She woke, groggy, and groped for her wristwatch -- she hadn't had a chance to replace the alarm-clock yet -- and nearly upset the cup of tea Snape had left for her on the bed-table. Dipping ones' fingers into scalding water was a fairly efficient wake-up, however.

Cripes, nearly a half-hour early, she thought as she peered at the watch. And he must already be up for a while, if there's tea....

She managed a few sips before stumbling out of bed, and then decided to see how nasty a shambles he'd made of the kitchen.

He hadn't, though; he was in shirt-sleeves, supervising last night's dirty dishes as they washed themselves up (she'd never learned that charm, she'd refused to take Witches' Housekeeping as an optional course, and felt vaguely envious). He looked sleek and freshly-bathed, hair still damp -- and as if he hadn't slept much.

"Cheater," she mumbled. "Ta for the tea, though."

He snorted. "Aga and I will sort something out for breakfast," he said. "Go have your bath."

"There's.... Look, if you ever again rag me about this, I shall never feed you meat again, ever. There's a packet of sausages in the deep-freeze, and you can defrost them with Cauldero." She shrugged defensively when his eyebrows shot up. "I fall off the wagon occasionally."

He managed not to comment, although his eyebrows went up again.

"'Aga' isn't its' name, you know," she added. "That's just the brand."

"Brand?"

"The label, the manufacturer. Just the way that Tom Tittifer's Tummy Tonic is the same damned thing as Horatia Hornswaggle's Heartburn Helper, only a different colour."

"Nonsense. Tittifer's is vastly superior," he muttered, and rooted about in the deep-freeze for the sausages. "Why bother with a bloody placard, then?"

"Marketing. They did it, not me."

"Money -- I should have guessed," he said derisively. "I must say, Hermione -- now that I've experienced a bit of it first-hand -- that the Muggle World is far less interesting and far more prosaic, in comparison to mine."

"It's certainly a lot less fun to swear at the damned thing when you know it can't talk back."

That earned her another glare; she set down her teacup and trotted away to the bath, before she goaded him into poisoning her breakfast.

*****

Hermione quite deliberately took her time in the bath, much to Snape's disgust -- she barely had time to wolf down a few mouthfuls of fried egg; and his initial disgust was only exceeded when she mashed the remainder between two slices of bread and walked out of the flat with the paper towel-wrapped sandwich in hand, eating as they walked.

"Absolutely ridiculous," he muttered.

"Do you want me to eat it, or not?" she retorted around a mouthful. " 'S too good to waste.... You're not bad at it, you know."

He sneered and quickened his pace.

"Slow down, would you? I think I've got a stone in my shoe."

"Oh, for Merlin's --"

" 'Ave an extra quid, luv?" a raspy voice interrupted them from a doorway they'd just passed.

Snape spun toward it, hand already reaching for his wand, and fumbled it when his fingers met Muggle clothes cuffs instead of his accustomed frock-coat.

" 'Aven't 'ad a meal fer two days, mister," the homeless woman said. "Got ennyfink yeh can gimme?"

"No," Snape spat out, and straightened his cuffs.

"Oh, Se-- teven, give her something," Hermione said, balancing on one foot while she tried to juggle briefcase, bookbag, handbag, and egg sandwich while emptying her shoe.

"I don't have anything but --"

He punctuated that with a glower; he must not have thought to bring any Muggle currency.

"Well, all I've got is a tenner...." She finally got the shoe back on, and then lamely offered the last bit of the sandwich to the woman. "Best I can do, I'm afraid."

"Fanks," the woman said, snatched it away, and began wolfing it down.

Snape grabbed Hermione by the elbow and pulled her along, quite fast.

"Severus, hold up --"

"I do not believe you," he muttered. "You have no idea who that might be, or how dangerous --"

Hermione glanced up at his face, ready to retort -- and then bit it back when she noticed how pale and set his face was. He looked angry, certainly, but Hermione fancied there was more to it.

"What's wrong?" she whispered. "It's just some poor woman --"

"Nothing," he shot back. "Just that you're wasting time with trash."

She wasn't particularly pleased with that, but didn't care to argue with him at the moment; and they were almost at the Hanged Hag, besides.

"Pick me up for lunch again," she instructed, "since you've set such a precedent."

"Fine."

"But be prepared to keep your clothing as is -- we're dining Muggle."

"Oh, bloody --"

"My treat, don't complain."

"You had better," he said more or less pleasantly as they entered the pub (he had less pleasant intent, she was certain), "have a good explanation later today.... Why is there no-one here?"

"Not staffed in the morning, since it's not as popular as the Leaky Cauldron. Don't worry, the floo's automated -- watch," she said as she fed the tollbox and took the bit of floo powder it spit out. "You don't need to follow me, really --"

"Do," he said, and rooted in his coat-pocket for the required knut.

She didn't wait to see if he followed, but stepped into the fireplace and rapped out "The Ministry."

