Digital Quill :: Fiction with Flair

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Harry Potter
Big Name Death Eater by Shiv5468 [Reviews - 10] [3538 hits]

Severus was in pain. He was fairly certain that, in a long life filled with nothing but pain – good god, he’d had too much to drink if he was already in self-pitying mode – he had only once before suffered more pain. He’d changed to a button fly after that incident; there was no point risking a repeat performance.

Yet another summons to meet Voldemort; yet another evening listen to him rant about world domination; yet another evening trying to avoid notice, whilst trying to gain useful information for the Order.

Which would be followed by the inevitable invitation to the after-meeting drinks at Malfoy Manor, which involved making exceedingly dull and exceedingly polite conversation with the rest of the Inner Circle and their exceedingly dull and polite wives, before he could throw off the shackles and head off for some decent fun.

He’d joined the Death Eaters to make friends and influence people, and got it half right.

Once he managed to escape Malfoy Manor, with the excuse that he had school in the morning, he’d headed off to find his comrades in the seedy Muggle boozer near Diagon Alley that they always went to. As regulars, the landlord didn’t ask too many questions, and even supplied them with free nibbles provided they kept the noise down, and kept Smudger from playing darts.

They would sit and complain about their bosses, and he’d complain about Dumbledore, and then they’d whine about the Inner Circle and how they got all the perks – they conveniently ignored that he was one of the Inner Circle for these purposes – and then they would have some more to drink and play darts (apart from Smudger).

He even allowed them to call him Snapey.

Consequently, by the time he left the pub he was so pissed he couldn’t say the word, and he’d absent-mindedly put the darts in his back pocket. That this was a stupid thing to do was demonstrated when he slipped in a puddle of something he didn’t wish to identify and landed splat on his arse.

He managed, with some difficulty, to extract the darts from his arse; fortunately they weren’t damaged at all, or he’d have to replace them, which would have been a real bugger. They were Muggle darts; magical darts were no longer allowed after the Unfortunate Incident with Smudger.

He’d patted them happily and then carefully put them in his cloak pocket. He hadn’t noticed the shooting pains at first, but as he had to walk further, and as the alcohol had worn off, they’d progressed from merely uncomfortable to sodding unbearable.

He’d managed to Apparate to Hogwarts successfully, relying solely on the usual miracle afforded by the God of Drunks - he’s the little green cherub you see with the pouting cheeks at the back of many an oil painting – to his followers to be able to get home even though the brain wasn’t functioning. He’d made it halfway up the path, before tripping over his own feet, falling to the floor, and deciding it was too much effort to get up.

He patted the ground in a friendly manner and decided to go to sleep.

Hermione was bored. She’d been talked into returning to Hogwarts as a teacher ‘for the Good of the Order’. To date, her duties had consisted of nothing more onerous than forcing knowledge into the heads of some truly stupid children.

Surely they’d never been so monumentally fuckwitted?

She was bloody certain she hadn’t been; and she was very definite that she hadn’t spent her teenage years swotting to throw her career away in a dump like this.

Working here had seen the gilt wear off the gingerbread with a vengeance. Dumbledore was clearly using her as slave labour and paying her half the usual miserable pittance afforded to Hogwarts staff. Minerva was convinced that Hermione was her new best friend, and spent equal amounts of time trying to persuade her that she was destined for a career as a teacher and that the sun shone out of Dumbledore’s arse. Hooch clearly had a drink problem - any more of this and she would have one too.

The only person she had any empathy with was Professor Snape. His was the only voice of sanity in what was rapidly turning into an outpost of St Mungo’s.

Six months of teaching was enough to persuade her that children were stupid and annoying, and that her colleagues were stupid and annoying, and to add insult to injury she wasn’t allowed to deduct points from them.

If Harry didn’t kill Voldemort within the next couple of weeks, she was going to do it herself.

Or join him, if he let her kill Dumbledore.

She reminded herself firmly that she was only joking about that and looked at the clock. Midnight. Time to scour the school for miscreants. About the only pleasure left to her was a savage orgy of points deduction. Woe betide anyone found out after curfew tonight. She decided to begin her patrol with the Quidditch Pitch – favourite haunt of amorous students, particularly the more lazy ones who couldn’t be bothered with the climb to the Astronomy Tower.

When she spotted the dark form slumped in the middle of the Pitch, she thought it was one of the seventh years returning from a drinking binge in Hogsmeade. She was running through a list of the offences he would have committed – it was always a boy, the girls had more sense and sent the boys off to the village to get their alcohol in return for vague promises of sexual satisfaction – and had reached an impressive total for the prospective points deduction, when she realised who it was.

She knew that Voldemort frequently summoned Professor Snape, and she had heard the rumours about the cruelties visited on him by his Master. Poppy refused to talk about his injuries, citing medical confidence, which only added to the air of mystery and danger surrounding him

She only hoped that she was prepared to deal with the battered and wounded Professor.

Severus decided that the floor was his friend. He didn’t want to be parted from it. He’d reached that stage of being drunk best referred to as maudlin, and the ground was a sympathetic listener. He’d been running through a long list of injustices, and had reached the age of fourteen and a coruscating description of the hardships he had faced at Hogwarts, when his finely honed senses detected the presence of another.

“Hello,” he said, looking up into Hermione’s worried face.

Hermione was shocked when she saw the state he was in. He was covered in dirt, there was blood oozing from some unseen wound, and he seemed unable to talk. What hardships had he had to endure for the sake of the Order?

“Don’t worry,” she said softly, patting him on the back. “I’ll get Poppy and she’ll sort you out.”

Severus clutched at her ankle in panic, and refused to let go. The last thing he needed was Poppy to see him in this condition. She’d tell Dumbledore, and that would be the end of his boys’ nights out; he’d be stuck at Malfoy Manor for the cocktail parties from then on in.

“No,” he mumbled. “If you’ll just help me back to my quarters, I have the necessary potions to hand. I wouldn’t want to worry Poppy.”

She couldn’t make out all he was saying - perhaps a mouth injury – but it was clear that he didn’t want to go to the Infirmary. She didn’t know whether this was because he preferred to work alone, or whether there was some risk to being seen there, so she decided to err on the side of caution. She would take him back to his quarters and tend to him there. If she still wasn’t happy once she’d had a look at his injuries then she could summon Poppy. That seemed like a reasonable compromise.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll look after you.” With that she levitated him, and headed off to his quarters with his body bobbing gently along behind.

Snape was mystified when the ground left him – just like everyone else – and quickly found that the movement was making him feel queasy. He was so busy concentrating on not heaving up his dinner – ten pints of bitter and two packets of crisps, and a couple of canapés courtesy of the Malfoys – that he barely noticed their entry to Hogwarts, or that their destination was his rooms.

Hermione was gritting her teeth by the time they got there; the spell was difficult to hold for such a length of time, particularly when you were trying to prevent Snape’s head from bumping into the walls. She greeted the sight of his door with a sigh of relief, and carefully rotated him until he was leaning against it.

Snape recognised his door. It was his friend in a way the shallow floor had never been, and he leaned into it, stroking its pock-marked surface with affection. He’d set the wards to recognise him without a password on the basis that he was barely able to remember his own name after a night out with the boys, let alone a password, and being found slumped asleep against his own door was undignified. He wasn’t getting any younger either, and that sort of thing tended to play merry hob with his joints.

Hermione followed him in; she was reluctant to leave him alone without checking that he was going to be all right. He stumbled across the living room, bumping into the sofa, swearing under his breath and disappeared into his bedroom. She followed cautiously; he wasn’t likely to welcome this intrusion into his life, no matter how good her intentions were.

He lurched to the bed, collapsed onto it face down, wriggled a bit, extended a hand to snag a blue vial, downed it, and then started to snore.

Hermione looked at him in bewilderment, until her practical side asserted itself. He couldn’t sleep in his boots, and he shouldn’t sleep clutching that vial. She carefully removed his boots without disturbing him, then moved to take the bottle. She had to remove his fingers from the bottle one by one, and she was moved to think how important to him the contents of that little bottle were. He truly must be in a lot of pain, she thought.

Seized by an unexpected impulse she bent down to press a kiss to the forehead of a brave man, only to be greeted with the stench of beer.

He was drunk.

She sniffed at the bottle. Not pain reliever, not some obscure potion to deal with the after-effects of cruciatus, oh no: it was hangover relief.

Hermione looked at Severus coolly. Of course, it might be that he’d been forced into a drinking session as part of his spying duties, but then again, maybe it was something more sinister.

It was something she felt should be investigated further, especially if the sod was off having fun when she couldn’t.

When Severus woke the next morning he felt very smug. He’d obviously managed to get himself home and into bed, and he’d remembered to take the Hangover Potion, which had alleviated the worst of the symptoms. Despite this, he was strongly tempted to stay in bed for the rest of the day, but he knew that Albus would be waiting to see him.

His first, tentative movements reminded him that he had fallen on his darts. An investigating finger found the sore spots, and he winced. That would need seeing to before he made his report. Wriggling around on his seat could only lead to unwelcome speculation as to the nature of his injuries, or give the impression that he was being evasive. Neither would be very helpful.

He stripped, and shuffled into the bathroom, trying to see the extent of the damage over his shoulder. At first glance the damage seemed extensive, although the view was somewhat restricted. He decided to have a shower and then assess the situation; hopefully some of those streaks were mud not blood.

He was feeling a lot better by the time he’d washed himself down; the colour of the water suggested that most of the discolouration was indeed mud. He realised that it was silly to try and work out what was wrong by peering at himself over his shoulder; what he needed to do was find a mirror. The mirror in the bathroom was misted over so he couldn’t get a decent view. He could cast a spell to clear it, but his wand was still in his bedroom. He padded into his bedroom to fetch it, realised that he might as well use the mirror in there, and dropped the towel for a better look.

Hermione woke, and for a second wondered why her bed was so uncomfortable, why her neck ached, and who had redecorated her room in the night.

Oh. She was on Snape’s sofa, determined to find out what on earth he’d been up to the night before, which explained why her neck felt as stiff as a board. She levered herself off the couch, and stretched, cautiously working out all the kinks.

Now for Snape.

The door to the bedroom was still open, and she couldn’t hear any noise, so she assumed he was still asleep. She realised her mistake almost immediately. Snape was naked. Snape was very naked. Snape was extremely naked. Snape had a very nice bum, which he seemed to be admiring in the mirror. Which was odd. Obviously it was a bottom worth admiring, but surely it was only people like Gilderoy who would spend time admiring their own bottom in the mirror.

She was so busy wondering why he was looking at his bottom, and so busy admiring it herself, that her only thought when Snape began to turn in her direction was disappointment that the bottom was going away, followed by the immediate realisation that … good grief he was enormous! … rather than the more sensible decision to disappear back into the living room and cough very loudly.

It took several seconds for the fact that he could see her to filter through her preoccupation, and several seconds further to raise her eyes to his face. She was relieved to see that he wasn’t angry, and then confused. Shouldn’t he be grabbing his towel and covering himself up, shouldn’t he be flustered or blushing or something, instead of advancing on her with a very funny look in his eyes.

Hermione did what any sensible girl would do under the circumstances and bolted.

Severus, for his part, was also confused. He’d been quietly pondering his injuries, when he’d become aware of his audience. An admiring audience, no less, and, whilst he was obviously interested to find out quite what the hell she was doing in his private quarters, he rather thought that there were more interesting questions to be asked. Such as: why on earth did she run off?

She was obviously interested in what he had to offer; she just needed a little encouragement. He turned his mind to what sort of encouragement he could offer, whilst dressing himself. His interesting reverie, which had reached some fairly advanced methods of persuasion, was suddenly brought to a clattering halt.

He had vague memories of last night, and the more he sifted through them, the more he realised that he was in trouble. He hadn’t precisely told Albus that he came back from these Revels in a bad way, but he’d certainly hadn’t corrected the impression that they could be difficult. And if Hermione spoke to Dumbledore it could all go seriously pear-shaped; he might never have another boys’ night out again.

Barely taking time to button his shirt, let alone put on his waistcoat and jacket, he headed off in search of Hermione.

Hermione had fled for the safety of her room. Once there she’d taken one look at her rumpled clothes and flyaway hair and flinched. Snape would want an explanation of why she’d been in his rooms, and he’d never been a patient man. She could therefore expect a visitation in fairly short order, and it was vital that she should look her best for it. To boost her confidence, obviously, and make sure she looked neat and tidy and as grown-up as possible. Which would mean putting on her nice maroon robes with the slightly daring neckline, and getting her hair sorted out, and maybe those nice shoes…..

She managed to tidy her hair, perform cleaning spells and slip on the fresh robe in less than ten minutes, all the while blessing fate for making her a witch.

She arranged herself artistically on the sofa, and picked up a book to be read with ostentatious indifference when he finally arrived.

He took four and a half minutes longer to get there than she expected, but his entrance was all she could have hoped for. The door slammed open, and he came stalking into her room. She was a little disappointed that he hadn’t taken the time to dress properly, because he wasn’t able to swirl seductively, but it did mean she got to see him looking all rumpled and sexy.

Swings and roundabouts really.

Having arrived so dramatically, he seemed uncertain where to begin, which wasn’t surprising. There weren’t many easy ways of enquiring why someone was in your bedroom, not if you actually wanted them to visit again anyway, and Severus was clearly unused to conducting a conversation that didn’t involve a simple demand for a explanation coupled with sneering at the reply.

“I …I’m afraid that my memory of last night isn’t very clear; I presume you helped me back to my quarters.” There, he thought, that was nice and vague, and should allow for maximum fishing for information whilst giving as little away as possible.

“Yes, I found you semi-conscious out on the Quidditch Pitch; you didn’t want to go to Madam Pomfrey, so I took you back to your rooms.” Hermione’s tone was a little snippy, obviously because she was dealing with a man who had a lot of explaining to do. It was not, she assured herself, because he hadn’t asked why she had run away or even what she was doing in his room in the first place, but rather opened the discussion on the topic of what had happened that night.

“Oh.” He inspected the mantelpiece with interest. “I suppose I should thank you for your help.”

“I’m sure you would have managed to find your way back to your own rooms eventually. When the drink wore off,” she said with some asperity.

Severus turned to look at her. He didn’t look shamefaced or guilty, as she had half-expected, but merely exasperated. “Do you like working here?”

“Are you threatening me?” she asked indignantly.

“Don’t be silly,” he snapped. “It’s a serious question.”

“Not much,” she sighed. “Not much at all. I hate the children, I hate most of my colleagues, I hate the weather and I hate the way Albus is using me as a skivvy under the cover of working for the Order.”

Severus sat in the armchair by the side of the fire, without being asked, and said, “I hate it too.”

Their eyes met in a long moment of common feeling.

Hermione worked through the implications of his half-confession; he wasn’t going to admit more than was strictly necessary, but if she could put the pieces together for herself, that was a different matter. The answer seemed reasonably clear; she was impressed, and envious, that he’d been pulling the wool over their eyes for so long. Poor Severus and the terrible effects of bouts of Crucio was nothing more than a foul hangover and alcohol withdrawal. “So, you nip off every once in a while for a night out and tell Albus you’re on Order business,” she asked, relatively sympathetically whilst wondering if there was any way she could put the same tactics to good use.

He smiled faintly; he could hear the note of envy in her voice. “Something like that; I did go to a meeting last night. I just didn’t … hurry back, shall we say. You can imagine how Albus would have reacted if I’d said, oh, by the way, it’s been a hell of a week, I’d like to nip off and see my mates for a swift half after risking life and limb for you spying.”

