dicey situation. It seems dishonest, otherwise."

He was silent for a long time, and then he said, "Your Gryffindor conscience chooses the oddest times and situations to show itself, Hermione, and it may well get you in damned deep trouble. There are advantages to Slytherin ruthlessness."

He offered no further comment: and in a few minutes his breathing had slowed and deepened, and Hermione knew he'd finally fallen asleep.

She didn't.

But then, she'd represented the marriage to François as totally congenial and above-board -- she could hardly do otherwise over that bloody floo connection, though Francois' eyebrows had shot up, disbelieving: and as he was aware of the roles Snape had played in the war and his Pureblood status, he'd probably assumed that Snape wouldn't be averse to "helping."

Happy Yule to you, too, François, and thank you so very much for the lovely present, she thought sourly before she fell asleep.

*****

Neither of them felt up to breakfast in the Great Hall next morning. (Snape apparently didn't feel up to a morning shag, either -- but for once Hermione wasn't relieved by that: she knew it probably meant he still hadn't decided what to do with her and was refusing to cloud the issue with sex.) At any rate, their absence from the High Table would cause some predictable speculation as to what they might be doing, so it was fine with her, though nerve-wracking.

Snape had already bathed when Hermione wandered out of the bed-chamber, and had called an elf to bring a full breakfast: he was still in shirt-sleeves, although his waistcoat was fully buttoned and his neck-cloth done up.

He nudged the teapot closer to her when she sat, and returned to his careful reading of The Prophet: he seemed to pay particular attention to the Agony Column, and then, finally, threw the paper down. "Nothing," he said, and sneered at the paper as though it were its fault. "Not a bloody hint. Nothing even remotely encoded, either."

"I did tell you," Hermione said.

"Yes, yes...." He sat back in his chair, staring out the window, and ignored the congealing eggs on his plate. Hermione had nearly finished her breakfast when he finally spoke.

"I think," he said, "that the first order of business is to retrieve whatever is in the bloody box -- by any means that does not involve us directly. And preferably by making an educated guess as to which station, so we're not at risk more than once. Where did Flaherty live?"

Hermione stared at him for a moment, and then stammered, "I don't know.... I'll have to look it up in the Census, when we get back. I could go straight in this afternoon --"

"No," he said. "No, that's quite unwise. You don't want to do anything at all out of the ordinary."

"But I often nip in on my days off -- the paperwork piles up, otherwise."

"On a normal day off, yes. But when you're on holiday with your husband?" he said, quirking one brow upward.

"Oh. No, I suppose not."

He shot her a sour look and muttered something under his breath about "Wouldn't have lasted a minute," before adding more clearly, "We'll assess whatever the bloody thing is, providing we acquire it, and then decide how to proceed further."

He reached over, dumped her cold tea in the slop bowl, poured her a fresh cup -- seemingly ignoring her frank, astonished stare -- and returned to his keen observation of the view beyond the window, his fingers steepled before his lips.

Hermione finished off her breakfast, too happy for the moment to bother over the fact that her food had gone stone-cold.

*****

LINK TO CHAPTER 5 FOOTNOTES

LINK TO CHAPTER 6