*****

Snape had, unfortunately, found a knut and got the hang of the tollbox before she could make it over to the lift.

"Twelve sharp, then?" he asked, brushing soot from his shoulders.

"Yes, please. And thank you for the escort -- it's quite sweet."

She hoped such a cloying statement would curdle his blood, but he had too good a poker face to tell.

"Not at all," he murmured, and bent to kiss her. "Noon, then."

She watched as he strode off to the call-box lift; then she flashed a brilliant smile at the security guard, and reluctantly took the other lift up to her level.

It gave her pause to realise just how unwilling she was to work, today. Of the two -- her job and Snape -- Snape had apparently become the lesser of the two evils.

*****

He got back at her at noon, quite predictably fussing over her for the departmental staff's benefit -- arriving a few minutes early and tracking her down in the Undersecretary's anteroom, where he slipped behind her, wound an arm about her waist, and kissed her temple while she was trying to give instructions to a very dense secretary.

"Was that strictly necessary?" she grumbled in his ear (or its general vicinity, given that he refused to glamour his hair to a more Mugglish appearance along with his clothes) as they took the Northern line toward St. Pancras.

"I'd hoped Corcoran would walk in and see," he muttered back.

"Hah -- early and long lunches, most days. What is it with you and Corcoran? Surely not just the one incident."

"I told you, justifiable retribution. I took quite enough grief from... certain parties, I was damned if I'd put up with it from Corcoran as well. Where are we going?" he asked abruptly, and braced his feet against the floor as the train took a particularly fast curve.

"A nice little place near the station," she said.

"Hermione --"

"Necessary, absolutely necessary. We won't go there ourselves, we're stopping at Euston."

He glowered at her and sulked until she prodded him to his feet, off the carriage, and out into the Euston hub; and then she led him east from the station to a crowded little bistro a few blocks away from St. Pancras, and they wedged themselves into a tiny table at the very back.

"Good gods, what on earth is that?" he muttered, and stabbed a finger at something on the menu.

"Oh -- a glorified sandwich, really. I'm afraid you won't get a standard Ho-- school meal, here. But the espresso and the desserts are excellent."

He didn't seem impressed, but managed not to sneer at the waitress who took their order.

"I'll be back in a moment, I need the loo," Hermione murmured, and rummaged briefly in her bookbag before giving up and taking it with her to the facilities; once there, ignoring its single, occupied stall, she carelessly dropped the bag beside the basin, freshened her makeup, and then picked the bag up again and returned to their table.

She quite missed the fact that she'd lost a book in the process -- or at least she appeared to.

"Is there a problem?" Snape growled when she'd seated herself again.

"Hmmm? Oh, just girl stuff."

"'Girl stuff'?"

"Female stuff. Don't make me spell it out, please, dear," she shot back, and he finally got it and reddened.

"Ma'am?" a soft, accented voice said, and Hermione glanced up into the bright blue eyes of a Goth girl with magenta hair and more nose-piercings than the human face should be subjected to. "You dropped this, I think."

She held the book out to Hermione, who took it gratefully.

"Oh, yes, it is mine -- Thanks ever so. It's out of print, and I'd miss it."

"I've read it, it's good."

"What did you think of it? I thought the structure was quite original.... My name's Hermione, by the way. And this is my husband, ah, Steven. You're Australian, aren't you?"

"Lizzie, and yeah, Brisbane," Goth-girl said, and Snape rolled his eyes as she leaned on their table. "I'm over for a holiday from uni -- just got in town. I wasn't as impressed with the structure as much as the imagery, actually. Well, I'll leave you to your lunch. It was nice to meet you, Hermione. You too... Steven."

Snape nearly choked on a sip of water as Lizzie winked at him; then she slouched back over to her table at the window, managing to stumble over the generous cuffs of her loose denim trousers.

"Of all the cheek," he muttered.

"I think she likes you, dear," Hermione said absently as she stuffed the book back into her bag. "Odd, the effect you have on young women -- must be the air of authority. Can't possibly be the nasty scowl."

"Why you seem to attract every freak and oddity of human nature is beyond me..." he snapped, and then trailed off, thunderstruck. "Did what I think just happened, happen?" he whispered

"Hmmm? A very nice young woman retrieved something I'd lost, that's all," Hermione said matter-of-factly as the waitress brought over their meals. "Quite surprising, actually. Most people would have left it there, and a quarter would have cheerfully taken it for themselves."

Snape waited until the waitress had moved away, and then leaned across the table and asked in a very low voice, "Please tell me that wasn't --"

"Never seen her before in my life, dear," Hermione muttered. "Do eat your sandwich -- I have to get back to work soon."

Hermione managed to finish the meal well before Snape had, and then cravenly pled lateness so she could leave the bistro without him. (She paid the cheque: but she'd decided, after twenty straight minutes of glaring from him, that he could bloody well make his own way back to the centre of town.)