“Not well.” Not after he’d recovered from the shock of finding out that Snape actually had friends, anyway. “He kicked up an awful fuss when I wanted to see my parents during the holidays. Kept making all sorts of dire warnings about Death Eater attacks. He just couldn’t find anyone to cover for Minerva, so he could go for two weeks in Spain. He backed down quickly enough when I pointed out that if there was a risk of attack on my parents I really ought to be there to protect them, unless he was going to arrange round-the-clock Auror protection for them. The Bastard.”

Severus nodded. “He tried that same trick on me last year, only that time it was a fortnight in Italy whilst he did important research for the Order. The only research he was doing was whether Minerva liked it better on top.”

They both faltered at that mental image, and tried very hard not to think about it.

“So,” continued Severus, “I don’t have much of a conscience about letting Albus think that my job as a spy is more physically demanding than it is.”

“And Albus doesn’t ask too many questions about what goes on at these meetings, because he’s a bit squeamish and doesn’t want to hear about unpleasantness, particularly if it’s unpleasantness he’s responsible for.”

“It’s not my fault Albus is an idiot; I mean, how long do you think any evil overlord would last if he were regularly submitting his followers to Crucio? Not bloody long, I can tell you. Particularly when the followers in question are Slytherins: we joined up for world conquest and unlimited power, not personal discomfort. If You-know-who was as daft as all that, we wouldn’t be still waiting for Potter to do his duty; Malfoy would have stabbed him in the back long before this.” Severus looked a little wistful at this thought, though he supposed that Malfoy as evil overlord wasn’t much of an improvement on You-know-who.

Six months ago, before she started working at Hogwarts, she would have been horrified by his duplicity. Having sat through nearly twenty staff-meetings, and watched as the teachers lied and cheated to get out of doing any extra-curricular duties, she was impressed. “So, you keep quiet, and he thinks you’ve been up to something dreadfully dangerous, but you’re being terribly stiff-upper lipped about it all. Bloody brilliant.”

“Well that’s not a lie; it is dangerous, bloody dangerous. I walk into a meeting of Death Eaters and spy on them. If they ever suspected what I was doing, I don’t think they’re going to say, never mind, no hard feelings, off you go to Dumbledore, are they? It’ll be a long bout with Madam Crucio, Avada Kedavra and returned to Hogwarts in several pieces. And that’s if I’m lucky. I may just have exaggerated the level of difficulty I’ve faced on a practical level, but that doesn’t mean that it’s bloody easy.”

Hermione nodded. He had a point.

“Not to mention that I have to listen to Lucius Malfoy witter on about the state of the Ministry and the pernicious influence of Mudbloods – no offence – and the sanctity of the cause, just in case he says anything important. Though that is still an improvement on the vacuous conversation of Narcissa which seems to revolve around shoes, interior design, and trying to identify Lucius’s latest mistress. After all that I need a bloody drink!”

“It sounds like hell,” said Hermione.

She wasn’t being entirely sympathetic, but Severus was so absorbed in contemplating the injustices in his life that he took the words at face value. He examined his fingernails, and spent a couple of seconds worrying at a fingernail. “I was just … wondering though, what do you intend to tell Dumbledore?”

Hermione considered the point. His story was so bizarre that she believed him much more than if he had constructed a tale of being overcome with remorse at the actions forced on him in his role as spy and having to drink himself into a stupor to deal with the mental torture. He was bored and he had a chance of a bit of fun. For one second she contemplated asking to go with him on his next trip, but common sense, coupled with the fact that she rather thought he ought to ask her out, restrained her.

“Don’t worry. If I didn’t tell on Harry and Ron, I won’t tell on you. If he asks, I’ll tell him I found you semi-conscious on the Quidditch pitch and I helped you back to your rooms. It has all the advantages of being True, and none of the disadvantages of being The Truth.”

She was rewarded with the first genuine smile she had even seen grace his features, which caused an unfortunate lurching sensation in her stomach, and a powerful sense of anti-climax when he left without raising the matter of her perving at his arse.

Really, the man was most annoying.

Her opinion didn’t change much over the coming weeks. The subject of his arse wasn’t raised at all, nor indeed was any mention made of a glass of wine in his quarters to ‘thank her properly for her help’ or even ‘to discuss the arrangements for the Hallowe’en Ball’. Occasionally she found him looking at her a little wistfully, and more than occasionally she found her eyes following him along a corridor and imagining that those billowing robes were a little more form-fitting. Or even absent.

She supposed it would be difficult to bring up the matter of a … a date after the way she had fled from his rooms. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t interested? After all, someone who was keen on furthering an intimate relationship with another someone didn’t turn tail and run when that other someone advanced on them with a funny look in his eye. Prolonged speculation had resulted in the conclusion that if Severus had been offended by her presence, he would have said so. Very loudly. Therefore the only logical conclusion was that he was also keen on furthering a relationship and had been dissuaded from doing so by her precipitate exit.

After waking for the fourth morning running in the middle of an interesting dream involving Severus, she decided that the only solution to their impasse was for her to make a move and thus convince him that her disappearance had been due to embarrassment rather than revulsion.

So she did. Admittedly breakfast wasn’t an ideal time to ask someone out, but it was the ideal time to ask someone out so that you could pretend that you weren’t asking them out just in case they said no.

“I was wondering whether you’d be available this evening to discuss …” she couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted to discuss with him. Other then the removal of his clothes, and perhaps issuing the odd instruction here and there.

Fortunately, he interrupted before she could complete the sentence. “I’m afraid I have another engagement this evening.” He tapped his left arm meaningfully.

“Oh. Erm.” she floundered.

“Some other time perhaps?” he continued softly.

She felt a sharp spike of relief, which faded when she thought about where he was going this evening. “Business or pleasure?” She hoped that was vague enough to confuse Dumbledore who was sitting to her left.

“A little of both, I think.”

“Just… just be careful,” she said, covering her anxiety in the same way she would with the boys – bossiness. “And for heaven’s sake, try and make it back to your rooms without falling face down on the Quidditch Pitch.”

She felt Dumbledore twitch beside her and continued in a slightly louder voice. “And next time, I won’t hear any arguments; it’ll be straight off to Madam Pomfrey whether you want to or not. I’m not a Mediwitch and you can’t expect me to look after injuries like that.”

“No, Hermione,” he said with a chastened air, and a sideways glance at the Headmaster to see how her comments had gone down. As he left he could hear Albus begin digging for more information, and Hermione replying in stifled tones that she didn’t want to talk about it, it was too painful, whilst she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

Maybe all that time spent breaking the rules with the boys had made her more devious than he expected, and, of course, as a Gryffindor no one would expect her of being anything less than honest.

Hmmm. That gave him an idea.

****

The meeting was packed, which was ominous; usually they were restricted to the Inner Circle for high-powered planning, with nibbles at Malfoy Manor afterwards. A larger audience meant raiding, and some poor sod was going to be in trouble tonight.

Severus devoutly hoped it wouldn’t be him.

He tugged awkwardly at his mask. The damned thing was uncomfortable and bloody silly. As far as he was concerned, their identities could be kept secret by a concealing charm or even polyjuice at a pinch, rather than a silver mask that cut off peripheral vision and kept slipping down his nose.

It didn’t even work as a disguise, for god’s sake; they’d all joined at the same time. He was sure that His Lordship – he didn’t call him anything more polite in the privacy of his own head – fondly imagined that they’d all stood round in a circle at their initiation and wondered who the others were, feeling sure that they couldn’t betray each other in case the person they spoke to at the Ministry was One of Them.

Instead, he’d simply looked round the Circle on that first evening and mentally ticked off the boys from his year and the years above. Malfoy, in particular, stood out like a sore thumb. His robes weren’t basic Death Eater black but had little skulls embroidered on the hems and cuffs, and his hair was white-blond and even then was long enough to hang him with.

Nearly twenty years later the daft sod was still wearing them – or ones very much like them – which provided The Lads with hours of post-raid entertainment. Smudger’s impression of Lucius at his most haughty was legendary. At least the mask did hide your face when you were wearing a wholly inappropriate smirk, because otherwise Lucius was likely to take offence, and would offer to wipe it off.

Severus composed his features into a more suitable remote expression – no point getting sloppy just because you were wearing your mask – as Lucius approached him with the evening’s orders.

“Severus.” Lucius’s voice was clipped; he was clearly annoyed about something.

“Lucius,” he acknowledged, equally curtly. “What’s the plan of action then?”

“His Lordship wants us to go and teach these Muggles a lesson or two. He wants something big, something dramatic, something that will be on the front page of the Daily Prophet tomorrow morning.” Of late, there had been an increasing undertone of contempt to that title – His Lordship – Lucius wasn’t happy with what he called the strategic approach to the War. Much as he hated Muggles, even Lucius was beginning to think that they should be concentrating their energies on the elimination of Potter rather than the torturing of innocent people.

It was fun, he would say at the cocktail parties, but what is it achieving?

Not a lot, was the answer. An answer that was becoming increasingly clear to even the meanest intelligence – Crabbe and Goyle Senior – and was even being discussed openly.

“You don’t seem very pleased,” Severus commented.

“Indeed not. I had plans for this evening involving a certain young lady, some flimsy scraps of silk, fine wine and good food. I just hope we can get this all finished before midnight, so I can rescue something from this debacle.”

“You’ve told Narcissa you’ll be out all night then?” asked Severus.

Lucius nodded. “It’s so hard to find time away from her; she’s so suspicious. These little outings provide me with my only chance for a bit of fun.”

Severus could sympathise with that. “Tell you what. Why don’t you slip off to see the young lady in question, and I’ll look after this little lot for you?” ventured Severus, after checking that there were no young and keen Death Eaters within earshot who would probably be only too happy to tell tales in the hope of securing a better position in the pecking order.

Lucius did a similar check before replying, “Would you? That’s damned decent of you.”

“Any particular instructions, you know, about targets?”

“No. It’s entirely up to you, Severus, and thank you again. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Lucius shook his hand fervently, and then apparated away with a pop.

“I hope he remembers to take the mask off before he goes to see his young lady,” said a voice from behind him.

Severus spun round with his wand out. “For god’s sake, Smudger, don’t go creeping up on people like that. You know I get twitchy when the rest of the Inner Circle’s around.”

“Hex first and ask questions later, that’s their motto.” Smudger nodded. “Where we off to then?”

“The usual place,” Severus replied. “Tell The Lads. Then we’ve got some thinking to do.”

“Right-o.” Sumdger turned and began tapping people on the shoulder and attempting to whisper in their ear, which is tricky when you’re wearing a silver mask; there was a very audible clink as Smudger’s mask clipped another and very nearly jostled it off.

Severus watched as his team apparated away one by one, then cast one last look round the clearing to make sure no one had been left behind, before heading off himself.

Barely ten minutes later he and The Lads were lined up along the bar in their usual pub, looking into their beers and searching for inspiration. Smudger smoothed the Evening Standard on the bar, and scanned the paper for bad news. “There’s been a Tube crash,” he offered.

“Nah,” said Bloodnok. “Look it happened this afternoon, he’ll never buy that.”

“Not to mention no one was killed,” added Severus.

Smudger grunted and carried on reading. “It’s a bit of a slow day for disasters, lads. We may actually have to do something.”

“Let’s not do anything rash,” said Bloodnok. “We haven’t looked at the early editions yet. Maybe something happened later today we can use. Whose turn is it to go?”

The Lads all looked shifty. “Come on,” said Severus wearily. “It’s either a quick apparate to the printing presses and half-inching tomorrow’s paper, or one of you having to explain to Lucius and then His Lordship why we didn’t manage to kill a single muggle tonight.”

The Lads still looked shifty, but some complicated process of running through the calendar to see who went last time, and the time before that, was taking place, coupled with the trading of favours to get out of doing it until the answer was reached – Seagoon.

“Oh, bugger,” said Bloodnok. “We can’t send him; he always gets The Times.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Seagoon replied frostily. “At least it has a little news in it, unlike your chosen periodical which seems to be composed entirely of breasts.”

The Lads murmured amongst themselves, clearly torn. Whilst they needed a paper with news in it, they couldn’t help but remember with fondness the day that Smudger brought back a News of the World. There had been scandal enough to satisfy their most biased views about the ways Muggles conducted their lives, and pictures of half-naked ladies.

The pictures didn’t move but, as Smudger said, you couldn’t have everything.

“Why not see if you can pick up one of those Peerreally Calendays as well then,” suggested Severus. “As well as a proper paper: that way we can divvy it up between us, and still find some disaster to pass off as our own handiwork.”

Even Seagoon had to admit that was a reasonable compromise - provided he got first pick of the months – and apparated away on his errand.

While he was away The Lads ordered another round and put it on his tab.

Seagoon popped back into existence barely fifteen minutes later, clutching two papers and a Calendar.

A round of sniggering broke out in response to his anguished cry. “You bastards.”

“What’s your problem?” asked Smudger. “We got you a pint in.”

“But Bloodnok is drinking bloody brandy again. You know we agreed that he wasn’t allowed to,” Seagoon complained. “It’s not fair.”

“Nothing in life is,” said Severus, heavily.

They all nodded; that’s true.

“Anyway,” he continued, “show us what you got.”

Seagoon spread out The Times on a table, and The Lads gathered round and cast an expert eye over the litany of gloom, doom and despondency.

“There!” said Severus, stabbing down with a long finger. “That’s perfect.”

8 people killed in a mystery gas explosion, the paper stated. Blah blah blah at 9.30 pm tonight blah blah causes unknown. The timescale fitted, the devastation caused was sufficient to satisfy His Lordship for an evening’s mayhem; all that was needed was for someone to nip out and cast the Dark Mark over the building in question.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Severus, watching The Lads attempt to select a candidate. “We are not playing scissors, paper, stone to decide who goes. Can we at least try to look like dangerous Death Eaters instead of bloody schoolchildren?”

“Well, what do you suggest: spin the bottle?” sneered Bloodnok.

“No. You just volunteered,” Severus smirked. “That’s what comes of asking stupid questions and really getting on my wick. I get enough of that at school, and you really ought to know better by now. Now off you go.”

Bloodnok left muttering under his breath, and was still grumbling about the unfairness of it all by the time he returned five minutes later. He at least didn’t return to a round of drinks on his tab – they were still finishing the first round - but they had begun dividing the calendar amongst themselves, and he was in danger of receiving Miss March who was generally reckoned to be a bit past it at 30.

“Oh, come off it lads,” he whined. “Don’t be bastards about this…..”

“I thought being a bastard was part of the job description,” Smudger said with a wide grin.

“We weren’t supposed to be bastards to each other,” Bloodnok replied, “just to the rest of the world.”

“No one told Malfoy that then,” put in Severus.

“Or His Lordship,” added Smudger.

There was a certain nervous sniggering, and then they budged up so Bloodnok could get a better look at the Calendar.

There was a respectful hush as the pages were turned, punctuated only by occasional soft murmurs of appreciation, and a long sigh when the Calendar was closed.

“I wish,” said Seagoon slowly, “I wish we got to meet girls like that.”

“Or, in fact, any girls at all,” added Bloodnok.

“They say that Lucius Malfoy has a Pet Mudblood of his own,” said Smudger, with a strong air of grievance. “And you know what they say about Mudbloods.”

Severus looked faintly surprised; as far as he knew the only thing they said about Mudbloods was that they were inferior and clearly should be erased from the face of the earth. He didn’t remember anyone saying anything about them making good Pets. “What do they say about Mudbloods?” he asked.

The Lads all sniggered.

“You mean you don’t know?” Smudger asked incredulously. “They’re supposed to be … you know… friskier.”

“Mind you, we wouldn’t expect you to know about that,” sneered Grytpype-Thynne. “You’ve never had a girlfriend have you?”

Severus eyed The Lads, and The Lads eyed Severus with either pity or sympathy. He looked down his long nose at them all and said grandly, “Not only have I had a girlfriend, but I have one at the moment, and a Mudblood to boot.” He nearly added ‘so there’ but remembered just in time that he was over 40, supposed to be a heartless killer, and the buggers would never let him hear the end of it.

“I don’t believe you,” said Grytpype-Thynne. He’d always been an irritating little shit, even when they’d been younger.

Severus shrugged elegantly, conveying in that gesture his complete indifference to the opinion of a mere Minion, and that he was so confident of the truth of what he was saying that he had no need to discuss it further. It was a very eloquent shrug.

The shrug was apparently wasted on Grytpype-Thynne, who continued triumphantly, “Why haven’t you told us about her before then?”

“Oh yes, I can see that going down well,” butted in Smudger. “What’s he going to do, introduce her to His Lordship or maybe start boasting of his conquests round the Inner Circle. It’d go down like a cup of cold sick; even Malfoy doesn’t boast about his Mudblood and he can pretty much do what he wants.”

“Well, he can’t take her to an Inner Circle meeting, that’s for sure, but I don’t see why he couldn’t introduce her to us. We’re harmless, well as long as Smudger doesn’t pick up the darts we are,” said Bloodnok. “I want to meet her.”

“True,” said Smudger. “We need to make sure that she’s good enough for Severus. I mean, we’re men of the world, we can tell whether she’s a conniving little golddigger just after him for his money.”

Severus snorted at the idea of anyone being interested in him for his money.

“I don’t believe he’s got a girlfriend,” sneered Grytpype-Thynne. “How on earth did you get her to agree to go out with you?”

“I didn’t,” said Severus smugly. “I played hard to get and she asked me out.”

The rest of The Lads exchanged impressed glances; that sounded like Advanced Seduction to them, rather than Romance for Beginners as applied by them. Grytpype-Thynne, however remained unconvinced. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “I don’t believe you, and nothing you can say is going to make me believe you.”

“All right, all right, I’ll bring her along to meet you after the next meeting,” Severus snapped, and then realised with a sinking feeling just how far up the proverbial creek he was. He had to ask Hermione out, which was going to be difficult enough, and that was before mentioning to her that he wanted their first date to be with all his Death Eater mates.

It wasn’t going to go well, was it?

Bugger.

Sheverus wash pished again. He’d only intended to have a couple, but The Lads had been insistent, and when he thought about asking Hermione out he took another drink for Dutch Courage. He’d intended to stop before he got completely arseholed but had overshot by about four pints. And a couple of Firewhiskies.

He did, however, remember not to put the darts in his back pocket this time.

That would lead the detached observer to think that things were going Sheverus’ way, an impression that was reinforced by the fact that Hermione was waiting for him on the Quidditch Pitch in order to make sure that he didn’t fall flat on his face.

And if she was also trying to put herself in a situation where she would be treated to a view of more naked Severus, well then, that would be perfectly acceptable from his point of view. More than perfectly acceptable.

Somehow in his drunken mind this assessment was transformed from ‘I wouldn’t mind if she did want to look at my bottom again’ to ‘I bet she does want to see my arse’. This was unfortunate. Because no matter if there were an element of truth in this, in fact, especially if there were an element of truth in this, it was still unwise to announce that he knew what she was after, the naughty minx, and if she played her cards right she could have it.

The God of Drunks was watching over him that night and fortunately what Hermione heard was ‘iewwaurafer…inx… ifew…ayurcahsrite…hsyucnavit’. She didn’t speak Drunk, so she had no idea what he actually said, and merely levitated him off to his rooms.

So far so good. The God of Drunks was so busy patting himself on the back at having successfully averted another disaster that he took his eye off the ball, and tragedy occurred.

Hermione successfully wrestled Severus into bed, a process he would have enjoyed much more if he had been sober, and given him his hangover potion. Then he opened his mouth and said something that would rank in the annals of lovers everywhere as the most tactless and least romantic thing to say ever. It topped ‘By Jove, Helen, you’ve aged badly in twenty years’, and that was saying something.

“Hermione,” he said, now that his tongue had shrunk back to its normal size and was working properly again, “I was wondering if you would do me a favour.”

At last, she thought. She’d soothed the fevered brow of the wounded warrior, and now she was going to reap her reward. “Yes, Severus,” she said, a little breathless.

“I was wondering whether you were free next Thursday…”

“….yes….yes…yes….” she thought.

“…because I need someone to accompany me to a party with some old friends.”

“…yes….er…wait a minute….old friends….” Her brain screeched to a halt. He couldn’t mean taking her out to meet his Death Eater friends, could he? Could he?

“I… er…I may have dropped myself in it by saying that I had a Mudblood of my own, and I really need someone to go with me so I don’t look a total idiot.”

There was the kind of silence that usually greets someone had admitted to supporting The Toon whilst standing on the banks of the Weir (sound of a fart in a lift, for our American friends, sorry elevator.)

At this point the God of Drunks took one look at the situation and decided to bugger off and help someone who wasn’t so determined to commit relationship suicide. Or, indeed, just suicide, because Hermione was Not Pleased. Not Pleased At All.

“I beg your pardon,” Hermione began, in tones that would freeze a desert, but she was interrupted by Severus before she had a chance to build up into her peroration.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he said, smiled sweetly, and laid back on the bed. “I’m ve’ tired.”

“Bastard,” Hermione said bitterly.

She made sure he was tucked in properly, that there was a convenient cauldron by the side of the bed in case of Urgent Need, and turned out the lights.

Sheverus had become Severus by the time he woke the next morning. His head wasn’t pounding, his mouth didn’t feel like a small, furry animal had taken up residence there, and he felt a bit peckish. All in all, he felt better than he had any right to do. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something terribly wrong.

A quick mental survey of the night before, conducted whilst performing his ablutions, brought nothing ominous to mind. He’d survived the meeting, which was always a positive. He’d managed to wriggle his way out of actually getting his hands dirty, whilst making Malfoy think he was doing him a favour. He hadn’t bought a round of drinks all night and he’d nicely stuck one over on that bastard Grytpype-Thynne…

Ah.

Yes, well.

There was something nagging at the back of his mind now. He’d been worried about asking Hermione out, but he wasn’t any more because he had and … oh shit.

Severus looked at the rubber duck and the rubber duck looked at Severus.

He was history.

Severus nearly shied off from breakfast, but in the end couldn’t come up with a sufficiently reasonable excuse to get out of it. He also thought that, whilst he was in many ways lucky to have escaped the full Wrath of Hermione last night, the longer she was left to stew over the issues, the longer she would have to think up really nasty things to say to him.

Prudence therefore dictated that steps were taken to make the necessary apologies as soon as possible, in the hope of lancing the boil of anger before it had a chance to fester.

Judging by her mutinous face and icy greeting over the kippers, it was already too late. The least he could hope to get away with was a face-slapping after several weeks of the Cold Shoulder. Which would mean that he would be dateless come the next meeting, and have to put up with the gloating of Grytpype-Thynne.

So, whilst an apology was called for, a back-up plan was called for……………

Hermione, for her part, was bristling with indignation when the lousy bastard merely nodded at her and took his usual seat by her side and commenced battle on the kippers. Kippers are indeed tricky bastards to eat, but she felt that some recognition of the egregious wrong he had done her was called for.

And she didn’t like the way he was smiling. No man who was so firmly In The Wrong, deserved to be smiling like that at all, let alone a bastard as miserable as Snape. She was suddenly struck by a wave of misery. Maybe he didn’t like her at all. Maybe that funny look in his eye hadn’t been appreciation at all; maybe it was disapproval. Perhaps she should be simply grateful that he hadn’t told Dumbledore and tried to get her dismissed. Well actually that would be doing her a favour, so something else, something evil.

Like taking her to a Death Eaters’ meeting.

There was a furious five minute interval during which Hermione’s brain was racing with thoughts of intricate plots, double-dealing and her coming to a Very Sticky End indeed. Harry had always had his doubts about Snape’s reliability, and her argument that Dumbledore trusted him so they should too, was rather undermined by the fact that she no longer thought that his opinion on anything was worth a farthing.

Then she caught sight of Severus’ hands, slightly shaking, as he reached for the coffee pot, and her sensible side pointed out very firmly that Severus Snape may be a bit of a prat, but he wasn’t a dyed in the wool villain. Harry was an idiot, who couldn’t tie his shoelaces without instructions, and whose judgement on things was pretty reliable, if you reversed it 180 degrees.

Which didn’t mean that he could be allowed to get away with using the M-word, but once proper apologies had been offered and penance suffered, he could be forgiven.

And then shagged senseless.

Repeatedly.

And in as many positions as possible.

So, given that she was rather keen on moving to that stage as quickly as possible, it seemed to her that a simple apology and five minutes grovelling would be sufficient. If he was really bright he might give her an opening along the lines of ‘however can I make it up to you’ and she could make some fairly advanced suggestions. Not that she’d been planning ahead, with diagrams and lists; no, not at all.

Severus, fortified by kipper, toast and coffee, felt that he was now in a position to be able to offer an apology. It was also the sensible course to do so at the breakfast table where, presumably, Hermione would feel inhibited from face-slapping and hexing in front of an audience.

“Erm,” he offered, by way of opening.

“Yes,” she said coolly.

“I …erm…gather that I may have …said something …inappropriate, wholly inappropriate, last night, and I wanted to apologise to you for saying it.”

Hermione was pondering what response she should make, when fate, in the form of Dumbledore, pre-empted her. “Ah, Severus, I would be grateful if we could have a little discussion this morning. I believe your first class isn’t until ten?”

“Indeed, Headmaster.” Severus dabbed his lips with the napkin, and then followed the Irritating Old Sod out of the Hall.

“Bugger,” she said. “Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.”

From Severus’ point of view the meeting with the Headmaster went well. He dropped the little snippet of gossip that Lucius had a mistress into the conversation quite early, and allowed him to draw his own conclusions about the need for Severus also to have his own Status Symbol.

“I don’t know who we can find to act the part,” Albus said in a worried tone of voice. “I mean, there’s always Nymphadora Tonks. We could get her to scrub up….”

Severus shook his head. “I’m sorry Headmaster. Whilst I can see that it would be useful to have a fellow Order member involved – “ take the hint when it’s dropped on you from a great height you bearded twit - “I do think that most of my confreres will have met Tonks in her professional capacity at some time or another.” Some of them were even related to her, though they wouldn’t admit to it in public.

Albus looked wise, and nodded his agreement. “I can see your point, Severus.” There were several minutes of prolonged beard stroking and cogitation before he added, “I have a suggestion to make, Severus. And I want you to hear me out, before you jump down my throat and start criticising me. How about Hermione Granger?”

Severus pursed his lips in apparent dissatisfaction, and gave the matter serious consideration. “If you insist, Headmaster,” he said, with evident reluctance. “But I must insist that it is made clear to her, that she is to follow my instructions to the letter. I don’t want her going off on a frolic of her own, and putting her, and my, life in danger.”

“Fair enough.” Albus’ self-congratulatory smile faded when he realised that, whilst he may have won over Severus with little or no argument, the matter still had to be broached with Miss Granger. “I don’t suppose you’d care to ask her yourself…”

Albus’ faint hope of getting away with it faded in the face of Severus’ regretful, “I think it would come better from you Headmaster. After all, she respects your judgement.”

Albus interrupted his preening to summon a house elf and despatch it with a request for Miss Granger to join them. It was barely ten minutes later, which Severus occupied with wondering what the latest Pet Mudblood wore on these occasions, and shifting uncomfortably in his chair, before they were joined by Hermione.

She was feeling relatively cross. Her chance at propositioning Severus had been snatched away from her, and now the Old Goat was going to ask her to do Something Annoying. She felt fairly sure that it would be Annoying, on the basis that everything else he had ever asked her to do had been Annoying, and Inconvenient, if not damned Uncomfortable. And if he was looking for someone to stick with the arrangements for the Hallowe’en Ball, he could damned well shove them.

“Hermione,” began the Headmaster portentously.

Bugger, she thought. This time it’s something really serious, like overseeing the Hogsmeade weekend. She still had nightmares about the last trip, even though Young Pemberton’s nose had been successfully re-attached; she felt the little Incident was a reflection on her abilities as a teacher. Largely because her colleagues had been very quick to assure her that this was the case.

“Hermione,” Albus said. “I have to ask you to undertake a dangerous and onerous task…”

Bugger. It is the Hogsmeade weekend. I can’t. I’ve got a note from my Mum excusing me. The dog ate my permission slip and I can’t leave the castle.

“It appears that Severus needs a Girlfriend.”

“Whilst it may be true that getting Professor Snape shagged on a regular basis might be good for him,” she said frostily. “I fail to see what this has to do with me.” The sneaky little sod had gone behind her back to make sure she had to go out with him. It was sweet in a deranged, underhanded, sneaky sort of way.

“For his spying work,” continued Dumbledore, as if she hadn’t said anything.

“Me? You must be daft,” she scoffed. No point making it easy for him.

“Of course, if you’re not brave enough,” sneered Severus. “I can always find someone else.”

And there he’d got her; she had a choice of looking like a coward or spending the evening down the pub with his mates.

“Very well,” she sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

***

Hermione had, like any girl getting ready for a date, fretted about what to wear. Should she wear robes, or, since she was supposed to be a Pet Mudblood, should she wear a Muggle outfit. Would the occasion be formal and require a skirt, or could she get away with a pair of trousers?

Questions. Questions.

Hermione looked at the heap of clothes piled on her bed and decided there was only one thing for it. The ‘date’ was scheduled for tomorrow, and she needed to know what to wear. She would have to go and talk to Severus.

She hadn’t been keen at first; she had been very pointedly Not Talking to Severus in the intervening period, but the more she thought about it, the more advantages she could see. Frankly, the silent treatment wasn’t working; it was time to see what putting him on the spot could achieve.

Although that did mean she had moved from considering what to wear on the ‘date’ to what to wear to go to see Severus in his rooms. There was a horrid moment when the whole bloody process started again, until she pulled herself together and plumped for the maroon robes with the plunging neckline again.

Severus certainly seemed to appreciate her choice when he opened his door to her. His, “What the hell do you mean by …”, obviously intended for the student he expected to find knocking on his door, died on his lips.

She took advantage of his absorption with her neckline to slip into his rooms uninvited, and say briskly, “I thought we ought to have a little chat about what you wanted me to do tomorrow?”

His gulp was clearly audible. “Do?” he quavered, his mind obviously in the gutter. Then he recovered himself, and moved smoothly onto the offensive. “Why, Miss Granger, all you have to do is appear to be my suitably deferent girlfriend. All that is required is gazing at me in an adoring fashion, hanging on my every words, and agreeing with everything that I say.” He smirked.

“We are going to be there for more than five minutes,” she replied, acerbically. “They’ll never believe it.”

“True,” he sighed. “It would have been nice though; it would really have impressed The Lads… er …and obviously that’s important so I can get information from them.”

Hermione made herself comfortable on the sofa, and patted the seat next to her. “Well, if impressing The Lads is so important – for information gathering purposes – we could try something a little more realistic.”

Severus sat gingerly next to her. He felt uneasy; she was up to something. If she hadn’t forgiven him for the Mudblood comment, she could be up to something nasty. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, no one is going to believe subservient from me are they?” He shook his head. “But how about a stormy and tempestuous relationship, with lots of arguing, but even more Making Up?”

Severus was so busy turning this idea over in his mind that he failed to notice Hermione shuffling closer. Grytpype-Thynne would doubtless sneer that she seemed a bit uppity for a Mudblood, which would be particularly amusing if he was stupid enough to do it in Hermione’s hearing, and he could reply with a smirk and a nudge in the kidneys – just a little too hard – and a comment to the effect that she was a little Spitfire in bed.

He suddenly became aware that Hermione was a lot closer to him, her lips close to his ears and saying something about needing to practice.

“Practice?” he said plaintively.