*****

"Tonks"? he raged at Hermione the minute she'd closed and locked the door to the flat. (He hadn't bothered to pick her up at the Ministry, and had managed to break into the flat before she'd made it from work, to the grocer's, and then home.) "You picked Tonks the Bumbling Wonder for a sensitive assignment?"

"She's not a bumbler. Who better?" she countered, and pushed past him to take the groceries to the kitchen. "She's got natural camouflage. Put her in a crowded setting, and she can look like anyone. Several anyones, actually, given a loo to duck into."

"Anyone with a tendency to fall over their own feet, yes. Let me guess -- she was the old woman this morning, as well? You handed off the key then?"

"Got it in one. Classic Hare-and-Hounds scenario."

He snorted, but seemed to admit Tonks' usefulness in the disguise department.

"I hadn't known she was back in commission," he admitted.

"Oh, she's been off medical leave for a few years," Hermione told him, "but they've kept her at a desk job. She hates it."

"Are you certain it's wise, bringing an Auror into it?"

"We've always had kind of a... well, a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy toward things. She won't grass."

"Oh, I'm sure she can withstand Veritaserum. A freak of nature in that area too, it she?"

Hermione glared at him, and shoved a store-bought roast chicken into Aga --

-- to reheat.

"I suppose you mucked about with the damned thing without me?"

"Of course not. I didn't even touch the bag once I'd got back to the office."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" he said. "Close the bloody curtain over the window, would you?"

"Do you want dinner, or not?" she retorted. (But she did as the suspicious bastard asked.)

"It can wait. Where is the bloody thing, Hermione?"

She sighed, pulled the book from the bag, and handed it over.

"How did Tonks --?"

"Try 'Erumpe Sesamum' to open the compartment, and then turn to page 289. It's like a magical trunk."

"Sweet Merlin, you're charming Muggle items now --"

"It's not, it just looks like a Muggle book. And you might have to Engorge anything that's in there, I've no idea how big it is."

Hermione busied herself with putting the dry goods away and pulling out the vegetable steamer, and did her best to ignore Snape working away at the charms on the book. (She had kept him out of the loop all day; better to give the testy bastard some investment in it.)

"Well?" she asked, after he'd performed the Engorgement Charm and she heard the scrape of heavy parchment on the counter.

"A sealed letter...."

She turned to find him staring at the thing.

"Well, go on," she urged, and he glanced up at her, face tense, before breaking the wax seal and unfolding the parchment.

"'To the Editors of the International Press of the Wizarding World,'" he began. "'If you have received this or a certified copy of it provided by my representatives, then I have been forced to take an action which is personally repugnant to me, but which may serve the greater good of the Wizarding population of Great Britain. Others will be able to explain accurately what, precisely, that action is -- or was -- so I will leave it to them to provide the details and any relevant documentation. I have no way of knowing how the next few hours will play out, save that it is my intent to protest the violation of British citizens' rights and to bring to light the corruption of the Ministry, the full extent of which I fear no-one realises.'"

Hermione couldn't help it; she stopped washing the vegetables and drifted across the kitchen to read over Snape's shoulder.

"'I became aware of the Ministry's alarming and egregious action on August 14th, 2007,'" Snape continued, "'when, in my capacity as Vice-President of Mangel and Mortars, Ltd. (a private company engaged in the development and mass manufacture of potions and apothocary supplies), a document came into my possession which detailed plans to subject some British Wizarding citizens to compulsory mating....'"

...via the use of a potion. It was never intended that I should see this document; I believe that the original exists within the files of the M&M Research and Development Division, though under what security I can only imagine. In short, the document -- which I have not included here, for reasons of safety and discretion, but the location for which I shall include directions -- provides details for the manufacture of a Class 3 Prohibited Potion to be used on those segments of the population who have "not yet bred, whether for reasons of choice, disobedience, or dilatory compliance with future marriage mandates."

Said details include:

1. Results of clinical trials made by the Ministry's Potions Research branch upon prisoners held in the penal facility at Azkaban;
2. Instructions to the researchers at M&M to further refine the potion and the procedures used to manufacture it, to enable production on a massive scale;
3. Indications that the potion is to be administered by St. Mungo's under the pretext of a "genetic therapy" which would cure congenital disease in future progeny.

In addition, M&M is enjoined to secrecy under stringent penalties, and the company promised "significant compensation to offset any additional security measures and other concerns, in addition to standard manufacturing costs and profit." This, I believe, partly consists of the first payment of a government grant received in November 2007, and which was represented to the Board of Directors by Chief Officer Bingelwort as the first phase of a manufacturing contract for the purposes of producing a "new genetic therapy."

Given the information in the documents, I can only draw the conclusion that the Ministry plans to enforce compliance of its legislation by coercing the participation of many of its citizens, by methods which are both morally reprehensible and strictly forbidden by the International Confederation of Wizards.