“Oh, yes.” She ran a tongue round the rim of his ear. “I mean we need to look as if we have been shagging each other senseless, don’t we?”

“Er, yes?” Surely that was a trick question.

“So we wouldn’t want to look awkward or anything if we kissed…”

She had a point, and anyway he had no chance to voice an objection before Hermione very sensibly took matters into her own hands and kissed him.

Oh, Mudbloods were friskier, he thought faintly as Hermione explored his mouth with commendable thoroughness, and then he pulled her closer and showed her that Purebloods knew a thing or two, to her evident satisfaction.

Barely twenty minutes later, Hermione was plastered to his chest, and his hand was inching its way along the back of her leg, beneath her robes. His fingers moved in interesting patterns on the back of her knee, surprising a squeak out of Hermione, and then a shuddering sigh.

He was just on the point of progressing to more interesting and advanced territory, when she pulled herself free with a regretful sigh. “I think it’s time I was in bed.”

Severus smirked at her. “I couldn’t agree more.” He was puzzled when she pulled herself free and started straightening her robes. “Erm, I thought we were…”

“We were just practising,” she said. Before he had a chance to register any disappointment, not to mention start some serious sulking, she added, “You know, for the main event, tomorrow.” And then, just in case he’d missed the point, which was likely because he didn’t appear to be exactly thinking straight at the moment she added, “After I’ve met all your disreputable friends and neither of us have to get up early in the morning.”

The moment the penny dropped was signalled by a broadening of his smirk, before he reminded himself that he was trying to be terribly enigmatic about the whole business. Severus watched Hermione depart with fond eyes that lingered on her form. Not only did he have a Girlfriend, but he was also On A Promise.

To his credit, he had absolutely no intention of sharing that with The Lads at all.

In the end Hermione elected to wear the maroon robes for her ‘date’; Severus certainly seemed to appreciate them and therefore it seemed logical that his friends would too. She had a horrible feeling that she was going to be treated to an evening reminiscent of the post-Quidditch match parties that Harry was so fond of, which involved lots of men standing around, talking nonsense, and trying to score points off each other. The presence of a woman would only exacerbate the natural tendencies of boys to show off. On the other hand, she had a working knowledge of Quidditch, so she should be able to hold her own in conversation, and she didn’t think she’d have to put her hand in her pocket to buy a drink all evening.

She strongly suspected Severus was a tight git, but the rest of them would be falling over themselves to be nice to her, either because they wanted to suck up to Severus or because they were looking for something they could use against him.

Severus had disappeared earlier in the evening to go to the main meeting, leaving her with strict instructions to be at the gates to Hogwarts at 11 pm. He was, of course, late, but she could hardly complain. He could scarcely put his hand up and ask for permission to be excused from a Death Eater meeting on the basis that he had a date.

Not and expect to live anyway.

She was cold, she was worried about Severus, and she didn’t like the way the bushes were rustling at her. It was bloody frightening out here on her own; she was a city girl, born and bred, and looked on the countryside with a degree of reservation that bordered on suspicion.

There was a pop behind – someone had apparated in – and whilst common sense indicated that it was most likely Severus, her instincts kicked in, she spun on her heel and drew her wand in one smooth movement ready to face whatever was behind her.

It was a Death Eater. That much was obvious from the robes and the bloody mask. She couldn’t help the atavistic chill of fear that ran up her spine, and her voice was slightly tremulous as she said, “For god’s sake Severus, if that’s you, take that mask off before I hex you.”

A muffled ‘oops, sorry’ came from behind the mask, which was removed to reveal a slightly sheepish Severus. “I forgot,” he said, “I don’t know why; it’s bloody uncomfortable.”

“You frightened the life out of me,” she said, still a bit flustered.

“Sorry. I was a bit pre-occupied.”

“Yes, well, I can imagine that tonight’s meeting would make anyone nervous.”

Severus nodded, relieved she was being so understanding. “I’ve never taken a girl to meet The Lads before.”

“I meant your earlier meeting.”

“Oh. That. It was annoying and dull by turns. His Lordship was particularly verbose tonight. Fortunately, Lucius owes me a favour so I was able to slip away from the interminable cocktail party.”

Severus looked tired, and pinched, and she felt a great surge of annoyance. This whole business was taking far too long. She didn’t know whether it was Albus or Harry that was at fault, but she was going to sort it out. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after, depending on how well tonight went.

“Right. Are you set then?” She plucked at an imaginary piece of lint on his robes. “Are there any last minute instructions for me?”

“Well Grytpype-Thynne is a bit of a bastard really, so I’d watch out for him. He’s been trying to get one up on me for years. Bloodnok is a tight bastard, so you have to keep an eye on him to make sure he’s going to stand his round. Seagoon is a bit of a berk, but Smudger’s ok, as long as you keep him away from the darts.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Severus was mildly surprised to find that Hermione seemed a little nervous. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Absolutely fine. And if someone insults or annoys you, I’ll hex their balls off. You can’t say fairer than that.”

Hermione snorted with laughter. “Is this some obscure Pureblood thing? Because I’m perfectly capable of hexing their balls off for myself.”

“It’s nothing less than good manners. It’s a gentleman’s duty to protect his guest.” Severus was perfectly serious. He was also perfectly serious about offering her his arm to apparate.

“Where are we going?” she asked. She needed a destination to apparate to. Double apparition was difficult, dangerous, and not the stuff of romance; she could well end up splinched or splattered over a large area.

“The entrance to Diagon Alley. The pub’s close by; we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“It’s a Muggle pub?” She was surprised to hear that a collection of diehard Purebloods would deign to cross the threshold of such an establishment, much less come back on a regular basis.

“Well we could hardly hang around in Diagon Alley could we? Someone would be bound to notice, and one of these young and eager Death Eaters would be telling tales faster than you can say ‘Salazar Slytherin’. Anyway, the landlord gives us free peanuts and crisps; we don’t get that in any Wizarding establishment.”

Hermione wasn’t surprised; she had the feeling that you wouldn’t want to encourage The Lads, and that was even if you didn’t know they were the local chapter of the Death Eaters.

They apparated on the count of three, and appeared in a poorly-lit side street which smelled faintly of rubbish. Hermione had to admit there was something almost exciting about all this sneaking around; certainly more exciting than another night sat in front of the fire reading a book and contemplating the best way to get one over on the other teachers.

It was a short walk, and then they were at the door, so shabby she nearly missed it. Severus courteously held the door open for her, and she crossed the threshold into the Pub. The Lads doubtless thought that the Pub was cosy; they’d be wrong. It was dirty, it was dingy, and it was apparently full of people in dark robes. How did they manage to explain that to the landlord? Freemasonry? Trainspotting? Dungeons and Dragons?

“Good grief, it looks like word has spread.” Severus was taken aback to see a full complement of The Lads; usually one or other of them would sneak off somewhere else and then turn up for the next meeting with wild tales of assignations and evildoing. Usually, it was because the missus wouldn’t let them out that night, or there might be something particularly good on the Wizarding Wireless that they didn’t want to miss. There was a tacit agreement that no one would pry too deeply into anyone’s reason for absence; they all had far too much to lose for that. Once someone’s reputation as heartless monster was destroyed it took several months of concentrated sneering before he was allowed to rebuild it.

A second glance showed that there were no more than fifteen people there, and the impression of crowding was simply due to the fact that it was a very small room. Nonetheless Hermione couldn’t help clutching at Severus in alarm when a tall, thin shape approached her and said, “Are you a Mudblood then?”

There was that same cold finger of fear on her spine again. These may be Severus’ friends and she may well suspect that they were about as dangerous as a herd of sheep, but that didn’t prevent an ingrained reaction to those damned robes. A Death Eater was asking her whether she was a Mudblood; she could only hope that the next words weren’t something along the lines of ‘cower at my feet, scum’. This wasn’t, she thought, the time for hexing, so she simply nodded.

“Great. Maybe you can explain the Offside Rule to me.”

“For Quidditch?” Hermione was surprised to be asked such an odd question. Perhaps it was a test to see if she was sufficiently assimilated into the Wizarding World.

“Nah, for football.”

Hermione could see that there was a television tucked away high in one corner. Doubtless the landlord turned it on whenever there was a match on, assuming that these were like any other Englishman and obsessed with the Footie. She could imagine what had happened. At first they would have gathered round to sneer at the silly Muggles and wonder why they bothered when they hadn’t got broomsticks, and then, gradually they’d been sucked in.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bloodnok, I don’t think Hermione takes that much of an interest in sport of any sort.” Severus was exasperated. He hadn’t expected Hermione to be badgered for information on Muggle culture. Still, there were more embarrassing questions they could be asking. Such as: how long had they been Going Out? And: How many times a night?

“Well I don’t,” said Hermione. “But I know a man who does. My Dad sometimes referees local Sunday League matches.”

“Has he got a whistle?” Bloodnok asked eagerly.

“A whistle, yellow and red cards and a little notebook to take down the names of the players when they transgress.”

The Lads were impressed. They were even more impressed when Hermione took out her Mobile phone and made a call. “Dad? Hello. I’m in a Pub. Some bloke wants to know about the offside rule. You wouldn’t mind running through it for him would you?”

Hermione kept making little ‘hmmm, hmmm’ noises into her phone, and then began assembling some empty pint glasses. “Right, now the end of the table is the goal, right?” Bloodnok nodded. “And these are the defenders…. Right so the attacking footballer comes along….”

Severus watched in amusement as The Lads gathered round to be lectured on the intricacies of Football. Hermione was definitely in her element instructing people; it was a surprise that she hated teaching so much. Maybe it was the lack of an appreciative audience when in the classroom that made the difference.

He felt so cheerful about the whole business that he slipped away to the Bar to get the first round in.

“Bloody hell,” said Smudger, as he brushed past. “Is it Christmas and I didn’t notice?”

“You don’t have to have a drink if you don’t want one.” Severus was rummaging in his pockets for the Muggle money so carefully provided by Dumbledore for this evening after much grumbling.

“Don’t be daft. Mine’s a pint. Of Brandy, since you’re feeling so generous.”

“You’ll have bitter, like the rest of them, and like it.” He was hoping to skim some of it off and buy himself a copy of Even More Potente Potions. Pince had refused to order him a copy on the entirely accurate basis that it had nothing to do with the curriculum. Cow.

“You know what they say,” Smudger replied. “You are what you drink.”

“And I’m a bitter man.” It was an old joke, but it never failed to make them smirk.

Severus considered the crowd before him. They’d drink whatever was put before them, and not complain, but they were all very picky about their choice of crisps. Get them the wrong flavour and he’d never hear the end of it. “Fifteen pints of bitter, four cheese and onion, three plain, and two salt and vinegar please.”

“What are you going to get your young lady?” prompted Smudger, with a faint grin.

Bugger. He could hardly get her a pint of bitter, and shouting across a crowded pub to find out what she wanted would make The Lads suspicious. He really ought to know what she liked to drink if they’d been going out for simply ages, and he didn’t think they’d buy the excuse that they’d been spending so much time in bed the issue of drinks preferences had never arisen.

The Barman noticed his hesitation and assumed it was due to doubts about the ability of his establishment to provide the necessary refreshments. “We have a full wine list, Sir,” he said with a reproachful air. “We even have Cocktails. Perhaps Madam would like a long slow comfortable screw against the wall?” The man was only saved from the pointy end of a wand by the interposition of the Cocktail Menu between him and Severus, and pointing at the offending drink with his finger.

Severus read the list with increasing fascination. He couldn’t resist temptation. “Hermione, darling,” he called across the room. “Would you like a Slippery Nipple?”

“No thank you, but I wouldn’t say no to Sex on the Beach.”

The Lads were watching the exchange with bated breath. They were talking about Sex, and Sex was, probably, on balance, taking all things into consideration, more interesting than Football. Though Football was easier to come by, even for the married men; Football was on twice a week.

“I don’t know what you lot are all looking at. It’s a drink,” sneered Severus, with the advantage of five minutes further knowledge.

The Lads breathed a collective sigh of relief. They’d heard rumours about the kinky things that the Inner Circle got up to, and although it was pleasant to fantasise about frisky Mudbloods, they didn’t necessarily want to see that Sort of Thing, thank you very much.

Especially not with Severus.

Severus paid the enormous bill with bad grace, and a pained expression. “Drinks are on the bar,” he announced to the room, and then entered into a complicated juggling exercise to bring Hermione’s drink, his pint, and a packet of plain crisps over to where she was standing.

She plucked the crisps from his hands, and then took her drink and smiled up at him quite shyly. “I think it’s going quite well so far.”

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a call from the dartboard. “Oi, Severus, leave your bint alone, it’s your turn.”

Severus turned, ready to snarl at The Lad in question, but Hermione put her hand on his arm and said, “No, you go and have some fun. I’ll be alright here on my own.”

Severus looked a bit suspicious but he went anyway. There was one lone figure at the Bar, still supping his pint, and keeping an eye on The Lads. Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye, whilst pretending to admire Severus. Not that there was a great deal of pretending involved in that. It was odd to see him so lively, so animated, and, well frankly, bickering. It was rather better-natured bickering than she was used to seeing from him, though she wouldn’t go so far as to say he actually liked any of them.

Boys were Odd, and that was all you could say on the matter; trying to understand them would only give you a Headache.

Another drink was called for. She moved to the Bar, and waited patiently to be served. The barman was busy in what was presumably the Saloon Bar – she’d hate to think that this was the Saloon Bar – and it took several minutes for him to take her order.

When her vodka and coke came, the figure slouching against the bar fumbled for money in his pocket. “No, let me get this. A lady shouldn’t have to buy her own drink.” If he were a woman, he would be called jolie laide – he wasn’t handsome precisely, but he had an interesting face that invited you to be his friend.

“Erm, thank you.” The transaction completed, she waited until the anonymous Lad had secreted his change about his person before taking the bull by its horns, and holding her hand out to be shaken. “I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”

The man carefully wiped his hand on his robes, before grasping her hand firmly. “Smudger.”

“Pleased to meet you Smudger.” Hermione couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. She couldn’t ask the usual meaningless social questions, because it might lead to a very nasty impasse. She felt a moment of empathy for the Queen; always meeting new people, always asking the same daft questions, and probably bored rigid with it. ‘And how long have you been a Death Eater, Smudger. Good. Good. And what made you decide to join. How very interesting. And would you like to murder all Muggles or is that limited to Mudblood Witches. I see.’

“So you and old Severus, eh?” Smudger asked.

Hermione nodded.

“Fond of him are you?”

Hermione nodded again. “Very.”

The conversation lapsed for a little, both sides having run out of uncontroversial topics. Hermione, uncomfortable with silence, fell back into awful cliché. “So, do you come here often?”

She winced as soon as she said it, though it seemed that the phrase had none of the connotations it did in the Muggle world, or, if it did, Smudger was nice enough to ignore them. “Pretty much. There’s a big Inner Circle meeting about once a month, just for the high mucky-mucks, at Malfoy Manor and then the rest of us poor sods get hauled out from time to time whenever His Lordship fancies a bit of trouble.

“Not that we ever actually do anything,” he added hurriedly, suddenly realising who he was talking to. “Old Malfoy is too busy shagging his Pet Mudblood to give a shit, and he normally hands it over to Old Snapey here, and we come up with some sort of story to satisfy His Lordship.”

A look of consternation crossed Smudger’s face. “And not that Old Snapey thinks of you as his Pet Mudblood, no, indeed. That’s just Malfoy, and we know he’s a bastard.” Smudger faltered into silence, clearly determined to stop digging as the hole was already large enough.

Hermione took pity on him. “Malfoy is a bastard,” she agreed. “And a stuck up ponce to boot.”

Smudger brightened. “He is, isn’t he?” Clearly ‘Malfoy is a bastard’ was a bit of a recurrent theme with the boys, and the man was no more popular on his own side than he was with Order members. “Swanning around, like he owns the place, just because he bloody well does. It’s not on.”

“Yeah, but is he happy?” she asked.

Smudger blinked at her. “Of course he is,” he said, speaking slowly and carefully, “he’s filthy rich and he’s married to the best looking bird in our year. Of course he’s bleeding happy.”

Hermione didn’t fancy explaining existential angst to Smudger, so she contented herself with, “She looks like a right stuck-up cow though. I bet she nags him for putting his elbows on the table something chronic.”

“That’s true.” This was obviously a new thought for Smudger.

“And you wouldn’t want that would you. Not after a hard day’s trying to take over the world. You want someone to bring you a nice glass of Firewhiskey and your slippers: make you feel at home.”

Smudger was staring off into space now: his new thought had been joined by a friend, and the unaccustomed effort was making his eyes cross. “Do you bring Severus his slippers?”

She nodded. “Just between you and me,” she nudged him with her elbow, “sometimes I give him a foot rub as well. Makes him really relaxed.”

“No.” His disbelief made it sound like she’d admitted to performing kinky sexual acts involving a feather duster and a stick of celery. “You’re bloody wonderful you are,” he sobbed, brokenly. “Severus is a lucky, lucky sod. I wish I had a girlfriend like you.”

She patted his arm soothingly. “I’m sure your girlfriend is just as nice to you.”

There was a muffled mumbling from behind his sleeve as he wiped his eyes to the effect that he hadn’t got a girlfriend.

“What, a well set-up bloke like you? You must have.”

He peered at her with suspicious eyes, but was satisfied that she was being sincere. “Well, it’s the Death Eater thing, isn’t it? None of the nice girls want to go out with one, and it’s a bit hard to keep secret really.”

“So why do you still follow He-who-must-not-be-named then?” she asked, trying to sound offhand.

“We can’t all be spies like Severus,” Smudger replied.

“You know…” Hermione broke off her high-pitched squeal and continued, in a more normal voice, “I mean, you think Severus is a spy.”

Smudger patted her hand fondly. “Of course he is. Stands to reason doesn’t it. It’s the only reason he’d hang out with those bastards. He’d much rather be here with his old muckers, but he has to go to Malfoy’s cocktail parties- “ here Smudger stuck out his little finger – “and drink purple drinks with umbrellas in them off of trays with doilies. It’s inhumane what that man expects him to do.”

“What man?” asked Hermione, biting her lip.

“Dumbledore. He’s almost as much a bastard as His Lordship, isn’t he?”

“God, yes.” Hermione’s agreement was fervent even though she hadn’t got a proper basis for comparison, and never hoped to have.

They contemplated their drinks, united in feeling hard done to by the world. They sighed.

Hermione reminded herself that there was no point in feeling maudlin, that she was going to sort the problem of His Lordship out on Sunday, and that then she would be free of Dumbledore. Right. She stood up a little bit straighter. Though now she had the added complication of making sure that whatever plan she came up with wouldn’t get The Lads in any trouble. They were rather sweet, though they’d deny it to their dying breath.

“So, how long have you known Severus?” she asked.

“Since school. Hogwarts,” he added unnecessarily. “We were in the same year.”

“So did you … erm… join up together, so to speak?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” Smudger said suspiciously. “’Ere you’re not one of those reporters are you?”

Hermione sighed. “No, I’m a spy like Severus. I’m just not very good at it yet. You won’t tell anyone will you?”

He patted her hand again. “Don’t worry, dear, your secret is safe with me.” He seemed to think that more was called for because, after burping discreetly and begging her pardon, he added, “You’re not that bad either. It took me ages to work it out. With a bit of practice you’ll almost be as good as Severus. He’s a crafty sod you know, a very crafty sod indeed.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

“I just wish he’d hurry up and get His Lordship sorted out, one way or another. The way I hear it even the Inner Circle are getting a bit twitchy about things.”

“Really?” she said, and then smiled broadly. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, and you can tell me all about it.”

Smudger looked at his empty glass, and back at Hermione’s friendly face, then uttered the words that would eventually see him earn an Order of Merlin (Second Class). “Aye, right oh.”

****

Hermione and Smudger were so deep in conversation that they barely noticed when Severus came to join them. She jumped when a heavy arm was placed round her shoulder, and a face was thrust between them, which said, “What are you two up to then?”

“Plotting,” she said sweetly. It was, after all, the truth.

“That’sh good.”

She realised, with a sense of disappointment, that Severus was pished again. Judging from the smirks of some of The Lads, they’d been either egging him on, or even spiking his drinks. She took his pint glass from him and sniffed at the contents. Nothing obvious. She took a swig and nearly choked. Brandy! The devious little sods had been slipping him brandy.

She gave them all a very hard glare, and they shuffled their feet and looked shamefaced, which was about as convincing from them as it was from Harry and Ron, and she didn’t have the luxury of grasping this lot by their ears and giving them a dressing down.

Give it a couple of evenings like this, and the temptation would be almost unbearable. They all, very clearly, needed Taking In Hand.

“Right, come on you. It’s time we were heading off,” she said to an increasingly affectionate Severus, who was now winding himself round her like honeysuckle round a trellis. Something that would have given him fits in a more sober frame of mind, but which she found oddly touching. If drink revealed the true nature of a person, Severus Snape was a bit of a soppy git.

He allowed himself to be hauled off with one last smirk at The Lads.

Severus was also an affectionate drunk. Hermione’s indignant protests that his breath stank were stifled as he kissed her in the alley. She wasn’t sure whether it was the brandy or his abilities, but when he finally raised his head she was feeling decidedly wobbly and very keen that they should apparate back to Hogwarts as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, the chill of the Scottish night air seemed to make him more drunk, if that was possible, and she found herself first steadying him, then half carrying him back to his rooms.

“You were getting on very well with Smudger. You didn’t like any of them better than me?” he asked anxiously as they crossed the threshold. “Because you’re my girlfriend, and you’re supposed to like me the best.”

“I didn’t like any of them better than you.” They’d reached the bed by now, and she was trying to get him to let go, but he was clinging on for grim death.

“They were all jealous of me, because I had a girlfriend. They said you were pretty. You are pretty.”

“Thank you Severus. That’s very nice. But don’t you think it was time you were in bed?”

“Oooh,” he leered. “You’re frisky tonight. Sounds fun though,” and with that he collapsed onto the bed taking her with him, then performed a complicated manoeuvre which ended up with her pinned to the bed under him. He then promptly fell asleep, leaving Hermione feeling more than a little cheated.

She couldn’t manage to free herself from the human octopus that was Severus Snape. She was his favourite teddy bear and his human hot water bottle all rolled into one package, and he wasn’t letting go. If she managed to remove an arm, then a leg would move over her; if she managed to remove a leg, then a hand would come up to pat her head and he would mumble something in his sleep.

In the end, she succumbed to the inevitable, wriggled around to get more comfortable, and disposed herself for sleep. Severus gave another contented mumble, and snuggled up to her. “Severus Snape,” she said softly, “I am going to make you pay for this.” She dropped a kiss on his cheek, closed her eyes, and drifted off.

Hermione was still clutched to a sleeping Severus when she woke the next day. Her arm had gone to sleep, and the air was filled with muttered cursing as she tried to massage some life back into it.

It didn’t disturb Severus.

Hermione poked him in the ribs. It was a rather forceful prod, all things considered, as she was still feeling rather aggrieved about the Night before, or rather the distinct lack of a Night before. Her prodding had the desired effect, and Severus began to stir. First a hand twitched, and then tentatively explored its surroundings, until it had clearly established that Severus was not alone.

An eye opened and regarded her with surprise, and then softened into lazy contentment. Despite her determination to make him Suffer for his many and varied sins, she couldn’t help returning his smile, and of course one thing led to another and before she knew it she was returning his caresses.

It may not be conducive to Good Discipline to have given in so easily, but it would have been ill-mannered to attempt to discuss anything at a time like that.

And besides, he really was rather good.

Make that exceptionally good.

Afterwards they lay melted together in a boneless heap of contentment and Hermione simultaneously wondered how long an interval she had to wait before she could ask for a repeat performance, whether he might be might be agreeable to some of the more interesting ideas she had had, and could she have a cup of tea in the meantime, because she was parched.

She was a girl and therefore capable of thinking several, complex thoughts at once. Severus on the other hand, being a boy, wasn’t really thinking anything more complicated than Feel Good.

He’d found something that he liked doing more than a night out with The Lads.

Which made him think of Smudger, and how Hermione had spent an awfully long time talking to him last night.

“Hermione?” he said, semi-plaintively. “What were you talking about with Smudger last night?”

“I told you, plotting.”

“Oh.” He continued twining her hair round a finger. “What about?”

“The usual: ending the rule of evil and bringing about world peace. I’ll tell you about it this afternoon.”

“Will that include getting rid of Dumbledore?” he muttered darkly.

“Of course, dear. Have you known me be less than thorough?”

“Well, I do think you may have missed a bit earlier.” Severus raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

“I hardly think so,” Hermione said. “But if you need reminding…..” and she went to work with a will.

Several hectic hours later – she even managed to fit in a restorative cup of tea – Hermione was luxuriating in a hot bath in Severus’ quarters, whilst he dealt with the Annoyance that was Albus.

She took advantage of her time in the bath to ponder tactics, in between thinking fondly of that morning’s activities. Smudger had been obliging enough to give her a complete rundown on the Death Eater side of things, now all she needed was to know what on earth Dumbledore thought he was playing at. This meant she would have to make the ultimate sacrifice and have tea with Minerva, and listen to hours of gushing about how wonderful Albus was.

Then all she needed to do was get Harry and Ron on board – you couldn’t ignore the fact that one was the Instrument of Prophecy, and the other was the Best Friend of the Instrument of Prophecy – and then devise a plan. She would then have to let the boys think that they had thought of it first, and then it would be a simple matter of putting it into effect.

Satisfied that she was more than half way to solving the Wizarding World’s problems – the trick was to break each task down into little steps, and work out how to achieve each one – she dried herself off, wrapped herself in Severus’ second best dressing gown and prepared to sneak back to her rooms.

She was fortunate not to be seen by any children – doubtless all heading off to Hogsmeade and as many sweets as one small person could consume in a two hour period – before letting herself into her rooms and falling onto the bed in an untidy heap.

She spent fully half an hour smiling broadly idiotically at the ceiling before she managed to pull herself together. There was a Wizarding World to be saved, and it wouldn’t be sorted out by lolling around on the bed.

Clothes, that’s what she needed. Clothes, and then a note to Minerva.

Minerva, it seemed, was free for tea. Minerva was free for tea because Severus was still ensconced in a meeting with Albus. Minerva wasn’t really very happy with Albus, because he’d promised to take her out to Diagon Alley for lunch.

Normally, Hermione would only listen with one ear to the latest difficulties in their ongoing relationship. There was only a certain amount of wrinkly sex one could bear having outlined without wanting to run screaming from the room. It wasn’t that she couldn’t see the attraction of an older man, but at least Severus was firm in all the right places. And the arse was undoubtedly as magnificent to the touch as it looked.

Oops. Drooling over the tea table wasn’t likely to encourage confidences. Mind back on the job.

Albus was a pig. Albus was inconsiderate. Albus was a two-faced lying bastard.

Well, that was all true, but what on earth had caused the scales to fall away from Minerva’s eyes. Rather worried that asking that question would lead to more revelations of a wrinkly sexual nature, Hermione took her courage in her hands, and asked.

Minerva huffed, and then prepared to unburden herself to a nominally sympathetic ear. “I don’t know Hermione, something seems to have changed. He spent years chasing me, and persuading me to go out with him, and he was wonderful and considerate and romantic. We’ve been going out for a couple of years now, and last Valentine’s day he proposed.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that; you’ve been keeping that very quiet.”

Minerva nodded, and took another sip of tea. “Yes, he didn’t want the news getting out before the little matter with He-who-must-not-be-named was dealt with. He said he didn’t want to make me a target. Now I’m wondering. He seems to have gone right off the idea.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“Of course.” Minerva sighed. “But you know how slippery he can be. There’s always a staff meeting, or an Order meeting, or a Severus meeting. I mean, how long can it take for Severus to tell Albus that nothing particularly exciting happened last night? Nothing did, did it?”

Hermione shrugged. “Not as far as I know. I didn’t go to the main meeting, but to what you might call a post-meeting party. I think we picked up some useful information though.”

“And they treated you well? I must say, I was very worried when Albus told me that you’d agreed to go with Severus.”

Hermione pondered quite how much to tell Minerva. The entire truth was out of the question, but if planning and plotting were to take place, Minerva may well have a useful part to play. It would be useful if they didn’t have to spend a couple of hours going through the ‘no, they weren’t as bad as all that’ arguments first. “I think there is a fair amount of dissatisfaction in the ranks of The Lads, one way or another. They weren’t going to open up to a strange Mudblood on my first visit, but I did get the feeling that there could be a chance to persuade them that there might be other opportunities available to them. Severus has managed to do a wonderful job of keeping them out of the trouble.”

“The Lads?”

“That’s what Severus calls them.”

Minerva gave her a curious glance. “Severus, eh?”

Hermione was carefully bland when she said, “Of course we’re on first name terms now. It’s difficult pretending to be someone’s Pet if you’re calling them Professor Snape.”

Minerva gave an undignified snort. “Come off it. No one goes around with that dopey expression if they haven’t been up to something a little more friendly than being on first name terms.” Her smile faded, and her tone became more serious. “Oh, my dear, he’s not pulling the same trick on you is he? Asking you to keep it secret, because if he is….”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t think so. We haven’t really talked about it, we’ve barely had a chance to, but I doubt he wants to keep it a secret from anyone. Although it might be better if Albus didn’t find out, for various reasons.”

“Well he won’t hear it from me, Hermione. We’re barely talking as it is, and frankly I wouldn’t give him the steam off my piss at the moment.”

Hermione spat tea all down her front, and spent the next five minutes dabbing ineffectually at herself with an accio’d cloth, whilst bitterly complaining about Minerva’s inappropriate language. “For god’s sake, Minerva. You’re deputy Headmistress, the Head of Gryffindor, and should be setting me a good example. I don’t expect to hear language like that from you!”

Minerva was slightly repentant. “Well,” she said, a little sheepish, “he bloody deserves it.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t; just, can we keep announcements like that for occasions when my mouth isn’t full of scalding tea?”

“I wouldn’t have expected the girl who called Draco Malfoy a workshy little shit with the style of an alligator, and who would be vastly improved by being turned into a pair of shoes so you could have the pleasure of walking all over him every day, to be quite so mealy-mouthed,” sniffed Minerva. “And you can wipe that smirk off your face; you’ve clearly been spending far too much time with Severus.”

Hermione’s smirk broadened.

“That good?” Minerva asked, a little wistfully.

“Better, much better,” Hermione replied smugly.

“Do you know what? I think we deserve something a little stronger than tea. I can drown my sorrows and you can celebrate.”

“Bloody good idea Minerva.”

When Severus finally escaped from Albus and made his way to Hermione’s room he was surprised – and disappointed - to see Minerva was there. He was even more surprised to see that both of them were somewhat squiffy.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be drinking in the afternoon,” he said severely. “What if Albus were to find out?”

“Bugger Albus,” Minerva said firmly.

Hermione and Severus both winced at that mental picture.

“Do I take it that you two have had a falling out,” asked Severus, accepting a glass of firewhiskey with poor grace: if you couldn’t beat them, join them.

Minerva treated to Severus to a lengthy and scurrilous rundown of the failings of Albus Dumbledore.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Severus said, rolling his eyes.

Minerva took refuge in another glass of firewhiskey; she was hurt by his lack of sympathy, and said so.