I have tried to temper my cynical view of the Ministry's recent acts, but the discovery of this document has made it clear to me (and I hope when it is revealed to others) that the current government is so corrupt as to attempt to subvert its citizens' wishes and is choosing to meddle, by illegal and insidious means, in very personal and private matters. Whether this is due to a misguided desire to meet ICW population quotas by any means, or a more personal agenda on the part of its highest ministers, I cannot speculate.

I am admittedly a biased party, one likely to be drastically affected not only by future legislation, but also by the so-called "genetic therapy." On a personal level, I refuse to allow the government to coerce my participation; as a citizen, I abhor the lengths to which our rights and liberties have been, and continue to be, rescinded.

It is my hope that some intrepid member of the foreign or domestic press will publish my act and the supporting documentation I offer in the interest of provoking an ICW investigation into the British Ministry's illegal actions and/or hidden agenda.

Martin V. Flaherty
December 23, 2007

"Good God," Hermione said. "What the hell are they doing? A Class 3 Prohibited Potion -- that's considered a Dark Arts potion, isn't it?"

"Yes," Snape said, and grunted. "Not the usual, either, if they have to put that much work into it."

"Really? You have an idea what it might be?"

"No, not without seeing a bloody receipt, since the fool was so obscure," he muttered.

"And they tested it on prisoners?"

"Who else?" he said shortly. "Standard procedure, if there's no pre-existing condition required. One they can't induce, at least." He shuffled the pages of the letter free of the cover: two loose little squares fell out and to the floor, and Hermione scooped them up.

"That's to the wife..." she said after checking the address on the first, and set it aside on the counter before breaking the seal on the second. "... Oh, bloody --"

"What?"

"The directions, I suppose -- as a poem. Partly plagiarised, no less."

"Well?"

"'I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows;
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:
There sleeps the secret hidden in the ground,
Where march the deathly sentinals all round;
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,
Weed wide enough to trap a Wizard in:
And with the juice of this they'll streak your eyes,
And make you full of hateful fantasies.'"

"Oh, that's helpful," Snape said dryly. "What the bloody hell is it from?"

"It's Shakespeare, I think -- or two-thirds, at least. I don't remember which play...."

"Wonderful. Couldn't be bothered to say 'Two hundred yards east from the monolith at Avebury, and X marks the spot,' I suppose."

"Well, he could hardly.... He'd want to make sure someone who understood the significance sussed it out, wouldn't he?"

"Getting the damned thing found and published would rank higher, I should think. That could be nearly anywhere -- his garden or a favourite trysting-place, for the gods' sakes. It's a bloody scavenger hunt."

"Difficult, I grant you, but not impossible. It'll just take a bit of nosing-around."

"That's precisely what we can't afford," he snapped back, shoved the parchments away, and stood and paced about the kitchen. "This changes everything."

"What do you mean? Severus, this is immensely important -- more than ever, now that we know they might be --"

"Do you realise how deeply the Ministry is implicated in all this?" he demanded. "How much they have to lose if the ICW isn't aware of their actions? And if the ICW is, then Flaherty's as good as signed our death-warrants."

"The ICW won't tolerate something this egregious, and it wouldn't come to that, in any case," she argued.

"Really? Are you really certain of that, Hermione? Because -- and I say this not to call your competence into question, but because it's true -- I think you vastly overestimate the level of commitment to law and justice in the Ministry and the ICW."

"No. No, there are very clear ICW restrictions on the kinds of acts governments can take to fulfill the quotas, and this clearly oversteps them," she retorted, voice hard.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Hermione," he snarled, and turned on her, grabbing her by the arms and shaking her until her teeth rattled, "grow up. How, after living through the war and seeing what they've managed to date, you can still be so bloody naïve --"

She whimpered -- as much from surprise as his fingers biting into her flesh -- and he stopped dead, suddenly aware of what he was doing; the blood drained from his face, he wrenched his hands away, and turned and made for the back door.

He cursed viciously as he fumbled with the security lock, threw the door open, and escaped into the garden.

*****

She decided quite sensibly -- after sorting through the shock of the incident -- not to follow him out.

No, she wasn't.

She'd known he was capable of hurting her physically, when he was enraged; she could hardly not, after Queerditch. She'd managed to ignore the memory of it, though, as it was so twisted in with her shame over her own idiocy, and as he'd been relatively calm and dispassionate the last week.

At least until the last day or two.

She'd seen the signs of his increasing emotional instability all day -- well, as much as she'd been about him: the jumpiness on the walk to the Hanged Hag, and the automatic reach for his wand; his unease with the trip on the Underground, and the way his eyes had darted about the bistro, assessing every patron as a potential threat. Even -- though she'd tried to ignore it -- the nightmare he'd had very early that morning and that had woken her as well, though she'd pretended sleep, and the exhaustion on his face later that even three heavily-sugared cups of tea hadn't erased.