“Apparently,” Hermione put in, “Albus promised to marry Minerva when this was all over, and is now trying to wriggle out of it.”

“The bastard. The absolute sodding bastard.” Severus rose from his chair in indignation and began pacing backwards and forwards in the admittedly limited space, swearing all the while.

“I notice you don’t tell him off for swearing,” Minerva said to Hermione.

“Well I expect it from him,” she replied. “Not to mention the fact he looks bloody sexy when he’s all excited like that.”

Minerva cast an assessing eye over Severus, then shrugged. “If you say so dear. I can't see it myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied Hermione firmly. “Because I’d hate to have to hex you.”

“When,” came Severus’ acerbic tones, “you two ladies have finished talking amongst yourselves, I would be grateful if I could have your attention. We have a serious problem here.”

“I’m touched that you’re so upset on my behalf,” said Minerva. “But really Severus, I think you’re over-reacting. I expect it’s just cold feet, and I’ll be able to get him sorted out once He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is finally sorted out.”

Severus took several deep breaths, clearly hanging on to his temper by his fingernails. “I am talking about the fact that Albus has passed up several good chances to take out His Lordship, apparently because he has entered into a betrothal that he now regrets.”

There was horrified silence from Minerva as she put the final pieces into the jigsaw, and came up with an unattractive picture. “The bastard,” she hissed. “The absolute sodding bastard.”

“I’ve already said that,” snapped Severus.

“You can’t deny it’s worth saying twice,” Hermione pointed out. He grunted. “So the question is, what are we going to do about it?”

“Well what can we do about it?” asked Minerva reasonably. “It’s not like I’ve ever been to that many Order meetings – Albus always made me stay at Hogwarts in case of emergency. I don’t think they’d take me seriously if I tipped up to the next meeting and accused Albus of being a bastard.”

“And they’ve never liked me anyway, so they won’t listen to me,” sulked Severus. “Especially that precious Potter. It’s hopeless.”

“I agree that Albus has a stranglehold on the Order, but why do we need to use them anyway?” asked Hermione with great patience; the answer seemed so obvious to her. “Obviously we need to get Harry on side, but you can leave that to me. As for the rest I think The Lads may provide us with the help that we need.”

“The Lads?” Severus scoffed. “They wouldn’t help anyone unless there was something in it for them.”

“Exactly.” Hermione smiled. “All we need to do is come up with a plan that allows them to get rid of His Lordship safely, and lets them come out smelling of roses. Easy.”

“I propose a toast,” said Minerva, holding her glass up. “To defeating the Dark Lord, double-crossing Albus, and The Lads.”

“The Lads,” chorused Severus and Hermione.

***

It was easy to decide to bring an end to His Lordship’s reign of terror. The difficulty lay in finding somewhere to meet Smudger without being seen by Aurors, Death Eaters or anyone who was likely to tattle to Albus. Minerva had a cottage stuck in the middle of nowhere, and was happy to lend it to the cause, but it would take some serious planning to allow the three of them to be absent from Hogwarts at the same time.

She’d made sure that Albus wouldn’t come within a fifteen-mile radius of the place by issuing an invitation to him to meet her there to discuss wedding arrangements, as she wanted everything in place for when the War ended.

When Albus had – at the last moment – been completely unable to accompany her, he was more than amenable to the suggestion that Hermione should go instead and had actually thanked her for taking time out of her weekend to look after Minerva.

Severus merely told the truth: that he was meeting Smudger and sounding him out on the feelings of the other Death Eaters.

Hermione and Minerva had gone ahead with a house elf, to air the cottage, put a casserole in the oven and the beer – Smudger didn’t strike Hermione as a wine drinker - under a slight cooling charm. The house elf had been sent back to Hogwarts to give them all the privacy that they needed, and Hermione and Minerva had made a cup of tea and were sat round the table eyeing the chocolate cake that had been ostensibly brought for afters with longing eyes, when the sharp crack of apparition distracted them.

They took up positions on either side of the door, wands in hand; there was no point in taking risks. Albus could very well have taken it into his head to be awkward at the last minute and turn up. As Minerva said, that could be sorted out by a quick Obliviate and an Imperio, but it would be sensible to get the drop on the old goat.

Fortunately, it was just Severus and Smudger.

Smudger wasn’t happy about being there, not happy at all, and his unhappiness only increased when he was greeted by two witches at wandpoint. He appeared to feel marginally better once the wands were shoved back up sleeves and – in Minerva’s case – into a very daring thigh holster. Smudger certainly seemed to appreciate the glimpse of leg he was afforded, before he remembered his manners and averted his gaze.

Minerva advanced on him with outstretched hand. “Mr Smudger, how nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Smudger wiped his hand on his robes, before shaking hands. “Please, just Smudger.”

“Then you must call me Minerva.”

Hermione thought that whilst Minerva’s leg had gone some way to softening Smudger up, it would be best to complete the process by applying chocolate cake and tea, which meant, of course, that they would have to partake merely to demonstrate that there wasn’t anything untoward in the cake.

Slytherin manners.

They needn’t have worried; Smudger was only too pleased at the offer of Chocolate cake, and seemed to think that the risk of poisoning was worth it, especially since it had raspberry jam filling and melted chocolate on the top. “Ooh, my favourite,” he said. “I’d do almost anything for a piece of cake, up to an including assassination.” He tucked in with a will then, once half the slice had been eaten, added through the crumbs, “And I do wonder what exactly you want me to do in return.”

“Perhaps you should have asked that before you ate the cake,” smirked Severus.

“Nah, mate. You should know by now that there’s no way on earth to get Old Smudger to do anything I don’t want to, chocolate cake or not.”

“Well we do have a proposition to put to you, Smudger,” Minerva said. “How would you like to help us bring freedom to the Wizarding World?”

Smudger paused in the act of transferring more cake into his mouth, his hand hovering midway. “Not much,” he said frankly. “It sounds risky.”

“How would you like to be famous and successful and have lots of young witches hanging on your every word?” Severus asked, glaring at Minerva. Trust a Gryffindor to go about it in the wrong way.

Smudger brightened. “Now that sounds fun. That sounds much, much better.” He took a large bite of cake, whilst the other three exchanged glances of self-congratulation. “Of course, I’d have to be stupid not to realise that you’re talking about the same thing really. And I’m not stupid.”

Hermione smiled and poured him another cup of tea. “Of course we know you’re not stupid Smudger, but it never hurts to point out that there are advantages to our suggestion, does it? After all, you’re not some daft Gryffindor who’s going to rush out to save the world without some sort of incentive.”

Smudger eyed them suspiciously, and then accepted a second piece of cake. “Alright, I can see the advantages of being the saviour of the Wizarding World. Potter seems to do well enough despite not actually doing anything for years. So, what’s your plan? And where do I fit into it?”

“Well,” said Hermione. “It’s not so much a plan as a Strategy. I mean, there’s no point going into details if you decide you don’t want to get involved, and you may well have some ideas yourself.”

“Makes sense.” Smudger wrinkled his nose. “Is that lunch I can smell?”

“Oops,” said Minerva, shooting out of her seat. “I hope it hasn’t burned.”

The casserole was cooked to perfection, to Smudger’s evident appreciation, though he looked askance at the short rations he was first offered. “That’s better,” he said, as Minerva heaped another couple of spoonfuls on his plate. “I’ve got to keep my strength up for plotting. First things first, why do you think this is the time to move, and why are you going round behind Dumbledore’s back?”

Hermione and Severus both looked at Minerva expectantly. It was for her to explain what was going on. “We feel that the Headmaster is overly cautious about the need to move onto the offensive, and that there is no reason to delay matters any further.”

Smudger, having been lied to by experts all his life, could tell that Minerva wasn’t telling him the truth and said so.

“Couldn’t you just accept that we have good reasons for thinking that Albus has got it wrong,” asked Hermione, with one eye on Minerva.

Smudger snorted. “You’re asking me to risk my life for you, and you’re asking me to trust you at the same time, but you won’t tell me what’s really going on. I don’t call those good odds.”

“But…” said Hermione.

“No dear, he has a right to know what’s going on.” Minerva flushed bright red. “Albus had promised to marry me after the War was over. It seems that he is now regretting that promise and is looking for ways to evade that prospect. This appears to have affected his judgement over what is the best course of action.”

Smudger sat there with his mouth open. “No, that can’t be right.”

“I can assure you it is,” Minerva said in a tight voice.

“Well he’s a bleeding idiot – pardon my language – for turning down a fine figure of a witch like yourself. An absolute bleeding idiot.”

Minerva flushed again, but for entirely different reasons.

“We think that Albus has turned down several good opportunities to bring matters to a head for that reason,” Severus said. “If you remember, a couple of months ago His Lordship took it into his head to have that meeting at Malfoy Manor. We could have surrounded the place and taken everyone down so easily.”

Smudger nodded his agreement. “That’s true. In fact I was shitting bricks the whole time we were there, expecting the Aurors to turn up at any minute.”

“I would have been conveniently ill, if that was the case. And so would the rest of The Lads. We would all have come down with something at the same time – a nasty case of Auroritis.”

Smudger looked gratified at the knowledge that Severus would actually tip them off. “Alright, so you’ve convinced me that now is the time to make a move, so what did you have in mind?”

“Right,” said Hermione, rather inelegantly with her mouth full. “Now we know that the Prophecy requires Harry to deal with His Lordship, so the basic idea is to get Harry into see him at a time when he’s on his own.”

Smudger nodded, swallowed his stew with an audible gulp, and said, “Makes sense. Which means you have to get past the Inner Circle, and they’re all evil bastards, aren’t they Severus? No offence.”

“None taken,” Severus said cheerfully, eating the stew with enthusiasm. “They are evil bastards, and Malfoy is the worst of them.”

Smudger nodded.

“So they’re all scared of him, right?” Hermione asked.

Smudger and Severus both nodded.

“So, if Lucius could be persuaded – say at wand point – to issue instructions to the rest of the Inner Circle, they’d probably obey?” Hermione continued. “Then the Aurors could pick them up one by one.”

“Yes,” Smudger replied, scratching his chin. “They would, but it’d be tricky to get the drop on old Lucius. He is a nasty piece of work. I don’t think there are many who are strong enough to Imperio the bastard. Severus here could do it; not many others.”

“And I don’t fancy doing something that could get me locked up by the Ministry,” Severus put in. “I don’t trust Dumbledore to keep me out of Azkaban, and I certainly don’t trust Fudge. Though I wouldn’t mind finding out how far I could throw him, purely in the interests of determining how little I should trust him.”

“You could try throwing him from a large cliff,” Hermione suggested. “I expect you could throw him a very long way then, which would be really misleading when it came to working out how much you could trust him, but would have the advantage of making the issue theoretical.”

Severus smirked. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Smudger held out his plate for seconds. “Well leaving aside the question of whether Fudge would bounce if you dropped him from a great height, how do we get round our little Lucius problem?”

“Polyjuice?” Minerva said.

“That’s not a bad idea. Old Snapey here can provide the potion, and all we need do is get hold of a bit of Luscious Lucy’s hair. Which won’t be tricky, because he sheds like a cat.”

Hermione flinched at the mention of cats in relation to polyjuice. Judging from the smirk on Severus’ face he was thinking of the same episode. “Yes, but it’s not just about looking like Lucius; you’ve got to sound like him too. The potion doesn’t manage that, or, so I’ve been told.”

“Lucius isn’t difficult. All you have to do is stick your nose in the air, like there’s a bad smell under it, and sneer about Mudbloods all the time.” Smudger demonstrated the proper angle for the nose. “Oh, Mudbloods are dirty and smelly and stupid, and we should kill them all,” Smudger sneered in a faultless impression of the Malfoy manner.

Hermione, Severus and Minerva just stared at him. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

“What?” What are you looking at me like that for? Smudger said uneasily. “Oh fuck, I’ve just broken the habit of a lifetime and volunteered, haven’t I?”

“I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job, Smudger,” said Minerva firmly.

“It’s too late to back out now,” added Severus.

“Well but there’s got to be something in it for me,” Smudger wheedled. “Allow a man his Slytherin pride.”

“Something other than seeing the Wizarding World free from blight?” Minerva said in disbelief.

Smudger nodded, a calculating expression on his face. “A pet Mudblood of my own.”

There was a horrified silence, and Severus’ fingers clenched round his knife and fork until his knuckles were white.

“That isn’t really a term we use in polite society,” Minerva said gently.

“Ah,” said Smudger, busying himself with his meal for a moment. “I’m not really used to polite society.”

“Why do you want a Muggle girlfriend?” asked Hermione.

“Well,” Smudger said, grateful for the conversational ladder extended to him so he could get out of the hole. “They seem to be so much more fun than Pureblood girls. I mean, they know about football and darts, and they don’t turn their noses up at going out for the evening in a Pub… I dunno, they’re just more fun.”

“So you haven’t got your heart set on a Muggleborn,” Hermione asked. “You just want a girl who likes the same sort of things that you like.”

“Yeah,” Smudger said. “I’m not getting any younger, and what with Old Snapey here settling down, well, it’s just got me to thinking.”

“I can’t promise you a Mudblood of your own, you know,” Hermione said. “But I’m sure that between us Minerva and I can introduce you to a couple of girls. And, of course, if we were to let drop just how brave you’d been, and how you’d been the one to help bring down His Lordship, well I’m sure that the young ladies would be flocking to your side.”

“I suppose,” said Smudger doubtfully. “I’ve never had much luck with Girls before now.”

“That was before you became a bona fide Hero,” said Minerva briskly. “Look at Old Snapey here. He wasn’t exactly a magnet for The Ladies until Hermione came along, but once she found out how Brave and how Clever he was, she was putty in his hands, weren’t you dear?”

Severus had looked irritated, soppy, then amused by turns during this peroration.

“Absolutely right,” said Hermione firmly. “Putty in his hands.”

She looked up, and found Severus was staring at her with a very affectionate gaze indeed which made her feel quite flushed, rather short of breath, and quite keen that the meeting should be brought to a climax as quickly as possible.

She meant conclusion, yes, that’s what she meant. Not climax. Conclusion.

Ahem.

“Blimey,” said Smudger, bringing Hermione back down to earth with a bump. “It’s not that I believe you, like, but it’s nice to see someone prepared to lie for her man like that.” He wiped an imaginary tear away from his eye.

“But Smudger,” Hermione said, fluttering her eyelashes in a wholly artificial way. “I’m a Gryffindor, not a devious Slytherin; I don’t know how to lie.”

Smudger spent the next few minutes chortling to himself over that. “Good one,” he said, in between wheezing with laughter. “That’s a good one.”

He only stopped laughing when he inhaled a piece of casserole, and Severus had to pat him on the back. He may have been a little more forceful that was strictly necessary; the Mudblood comment was still rankling a little.

“Alright then,” Smudger said when he finally regained his breath. “I’m in.”

"So," said Hermione, "now for the difficult bit."

"What, taking on His Lordship?" asked Smudger.

"No. Getting Harry and Ron to do as they are told."

Smudger smiled uncertainly, not sure whether Hermione was having a larff.

“Believe me,” Severus said fervently. “That isn’t a joke.”

Hermione smirked. “Mind you. I do think I’ve found the perfect way round it. It’s beautiful.”

Severus cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Simply tell them not to do it. It always worked for Albus, and they never seemed to learn their lesson.”

Severus smirked. “They didn’t, did they? Whatever you do, don’t do this Potter, he’d be told. And sure enough, by the end of the year, the three of you would be off doing precisely what you’d been told not to do.”

“Well, why not get Albus to tell them not to do it this time?” Minerva asked. “It seems to me that if you present this plot at the next Order meeting – without mentioning Smudger here – Albus is bound to poo poo the idea and that should start their minds running in the right direction.”