It was certainly convenient to label it all as paranoia, but Hermione doubted that that was all there was to it.

She reached for the curtain, and twitched it aside to see if he'd stayed or if he'd Apparated out: he was there, furiously pacing the little rectangle of barren ground, and he kept at it until a particularly hard blow of his fist connected with his bad leg and sent him, limping and cursing, over to the lawn-chair she'd left out for the rare sunny summer day and forgot to bring in.

She finished up with the vegetables and chucked them in the steamer and set the table; and when it was all nearly done, she walked out into the fast-darkening garden.

"Severus, come inside."

He didn't respond: she crossed to him and lay a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched, refusing to look at her.

"Come inside," she insisted in her best no-nonsense voice. "Dinner's ready."

He remained silent, but rose and followed her in, hanging back to lock and ward the door; and then -- still unnervingly wordless -- helped her carry the food to the table, sat, and hesitated when she offered him the carving-knife and fork.

"You didn't have time to roast that," he said of the chicken.

"Already done at the shop. I only popped it in the cooker to reheat."

He seemed about to comment -- probably on her weak-willed lapse in buying something resembling actual meat -- and then stopped himself, carved the chicken, and served her first.

Hermione managed to restrain herself until he'd nearly finished. (Or rather, until she couldn't stand the silence any longer.)

"I know you're very frustrated with me," she said carefully, "but I wish you'd tell me what's causing it. Besides my stubbornness, of course."

"It's nothing," Snape muttered. "And it doesn't excuse.... I'm sorry."

She did her damndest not to gawp at him.

"Thank you," she finally managed. "On the whole, though, it... made it quite clear that it's not just me. You're terribly concerned about something, and I wish I knew what it is."

"What do you mean?"

"I've never heard of you actually touching someone when you're angry. You always use words. Except for Queerditch, and I suspect that was frustration about the r- rapes as much as anger with me. There's something else bothering you, something you're not telling me.... And perhaps if you do, I'll understand."

Snape stared at his plate for another long minute, and then ventured, "Do you know what happens to people who violate ICW restrictions?"

"They're remanded to the country of origin for incarceration."

"Usually, but not always. Particularly not when the Statute of Secrecy is involved, or any matter the Confederation chooses to interpret as a treasonous act."

He took a sip of water -- he'd avoided his glass of wine throughout dinner -- and continued.

"A few years before you entered Hogwarts, I had reason to contact an old friend.... Terence Kingsley. Or rather, we'd apprenticed together and actually got on, so I suppose I'd call him a friend. At any rate, I couldn't find him, he'd seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth. As it was a rather important matter and I had little else to bother with at the time, I tried to track him down. I knew he'd moved to Switzerland and taken a research position with Bundiswald Potions.

"But when I enquired with them, they said he was no longer there. No comment, no forwarding address, no explanation that he'd resigned or been sacked. Nothing, even when I pressed them. And I thought that very odd, because he was quite good, and a decent sort.

"So I asked about with some of the laboratory help -- the ones with a paltry salary, who might be bought off. They said he'd simply disappeared. Hadn't shown for work one morning, and the Swiss Aurors had been in to ransack his laboratory. They thought, though, that there was an outside investigator involved as well -- some loud quibbling over who was in charge, apparently -- and that it might be an ICW official."

He hesitated, gave her a wry smirk, and shrugged.

"I'd decided to let it drop, but almost a year later an ICW man contacted me to brew a very illicit potion. Rather than accept a cash payment, I demanded information on Kingsley. And he wanted that potion badly enough -- I shan't tell you what it was, you'd be shocked -- that he told me everything.

"It turns out Kingsley had violated the Statute of Secrecy, in a big way. He'd treated a Muggle child with a Class 2 potion, and even charmed some of the girl's personal effects so she could manage things better for herself. Thought himself in love with the mother, apparently -- how he'd met them I don't know -- and told them everything."

"Good God --"

"Right. That's always been the major concern with Mixedbloods, you see -- how the devil did their parents meet, and how much was blabbed? How loyal is the Muggle partner, and what the bloody hell happens if the relationship doesn't last? Almost as worrying as how Muggleborns' parents will react, and enough to give the most liberal Wizards hysterical fits. Any road, Kinsgley had violated scads of statutes and restrictions -- including use of an experimental potion on a Muggle subject, because the blasted thing hadn't been approved yet. The charges were so grave that the ICW elected to prosecute him instead of turning him over to the British or Swiss ministries.... If you can call it a prosecution. I doubt anything like an actual trial was involved.

"I was told he received the standard punishment for severe or recidivist cases. Stripped of his wand, first. Then his magic was bound and wrenched away from him --"

"How? I didn't know they could --"

"Can, and do. It's a very nasty ritual, so Dark that.... They're very selective about who's allowed to know of it, let alone perform it."

"Why not just imprisonment, though? It's bad enough with the Dementors."