“I’d rather we kept Albus out of it,” Severus said. “He’s a bloody nuisance, and a pain in the arse.”

Hermione nodded. “I tell you what, I’ll ask them out for a drink to catch up and sound them out on the idea. There’s no point tipping Dumbledore off about our idea, unless we really have to. Then, if they’re up for it, the only thing after that is how to introduce them to Smudger without them being suspicious, because we haven’t got six years to persuade them of his bona fides.”

“Does that mean that you have finally managed to convince those two that I am not actually still on His Lordship’s side?” Snape’s tone was acid.

“Either that, or they’ve learned not to be stupid enough to repeat their suspicions to me,” Hermione replied. “I suspect that it has begun to dawn on them that if Severus were really up to no good that Harry would be pushing up daisies by now.”

“Bloody right,” said Smudger. “It’s not as if he doesn’t have a complete stockroom of nasty potions at his disposal. If he wanted to polish the little squirt off, he could have done easily.”

Severus smirked at the encomium; it was well deserved. “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“Mind you,” said Minerva thoughtfully, “you can’t help but wonder why this hasn’t dawned on His Lordship. Why on earth hasn’t he ordered you to arrange Harry’s demise?”

“Ah, well, that’s easy,” said Smudger confidently. “He wants to do it himself, doesn’t he? It’s what you might call a personal grudge. Which is silly really. I’m a practical boy. If you want someone dead, what’s important is that he ends up dead, and not how you go about it, or even who you get to do it.”

Severus nodded his agreement. “Absolutely right.”

Hermione smirked. “You just keep telling yourself that when Harry is the hero of the Wizarding World…..”

Severus did not look happy at the thought. “Are you sure that we couldn’t Obliviate him afterwards, so that no one would ever know.”

Only Minerva smiled; Smudger and Hermione knew that he meant it.

Hermione had to admit that when Severus called Harry ‘the most aggravating person he had ever had the misfortune of talking to, His Lordship and Lucius Malfoy included’ he had a point. Although to be scrupulously fair to Harry she had never had the opportunity to have a prolonged conversation with either of those people, so that conclusion could only be described as tentative.

She had no reason to suppose it was erroneous.

She had duly invited Harry and Ron out for a drink, which Severus had declined to attend. So far, so good. She hadn’t really thought that his presence was going to help matters, but thought she ought to invite him anyway. If she invited him, she felt sure that he would sneer magnificently and refuse to attend; if she didn’t invite him, he would sneak around behind her back and then turn up anyway.

She didn’t think that Harry would be keen to help take out His Lordship if he realised that one of the incidental benefits would be improving Severus’ sex life, and therefore kept a discreet silence over her nascent relationship with him.

This turned out to be a wise move. Time had done nothing to dull the two boys’ dislike of Severus, and the first fifteen minutes of their evening was spent with them reminiscing about their worst detention with the Greasy Git.

“Do you remember the time he had us chopping up those bubotubers?” one would say, and then they would be off in some bizarre competition to see who had had the nastiest experience.

Harry won of course. Hermione hadn’t even been allowed to enter, on the basis that she’d never had detention with Snape. Ron had been made a brave attempt for the title with a tale of being forced to spend three hours in the company of Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson and Colin Creevey cleaning the Potions Classroom floor with a toothbrush, but was disqualified on the not unreasonable ground that it had never happened.

“You spent the evening watching Draco and Pansy snogging, and placing bets with Creevey as to how long they could go without breathing,” Harry said indignantly.

Ron shrugged; it was worth a try. “You can’t deny that it could have happened though,” he said.

“Well, that’s true. He was enough of a bastard to make you do it,” Harry agreed, and then they raised their glasses in a toast to all those poor sods still at Snape’s mercy.

Hermione opened the main business of the evening with a general query as to how ‘things’ were going.

Harry adopted a serious expression, that made Hermione wonder if he had piles. “Well, of course, I shouldn’t really talk to you about it, but we’re really quite pleased with things.”

Hermione swallowed the bitter words about her being a full member of the Order, and what about all the adventures they had had together, and who had been pulling their chestnuts out of the fire all these years, and who the hell did they think they were, and merely made a brave attempt to look supportive and concerned, whilst mentally revising a list of hexes appropriate to the situation.

Not crucio, she reminded herself. No matter how irritating the pair of them got, not crucio. Besides it was illegal.

“Going well?” she said mildly, adding mentally, ‘in what radically altered sense of the word, were things going well? His Lordship was still alive, Lucius Malfoy was still on the loose, and she was stuck teaching at Hogwarts.’ She wasn’t sure which of the three was the worst.

Harry nodded. “We’ve taken several Death Eaters into custody over the last couple of months, and we’re getting close to working out where He-who-must-not-be-named is hiding out.”

Or, she thought, you could just ask Smudger, or even Severus, who knew exactly where His Lordship could be found – at least on the last Friday of the month. “Hmmmm?” she said noncommittally. “And what will you do when you work that out?”

“Well, obviously we will reconnoitre the area, and then we can form an opinion on what would be the best tactic moving forward.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said abruptly. “Reconnoitre? Form an opinion? What on earth happened to the Harry I used to know? The Harry who used to rush into things, who used to get things sorted out?”

“That was the old Harry,” he said regretfully. “Now, I’m a trained Auror and I know how things should be done. We can’t keep on acting as if we were children. That’s what they keep telling me, anyway. All I seem to get these days is paperwork. I don’t know, I never thought being an Auror would be so dull. The most excitement I had last week was managing to turn my report on the Strangleton investigation into a paper Owl that flew round my office for nearly ten minutes. I was hoping it was going to crap on Shacklebolt’s head, but it wasn’t to be.”

Hermione stared at Harry for a moment. What on earth were the Ministry filling his head with, to make him think that he had to behave like an accountant. He was supposed to be an Auror, for heaven’s sake, and run round saving people, not sit at a desk and write reports. “What if I told you that I knew where His Lordship would be in a fortnight’s time, and that I had come up with a plan that would take most of the Inner Circle somewhere else for the evening, giving you the best opportunity for years to sort this out once and for all?”

Harry blinked. “Really? Why haven’t we heard about this?”

“Well, I thought you should be the first to know. I haven’t even told Dumbledore about it. It’s just you, me, Minerva and Severus. And our secret contact, Mr Smith.”

“Oooh, Severus,” Harry interrupted. “First name terms already.”

Hermione flushed, but mercifully the boys didn’t notice.

Ron was wrinkling his nose up, always a sign he was thinking. “I think there was some mention last year of old Snapey suggesting that the time was ripe to move against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Nothing came of it though.”

“Why? I mean, he’s out there risking life and limb to find out the weak spots, and then he’s being ignored,” spluttered Hermione indignantly, trying very hard not to think about the darts matches.

“Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? Snape has been coming back for years with these tales of He-who-must-not-be-named being at such-and-such a place, or being vulnerable on this day or that day, and no one has ever taken it seriously. It’s too easy. Removing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is supposed to be difficult, and demanding and involve lots of sneaking around and danger and useless sacrifice. It’s not supposed to be achieved by sneaking up on him and hexing him from behind. That isn’t heroic at all.” Ron waved a hand dismissively.

“Surely Dumbledore has been pressing for action?” Hermione couldn’t believe that the Ministry was being so stupid.

Ron shuffled uneasily on his seat, and prepared to deliver the bad news. “Not really. It’s a bit odd really,” he said. “I mean there are people at the Ministry who think that Dumbledore is a bit of a loose cannon anyway, so I’m not sure it would have made any difference, but even he has been less than supportive of Snape recently. The general feeling is that even Dumbledore is beginning to doubt his loyalty. And since Harry is the only person who can defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it’s vital that he isn’t risked.”

Hermione snorted. “So basically, we’ve been sitting around waiting for you to do something, and all you’ve been doing is sitting around waiting for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to be delivered to you wrapped in a parcel with pink ribbon tied round his neck, and only if the person delivering the parcel isn’t Severus Snape. At this rate, you’ll still be waiting when you get your pension!”

Harry sighed. “You’re not joking.”

“Surely you’re getting bored with all this hanging around? God knows, I am,” Hermione replied with exasperation.

They nodded.

“You know,” Ron said thoughtfully, “I’ve always thought old Shacklebolt was a bit of an old lady. If he had his way, we’d never do anything.”

“Hmmmm,” Harry said. It wasn’t a non-committal hmmm, it was a thoughtful hmmm, verging on being an hmmm of agreement.

“We used to make such a good team,” Ron added.

“And we used to have so much fun,” Hermione added.

“We did,” Harry said, with a flash of his old mischievousness.

“So, don’t you think we should do something about it?” Hermione added.

“We-ell,” Harry said, weakening and exchanging meaningful glances, before they nodded again. It made more sense to them that they should go and sort out He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named because they were bored, than because the time was tactically right. “Alright, tell me what your plan is? It can’t do any harm to just hear you out, can it?”

Ron grinned. “None at all. After all, it’s positively our duty to do so.”

Hermione swiped a couple of beer mats from the table next to them and began laying them out on the table. “Right,” she said briskly. “It appears His Lordship is holed up in an old house in the middle of nowhere. Now, usually there are several members of the Inner Circle all hanging around the place, kissing his feet and telling him he’s wonderful. We’ve got an inside man, who can order them all to go away, and they will. Not only that, but he can leave the back door open for us.”

“So then all I have to do is creep up behind He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, shout oi, and then hex him,” Harry said.

“Why shout oi?” Hermione asked.

“Well, he’s not about to hex him in the back, now is he?” said Ron reasonably. “It’s not Gryffindor, is it?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Maybe it was a girl thing, but she was quite prepared to hex people from behind. It seemed to her to be the best time to do it. Perhaps she was spending too much time with Severus?

“What does Dumbledore say about this?” asked Ron.

“I haven’t mentioned it to him,” Hermione said, playing with her beer mat.

“Really?” said Harry. “You mean you’re going behind his back?”

Hermione nodded.

“Well, that settles it, doesn’t it?” Harry grinned. “Count me in.”

“I give you a toast,” Hermione said, raising a glass. “The three musketeers!”

“What?” asked Ron, halting the movement of his glass halfway to hers.

“The Three Musketeers?” Hermione looked at both boys’ blank faces and sighed. “They’re people from a Muggle book. There were three of them – obviously – and their motto was ‘all for one and one for all’. I thought it was appropriate.”

“Oh. Oh right then. The Three Musketeers!” There was a clink as three glasses met in salute. “Than Hermione can come clean on exactly why she’s on first name terms with Severus Snape,” Ron said.

Hermione was grateful she didn’t have a mouthful of drink when he said that. It looked like she had a lot of explaining to do. She signalled to the barmaid to bring another round of drinks; some things were best seen through a haze of alcohol.

Severus was waiting up for Hermione, which was sweet. He was waiting for her at the gates of Hogwarts, which was potentially awkward, as the boys had escorted her that far. Fortunately, the boys were almost as inebriated as Hermione, so, when they came face to face with their arch-nemesis, they merely giggled inanely whilst elbowing each other in the ribs.

Hermione tried to shush them, whilst trying not to giggle herself.

“Oooh,” said Ron. “You’re in trouble now.”

“Miss Granger,” Severus said, “is not in trouble. She has clearly been lead astray by you two reprobates, as happened so often in the past.”

The boys sniggered again.

“It’s true,” Hermione said with great dignity. “I blame you. You were the ones who insisted on drinking depth charges.”

“Depth charges?” asked Severus.

“You put a shot glass of Firewhiskey in the bottom of a pint of beer, and then drink it,” Hermione explained.

“Good god.” Severus was impressed that they were still standing after that, and made a mental note to suggest it to The Lads one evening, especially if they were being particularly fractious about something. It seemed to reduce the most difficult people to shambling idiots who would consequently be easier to order around, and any edge was welcome when dealing with The Lads.

“Night, night,” Hermione slurred, kissing both boys on the cheek, which seemed to Severus to be unnecessarily friendly, and then watched them wobble off into the distance.

“Dear god,” Severus said, “is that what we are relying on to save the Wizarding World?”

“Well they will be sober on the night,” Hermione pointed out. “And why on earth were you calling me Miss Granger?”

Severus looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t know whether you’d told your friends about us.”

“Of course I did. They know you’re my boyfriend.”

Severus snorted. “Aren’t I a little old to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“No. You’re just the right age.” Hermione looked up at him earnestly. “Now, are you going to help me into bed?”

“Indeed. I’ve even brought a vial of Hangover Potion for you.”

“You’re such a sweetie.”

“I do hope you didn’t tell the boys that.”

“Don’t worry, they wouldn’t believe me anyway. You did teach them for seven years.”

Severus considered the matter. He’d deducted points at will, he’d given arbitrary detentions, and he’d always favoured Slytherins. His reputation was safe, even if he was openly civil to Hermione. Though, when Hermione slipped her hand into his, he did check that they were unobserved; there was no point taking risks.

The Lads would never let him hear the end of it.

Hermione was happy. She was, not to put too fine a point on it, disgustingly happy.

She found that being disgustingly happy made Hogwarts seem almost bearable. She wasn’t precisely singing happy songs as she moved round the castle, but she was aware that she had a tendency to break out into big grins for no apparent reason, even in the middle of lessons, which did have the advantage of unnerving still further an already fairly cowed student population.

It was proving increasingly difficult to snarl properly at Albus in staff meetings – not that it ever made him reconsider any of his foolish whims, but it was expected that a teacher would make the effort. There were disapproving looks being thrown her way, and mutterings that she was Letting the Side down, which was rich coming from a set of colleagues who’d taken advantage of her naivety as a new teacher to make sure she had three Hogsmeade weekends in succession.

Bastards, the lot of them.

There was only one fly in the ointment – two, if you counted You-know-who – Albus was up to something. Or rather, he suspected that Minerva was up to something which may or may not involve Severus and Hermione.

On their return from the Cottage Albus had casually cornered Hermione in the Staff Room and started asking her awkward questions. Unprepared for the cross-examination that she was receiving, she knew she looked guilty as she stammered out a reply. She just hoped he’d assume it was about getting him to the altar rather than anything to do with His Lordship.

Consequently she was in a foul mood at lunch. A mood that was only added to by Minerva’s comments about Hermione’s brain turning to mush now she was in love. Hermione resented the implication. She was being thoroughly ignored for her pains, when she added, “And I just hope you come to your senses before Slytherin run away with the House Cup this year.”

Hermione smiled vaguely, half her mind still on what to do about Albus. “It can't be that bad.”

“Oh, yes it can,” Minerva said severely. “While you’ve been wandering round with your head in the clouds, it’s been business as usual with Severus and we’re nearly 200 points behind.”

There was a large lump in Hermione’s throat, which seemed to sinking into the pit of her stomach.

Business as usual.

200 points!

But… but…

It was a very chastened Hermione who made her way to class. “Right you lot,” she snarled, as her class filed in. “Settle down. Turn to Chapter Ten and start reading, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you before the end of the lesson.”

The children were actually relieved to find a slightly grumpy Hermione teaching them again, rather than a Hermione who was away with the fairies; they knew where they were with a grumpy teacher. Unfortunately, to the grumpy teacher in question, the faint smiles of relief were indistinguishable from pitying smirks.

“Right. Ten points from Slytherin, and that’s just for openers.”

“But, Miss,” protested one of the children, braver than its fellows.

“But Miss, nothing. The next one of you that even breathes out of turn will lose your House another five points.” The message was received and understood, the children settled to their studies with bad grace, and Hermione was free to think in peace.

The more she thought about it, the more daft Minerva appeared.

She and Severus had discovered an attraction to each other that, given time, could well mature into love.