"The ICW can't use them -- not all countries and principalities allow the use of Dementors on the grounds of cruelty and given the difficulty in controlling them, so the ICW must deal with international criminals in other ways. At any rate, the ritual is often fatal. But in the cases where it's not...." His voice trailed off, and he stared past Hermione's shoulder, at a point across the room.

"They exiled him?" Hermione guessed. "Sent him off to live with --"

"No, they didn't. That would have been some consolation, don't you see? He'd known what he was risking, and it was worth it to him. They were worth it to him, the woman and the child. No, they Obliviated him -- of everything. Of any memory that he was or had been a Wizard, of the fact that magic exists, that it's a real way of life. And then they shipped him off to Canada so he shouldn't somehow make his way back to her, presumably, or be recognised by former acquaintances. Simply dumped him in the middle of nowhere, with no preparation and no resources. I assume they Obliviated her and the child as well."

Hermione could only sit and stare at him, horrified, for several long moments. "Did you ever find him?" she finally asked.

"Yes, eventually. Summer holiday after you and Potter started. They hadn't bothered to do Fidelius, so with a bit of travel and a little mucking about with a restricted tracking charm.... It wasn't any use. He was wandering about Toronto, a derelict. Utterly mad, actually. Didn't remember me, or anything about his past. He knew, though. He knew there was something missing, some great chunk of his life that had been ripped away from him."

"Could you help him?"

"How? Give him money, assuming I had Muggle currency? He'd have simply drunk it away, he was that far gone. And if I'd tried to get him to hospital, a proper one for cases like his, like... I'd have been reported. No," he admitted, and grimaced, "I gave him a phial of Eternal Sleep."

"Oh, my G-- Severus, that's.... My God --"

"Why not?" he retorted. "He was irreparably damaged, Hermione, for either world. Even if the Obliviate could have been mended, he'd never have got his magic back. It's an irreversible procedure. Regaining his memory would have made things worse, knowing of what he'd been capable and never should be again. I didn't force it on him, I simply handed it over and told him he would go to sleep and never wake up. And he looked at me, quite clear-eyed -- he knew precisely what I meant -- and opened the damned phial straightaway and drank it. His choice."

Hermione buried her face in her hands.

"So, my dear," Snape continued softly, "that is the gravest risk -- an effective death warrant, as far as I'm concerned. One of those papers stated quite clearly that the restrictions on the Press are part of the Statute of Secrecy, and I'm not willing to wager that the ICW will be understanding of any violation. Certainly not if the Ministry has their approval."

"You're certain? He's not an isolated, extreme case?" Hermione managed carefully.

"He's not the only one. My worst estimate is eighteen percent of those prosecuted directly by the ICW. It's all right for the Muggleborns, I should think," he added. "They've a foot in both worlds, you see -- they don't feel absolute aliens, even if they might have a sense of loss. They have a good chance to cope, to adjust. But for the Purebloods who've little or no experience with the Muggle World.... Most of them end up on the streets, I imagine. I'll admit I haven't done an actual study -- too risky, and not enough time when it mattered. And in one sense, I bloody well don't want to think of it."

"That's why you were so upset when Tonks --"

"Probably. It's incredibly unnerving, walking down a Muggle street and not knowing if that pitiful scrap of humanity dossing in an alleyway in simply an unfortunate Muggle, or is someone you once knew."

Or someone you might someday be hung, unspoken, in the air between them.

"But the ICW was intended to protect Wizards, not...."

"Yes -- all of them. At the expense of individuals, if need be -- hadn't you worked that out? That's what this whole bloody business is about, after all."

He suddenly tossed his napkin on the table, shoved his chair back, and rose.

"That's plenty of food for thought, then," he muttered. "In the meanwhile, I want to look at the bloody directions. Not to actually do anything, mind you, but just to.... To get the lie of the land."

He retrieved the parchment from the counter and fled to the sitting-room.

Hermione sat alone at the table for a very long time, thoughts churning, and then cleared away their largely-untouched meal with shaking hands.

*****

She left him alone for a good hour, and when she finally had the guts to check on him, she found him with her shamefully pristine Complete Shakespeare in his lap.

"Did you find it?" she asked.

"Yes. A Midsummer Night's Dream."

"And?"

"And the man knew absolutely nothing about fairies, obviously."

"Besides that."

"Ah." He glanced down speculatively at the page. "Decent writer, for a Muggle."

"Severus --"

"There really isn't anything helpful, except to separate the bits that Flaherty put in. Unless.... Did Shakespeare have a particular wood in mind?"

"I've no idea. Doesn't it say? Look at the beginning of that scene, at the stage directions."

Snape checked, and grunted. "'A wood near Athens' -- lovely. He had a year to actually hide the things and could still travel early on, but that implies a foresight on his part that I'm not certain is reasonable."

"Shakespeare grew up in Stratford-upon-Avon, near, uh.... Blast it, can't remember."

"Stratford? Probably Arden, then," Snape said absently. "But I rather think that's taking it too literally, and it's still not specific enough in any case. Except for the 'deathly sentinals,' and gods know what they might be."

"Oh. I thought you might be serious about Avebury. Or the Henge."

"Of course not -- they were worship sites, not grave-markers. At least not initially."

"What about the flowers themselves, then?" she asked, perched on the sofa next to him, and scanned the poem again. "Is there anything remotely clue-like in them? He worked at a Potions manufactory, after all."

"No," Snape said, brow knitted. "All common flowers, as you say -- though true oxlips's technically not common any longer, nearly extinct. They have useful individual properties, but not in combination. Except in...."

"Yes?"

"Nothing," he finally said, shaking his head. "Though there's something about that idea.... It's no use, really, as you don't have any herbals here. I shall have to look them up at the club, tomorrow."

"Will you be able to find anything about the potion itself?"

"Doubtful. If they've mucked about with it in the past year and then newly-classified it, it mightn't resemble anything I'd recognise. And there shan't be mention of it in the trade journals -- or of its supposed use, rather."

"Oh. Well.... Come to bed, then."

"No, I.... I think I want to read the remainder of this, see if there's anything at all that might fit. I'm running out of time. Term starts in a week -- I have preparations for that -- and there's a personal errand I have to run before then that shall take an entire day, as well," he said, and irritably turned another page of the Shakespeare. "I shan't be able to stay in London past Sunday."

"I see," Hermione said, and gave up. "Don't frustrate yourself too much -- you look done in. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he mumbled as she left the room.

*****

Holy shit.... No wonder he's a wreck, Hermione thought as she lay in bed. And just yesterday I thought it was only his natural viciousness and disgust with the Muggle World.

While she supposed one couldn't really miss what one had no memory of in the first place, Snape -- any Pureblood who'd never ventured into the Muggle World, actually -- would be utterly at sea, with no way to function, no knowledge of how things were done, no identity, and no skills other than a basic education and the ability to do manual labour. Assuming, of course, that one was sane enough after that horrid ritual to get a job to begin with (much less with no Muggle identification), and in good enough shape to keep it. And she doubted Snape was, with that knee playing up on him with every change in the weather.

He hadn't meant to, though. That was clear from the look of shock on his face, when he'd realised what he was doing. And striking himself was more.... Well, it was certainly frustration with the whole situation, but it had seemed too deliberate. Almost as though he was trying to punish himself in the same manner as he'd hurt her, for hurting her.

That's a slippery slope, my girl, she warned herself. Making excuses for someone who harms you can't be good. It certainly isn't smart.

But even her Mum and Dad had. Not deliberately, of course, but out of instant, clutching parental panic: at turning round in a shop and finding her six year-old self gone, only located after fifteen frantic minutes -- she'd wandered out into the back alley and was playing with a stray cat; at her one major attempt at teenaged rebellion when, on holiday, she'd deliberately sneaked out past curfew and stayed up until three, drinking wine with a French boy, and returned to the hotel to find them awake, ready to call the gendarmerie and the British Embassy; that last Yule hol when she'd had to confess why she'd returned home in what amounted to a magical body cast, and to explain why she would need to visit St. Mungo's every few days until she returned to Hogwarts.

She'd never seen her father so angry -- first at Malfoy, and then at her, because the whole bloody mess and all her lies about the real state of things had come out. Daniel Granger -- mild-mannered, pawky-humoured, gentle Dad, who'd never been able to see his little girl hurt in any way without practically crying himself -- had morphed into someone totally alien and unrecognisable to her: red-faced, spitting with rage, and he had finally laid hands on her when she'd flatly refused to withdraw from Hogwarts.

He regretted it too, she thought, and cried when he realised what he'd done, and begged Mum and me to forgive him.... But it was never the same. It might have been more so, of course, if I'd listened to them and hadn't hurt them so....

Part of the difficulty with the estrangement had been the way she'd handled it, that refusal to stay home and give up Hogwarts. They couldn't possibly understand, after all, she'd argued. They weren't a part of her world anymore, or rather, she wasn't of theirs, and never would be again. There were benefits for her they couldn't possibly imagine, and for them to try to keep her away from her life was cruel and idiotic -- "Typical, really," she remembered saying to them quite clearly, "a prime example of what most Wizards think of closed-minded Muggles...."

No, I didn't handle it at all well, she thought grimly. I was very cruel, in retrospect, even though I was frantic to get back to Harry and Ron....

Snape, however, was not her dad (thank God for that, on several points); he hadn't the excuse of temporary parental madness, so to speak. No, he was simply a quick and impatient bastard with little tolerance for challenges or arguments. And if you added his personal fear of the potential repercussions of being caught, on top of that....

She found herself giving that a great deal more consideration than she ought. Severus Snape, whom she never remembered acting as though he feared anything, reduced to admitting to her that he was frightened. (Not in so many words, of course, but then he didn't have to be explicit. Not after Terence Kingsley's story.)

Snape realised what was at stake, for her as well as himself -- far better than she had. Even if he was primarily concerned for his own welfare, she'd better concede that he had a clear understanding of the dangers -- clear enough to be justifiably panicked, to the point of losing it so completely that he'd hurt her.

And as far as the incident tonight.... Well, we'll see. It might have been just a horrid slip, given the stakes. And if not, I can always try divorce on grounds of physical cruelty. I owe him the benefit of the doubt, for now....

*****

It was well past midnight when she woke, bladder urging her to use the loo; so she did, and carefully slipped back into bed. Snape had joined her at some point: he was still asleep, lying on his side, one forearm (the left, where she assumed the Dark Mark still lay dormant) splayed out on the pillow, fingers loosely curled in toward the palm.

I can't begin to imagine what terrible things those hands have done, besides handing over Eternal Sleep, she thought, pensive. I don't dare ask, of course. He'd probably tell me -- not all, not the worst -- and even that would be more than I think I want to know. I don't want to know how much damage, and the many ways....

But his hands had done much good, as well -- she had first-hand proof, besides speculation about several events (the hexing of Harry's broom First Year, for example).

She'd seen him gently cradle a Hufflepuff's blistered arm after a nasty potions spill, even as he verbally lashed the idiot for carelessness; he'd made countless potions and medicines for use in the Infirmary as well, something she knew wasn't usually done. (Faculty, doing the work of an Apothecary? Ridiculous. Yet she knew he did it as a matter of course: detentions for Upper-Form students usually involved helping him prepare the potions.) And when the accident --

Hexing, Hermione, it was a bloody hexing, she corrected herself angrily. The fact that Malfoy didn't intend to cause as much damage as he did has nothing to do with it.

... well, at any rate, she'd been left at the bottom of the staircase half-blind with fear and pain, with only a panicking Neville for company (and Filch, who stood nearby ineffectually muttering, "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..."), until Snape had suddenly hovered at her side, viciously barked out orders to them both, and ordered Hermione herself to stay calm and not move, Miss Granger. And when she'd really begun to panic -- when she'd realised she couldn't feel her legs -- he'd spoken to her quite reasonably, chivvying her into focussing on something other than the fear (very much as he had the night he'd... that night in Queerditch); smoothed her hair out of her eyes and wiped the blood from her face; and kept her calm until Pomfrey had arrived. He hadn't been kind, precisely, but he'd kept her from futher, possibly irreparable, harm.

I don't remember ever thanking him for that, she thought guiltily. And I should have done. Things would have been much worse, if Neville had tried to move me or if I'd thrashed about.

There hadn't been much opportunity to thank him at first: the next time she'd seen him had been a few days later at the hearing in the Infirmary, when the Auror had asked for her version of the incident; Snape had stayed silent in his chair, listening, and then answering the few questions about his own actions briefly and without volunteering additional information. He'd left the room at the hearing's conclusion without a word to her.

I wonder if he tried to make excuses for Malfoy, she thought. Everyone expected that he would. 'Student scrum got out of hand' and 'nothing worse than poor judgement on Malfoy's part,' that's what Ron and Harry had expected him to say.

No, he might well have left her with Neville and taken off after the boys to protect Malfoy, but he'd stayed with her instead. Doing his duty to a student regardless of House, she supposed, but it put him in a precarious position in the long run: choosing to stay with a Gryffindor rather than getting one of his precious Slytherins out of physical danger and then weasling them out of the consequences.

There were limits, it appeared, to how far Snape had been willing to go to protect his status with the Death Eaters. (She wondered briefly if what had happened to him the following February had anything to do with that lapse in ruthless self-interest, or whether it would have happened anyway; she'd never got the whole story on that, only the rough outline.)

In other words, he was capable of choosing to do the good and right thing, despite compelling personal reasons to behave otherwise. Even if he didn't always exercise it.

She reached over and slipped her fingers into Snape's palm, feeling the heat that seemed to radiate off of him everywhere except in the chill of the dungeons. It was a mistake, as it happened: he snorted a bit, and then his eyes shot open, instantly alert, and his fingers clenched tightly about hers.

"Still upset?" he rasped.

"Yes."

"Good." He closed his eyes and relaxed, but didn't bother to pull his hand free from hers; and when she made the further error of running her thumb along the backs of his fingers, he opened his eyes again and peered at her, suspicious and sleepy-eyed. After a long moment of searching her eyes he apparently decided to take it as an invitation, and pulled her to him for a lazy snog that turned into a wordless, intense, and surprisingly comforting fuck, which Hermione rationalised with the thought just this once.

Next morning, on waking, she didn't feel in the least ashamed for taking comfort from it, and couldn't be bothered to despite considerable grumpiness with herself for encouraging him.

*****

Chapter 7 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 8