In the meantime, it wasn’t as if Hermione had expected Severus to start smiling in public just because of her, though he did have a particularly sweet smile that turned her insides to jelly: that was reserved for her private consumption. Nor did she expect his teaching style to change – he hated the children, the children hated him, and potions still involved sharp implements and open flames, no amount of shagging was going to change that.

So, the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Minerva was allowing her entirely understandable anti-man prejudice to colour her thinking, and she and Severus did have a Relationship and that whatever was going on in Severus’ head, though obscure, had a perfectly sensible explanation.

Such as, the fact he still had to pretend to be a Heartless Death Eater, which wouldn’t be helped by one of the kiddies sending a note home to their father about how Severus was smiling in class. Or, maybe one of the little darlings had actually done something worth deducting all those points; it was bound to happen at some point, even if only on the same basis as the monkeys churning out Shakespeare. Whatever it was, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Severus Having Doubts about their relationship.

In the meantime, young Stebbins was breathing through his mouth, and that was worth five of any House’s points. It was entirely coincidental that he was in Slytherin.

Hermione cried off Dinner with a Headache, and ordered a meal to be served in her quarters. If she had to see either Albus or Minerva tonight she might snap at them, so it was best to stay out of their way.

She hoped that Severus would be along to see her later and tell her what was bothering him. Hopefully, he wasn’t going to be like the boys and keep her in the dark ‘because they didn’t want to worry her’ so that she only had a couple of hours to sort out whatever mess they’d managed to get themselves into this time. She could only trust that he would confide in her eventually, before it became necessary to resort to extreme measures like actually asking him what was wrong. She knew how that would work out: several minutes of inarticulate grunting, then specious denials of there being Anything the Matter, followed up by accusations of nagging, and then, eventually when all other avenues were blocked, Coming Clean.

Severus knocked on her door after dinner – hardly the behaviour of someone who was regretting their relationship – and was greeted with a kiss on the cheek. “Come in,” she said. “Would you like something to drink? Dobby has just got back from raiding Dumbledore’s secret wine store. I can offer you a very fine port.”

Severus made himself at home on the sofa, and turned that soft, secret smile on her. “That would be very pleasant.” He put a small bottle on the side table. “I brought that with me, in case it was a real headache, and not an aversion to Dumbledore that was keeping you from eating in Hall.”

“That’s kind of you.” She poured two glasses of wine, and handed one to him, before settling next to him.

“I do have an ulterior motive,” he said, wrapping an arm round her.

“That sounds promising.”

He smirked a little, but it was a half-hearted smirk at best. He leaned his head back against the sofa, and sighed. “Albus has been really getting on my nerves this last week. Are you sure I couldn’t slip him some poison?”

Hermione patted him soothingly on his knee. “I’ve had an absolutely awful day of my own, and I refuse to deal with Albus until this” - she swirled the wine in her glass – “has had a chance to work its magic. Though I think we can leave Albus to Minerva, you know; I expect to see them tripping up the aisle within a fortnight of the fall of His Lordship, and then she’ll have a whole lifetime to make him see the error of his ways.” Severus’ smirk grew a little more pronounced at that.

She settled back against his chest, and there was a companionable silence as they sipped their port. It was very good port that Albus kept for his, and the governors’, private consumption. Dobby, though employed by the school, had decided that Hermione, as the nearest thing to Harry, needed to be cosseted and cared for, and would periodically raid the wine cellar or kitchen whenever Hermione looked especially unhappy.

She must have been looking extremely hacked off with life, to warrant raiding Albus’ private cellar.

“I saw you’d been on a house point deduction spree. May I ask what Slytherins offended you this afternoon, and how? If one of them said anything out of turn, I’ll hang him from the Astronomy Tower by his ears,” he said affectionately.

Hermione twisted round to look at him. “You’d do that? For me?”

“Of course.” He seemed surprised that she’d doubted it, and she felt mildly ashamed of herself. “Now tell me what happened?”

“Stebbins was breathing too loudly,” she said, uncomfortable with quite how petty that sounded.

“Ah, one of those days,” he said knowingly. “Albus?”

“Minerva.”

“I won’t ask.” He wrapped a curl round her finger and tugged gently. “You’ve still got a long way to go before you catch up with the 150 points I deducted.”

“Albus?”

“Yes.” He frowned. “He’s been particularly irritating of late. Remind me again; just why am I helping Potter?”

Hermione reached across him to put down her glass, then, since Severus was close at hand, she snuggled up to him. “Because you’re sneaky and manipulative and you’re using him to further your own ends: getting your evenings free of Meetings so you can spend more time drinking port in front of a fire with me, and getting your days free of Albus.”

“Hmm, that does sound much likely, doesn’t it?” He sighed again. “Though that is the heart of the problem: getting free of Albus.”

Hermione sat bolt upright, nearly clipping Severus’ chin with her head. “There isn’t some sort of non-fraternisation clause is there? He’s not suggesting we have to stop seeing each other, because if he is, I’ll strangle him with his own beard.”

“That’s such a lovely idea; we might want to keep it in reserve.” Hermione subsided against his chest again. “No, he was rather gloating on the fact that, since we were an item, you were stuck here forever.”

“I don’t see that that follows at all. I had planned on resigning as soon as possible after we remove He-who-must-not-be-named, and I thought you’d be doing the same. It’s not as if you want to stay here, is it?”

Severus winced. “And that’s the problem. You’re only on a term’s notice; I have to give a year’s notice. Whatever happens I’m stuck here for the next eighteen months.”

“Bloody hell. That’s awful.”

“Yes, and that’s not the worst of it. I erm well I assume that you would wish to continue our ahem liaison once you’d left Hogwarts?” The question hung there, waiting to be answered. Hermione realised that in his own way Severus was seeking reassurance.

“Of course,” she replied promptly.

“That’s where the difficulties arise. Staff members aren’t allowed to have overnight guests, so once you’d left Hogwarts it would become almost impossible for us to see each other. A fact Albus is relying on to keep you here.”

“Well the bastard’s right about that,” she said. Severus conveyed his gratification at her sentiments in an entirely non-verbal but extremely satisfactory method, that nearly distracted her from the important issue of Their Future. “Hmmm, Lucius,” she said, only to be released by Severus with such abruptness that she ended up on the floor.

“What did you say?” he thundered.

“Well, what I was trying to say, though I admit it may not have been clearly enunciated,” she said, “was that what we needed to do was have a Little Word with Lucius in his capacity as Governor and see if we can persuade him to alter the rules. Either on your notice period, or the rules on overnight guests.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Severus asked, courteously helping Hermione to her feet, and brushing her down with great care. After all she had landed on her rear, so it was likely to be dusty.

“Dunno,” she replied cheerfully. “I say we kidnap him first, hold him at wandpoint, and see what happens. He’s bound to want to switch to the winning side, given half a chance.”

“I suppose it might work.”

“And if it doesn’t we can always take a lock of his hair, Obliviate him, and leave him in a dark Alleyway somewhere.”

“That has possibilities,” Severus said thoughtfully. “It’s the bare bones of a plan at least, and we can work out the finer details later. After all, there could be all sorts of ways in which Lucius can make himself useful to us.”

Hermione was only slightly disappointed when Severus started looking for a piece of parchment and a quill to start making a list, rather than continuing with their previous occupation. Romance was all very well, but World Domination had to be a priority.

Lucius Malfoy was a suspicious bastard.

He didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, to be fair. He was a member of the Inner Circle, which was almost entirely composed of two-faced, backstabbing bastards who would sell their granny for glue even if she wasn’t dead. The Outer Circle, as it were, were even worse. They may not have honed their backstabbing skills in the same way, as evidenced by the fact that they weren’t members of the Inner Circle yet, but they were much more keen, and being keen was a recipe for disaster.

For instance, a member of the Inner Circle would be much more likely to use any misstep that Lucius might make as a blackmailing opportunity, because removing Lucius from the game would just open the door to a younger, less stable, power-crazed loon. The Outer Circle would be running to His Lordship faster than a charging Hyppogriff, tugging at his sleeve like a three year old begging for sweeties, and grassing you up in the hopes of getting promotion via a dead – after prolonged Crucio at the very least - Wizard’s shoes.

No, you knew where you were with the old crowd, because let’s face it, it wasn’t as if there were any promotion prospects available in the Inner Circle; Pettigrew had the Right Hand Man post sewn up, and was bloody welcome to it if the rumours about his duties were right.

So when Severus sent him a polite little note asking for a meeting he agreed, on the basis that Severus was the nearest thing he had to an old friend, but insisted on some fairly stringent precautions on the basis that the reason they were old friends is that they had joined forces in their youth to stab other people in the back. Severus was obviously not to be trusted; neither was Lucius.

Lucius chose the place to meet – a dingy cottage in the middle of nowhere, which positively bristled with wards to keep people out, and which he rather complacently imagined was impregnable. It took Hermione only ten minutes to prove that wrong, and a further five minutes to reinstate the wards so it looked just as it ought to. Lucius apparated in ten minutes earlier than agreed, to give him time to check the wards, look round for suspicious characters, and give him a good view of Severus walking along the straight path to the front door.

“Severus, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?” Lucius asked grandly, as if he were welcoming a guest to Malfoy Manor and not some fetid pit that qualified for the title ‘cottage’ only by virtue of four walls and a roof.

“Lucius,” Severus acknowledged. “Don’t you think that we should talk about this inside? Walls may have ears, but so do bushes and trees.”

“You’ve never been one for the country have you?” Lucius said, casually dropping the wards with a flick of his wand and holding the door politely open for his guest.

“Not much,” Severus replied, passing through the door. “And this place does nothing to alter my opinion. For heaven’s sake, couldn’t you have sent an elf ahead to light the fire? I’m going to freeze my cods off at this rate.”

“You did say you wanted this meeting to be private,” Lucius said. “If an elf knew about it, then five minutes later Narcissa would as well, and that would be that. She’s so suspicious.”

“Probably because you’re so duplicitous.”

“Why thank you,” Lucius said mockingly. “Mind you, I think you’re right about the need for a fire. We wouldn’t want to risk your cods, not now rumour has it you’ve discovered a use for them.” He cast a charm to light the fire, and settled in an armchair before the fire, stretching his long legs towards the heat. “I hear you’ve acquired a Mudblood of your own. Is she any good?”

The last thing Lucius saw was Severus smirking broadly as he said, “She’s certainly very good at charms.” Then he heard a muttered “Sexist Pig” followed quickly by “Stupefy” cast from behind him, and knew no more.

Hermione and Severus used the time Lucius was unconscious profitably. First, he was separated from his cane, and searched for spare wands. Not that this was really an issue, as Hermione cast several strong charms to bind Lucius to the chair – perhaps with a little more vehemence than was strictly called for – so that he couldn’t twitch a finger. Severus then snipped off a lock of Lucius hair, from the back where it wouldn’t be noticed, rather than taking the whole lot as Hermione suggested.

Lucius came round to find his chair turned sideways to the fire, and Hermione ensconced in an arm chair opposite him with Lucius’ cane very prominently perched on her lap. Severus was standing behind her, with what Lucius privately considered to be a very unbecoming smirk on his face.

It’s difficult to be supercilious and suave when you’re tied to a chair, but Lucius gave it his best shot. “My dear Severus, is all this strictly necessary between two such old friends?”

“It’s precisely because we’re old friends, that I consider this to be entirely necessary.”

They exchanged almost identical carnivorous smiles.

“How very uncivilised of you Severus; an accurate assessment I grant you, but uncivilised behaviour nonetheless. My robes are positively wrinkled.”

“Look,” said Hermione, cutting in, “when you two have finished flirting, perhaps we could have a chat about the matter in hand.”

Both men cast her disgruntled glances. This was the sort of repartee that they prepared for all their lives. She wouldn’t put it past them to keep little notebooks by the side of their bed, to jot down any particularly good sneers that came to them in the early hours of the morning. Severus probably used Potions lesson as a light Sneering work out, assessing whether a particular insult was worthy of repeating by the amount of tears it generated in prepubescent children.

“She’s a frisky little thing, Severus, but a little gauche. I’m sure you could so something about that with a little training.”

Severus drew in a sharp breath. “Hermione darling, do remember that we need him alive.”

“But not necessarily in one piece,” she said, attempting a smirk of her own.

If Lucius had been free to move he would have examined his fingernails in ostensible boredom; he settled for raising an eyebrow. “Threats are so déclassé.”

Hermione’s smirk congealed into something closer to a snarl. “It’s not a threat; it’s a promise.”

“So,” said Lucius airily, “what did you want to discuss?” Years of training kept the tremor from his voice, but this was the closest he’d been to being unnerved since he was twenty and the Unfortunate Incident with the Boomslang, the Hufflepuff and the Wizarding Photos. A problem only solved by the application of poison at a time when he had an alibi, and since he’d obtained the poison from Severus, that didn’t look to be a possible exit route from this sticky situation.

To his jaundiced eye, Severus had the look of a man thoroughly smitten; it would be years before he would regain his true Slytherin potential again. Love seemed to be wholly incompatible with a desire to rule the world and do your fellow plotters down. It was enough to make a man weep. Although, Lucius thought, this did mean that he wouldn’t have as much competition in the future, so there was a silver lining to this cloud.

Severus extracted a vial from his pocket. “Veritaserum,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I think we’d all feel better if this conversation were conducted honestly and openly.”

“And I certainly wouldn’t trust anything you said without it,” Hermione said firmly. “You’re a twisty sod at the best of times, and this isn’t the best of times.”

“Why thank you, Miss Granger is it? I’m flattered by that encomium.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Severus crossed over to Lucius, making sure that he didn’t obscure Hermione’s line of fire with her wand. “Open up,” he said, holding the vial to Lucius’s lips. “Don’t make me hold your nose. It’s not dignified.”

Lucius submitted with bad grace, and swallowed the potion. Severus followed suit, and then handed the vial to Hermione, who took a large swig.

There was silence, both sides waiting for the potion to work.

“So, I ask again, what did you want to discuss?” Lucius asked.

“Making sure I can still go out with Hermione, getting one over on Albus Dumbledore, bringing down His Lordship and World Domination,” said Severus, making a great effort to censor what he was saying before it left his mouth. You couldn’t lie under Veritaserum, but you could certainly try and put the best face on what you were saying.

“In that order,” asked Lucius, maliciously.

“Yes,” hissed Severus, to Hermione’s evident gratification and Lucius’ surprise. He’d been expecting World Domination to feature rather higher on the list. He sighed; Severus really was a lost cause, and now he’d need to find a new sparring partner. He spared a moment to be grateful that he had a wife like Narcissa; there was nothing like being married to a whining nag to make a man see the benefits in being out on a Friday night, trying to take over the Wizarding World.

“So, Lucius, would you like to be on the winning side?” Hermione asked.

“Obviously,” he returned coolly. “However, you haven’t said anything yet that convinces me that yours is the winning side. How do you intend to go about disposing of His Lordship?”

“Prophecy, a prat and polyjuice,” said Severus, settling on the edge of the armchair.

“Potter?” Lucius suggested.

“Is certainly a prat,” Severus replied smoothly.

Hermione nudged Severus firmly. “Oi, he’s my friend.”

“Are you denying he’s a prat?” asked Severus.

“Of course he’s a prat,” she replied. “You git. I’ll” – the never refused to come out of her mouth – “forgive you for that.”

“When you two have finished flirting, perhaps we could return to the matter at hand?” Lucius said smugly.

Hermione glared at the irritating man. “Are you willing to help us defeat He-who-must-not-be-named?”

“No,” Lucius replied simply.

“Why not?” asked Severus. “You’ve done nothing but complain about him for years.”

“I’m not going to risk my life and my Friday nights of freedom, for some woolly-minded, liberal cause.”

Hermione and Severus exchanged a long look. “What if,” she said, leaning forward, “the plan involved no personal risk to you at all, but merely required you to be somewhere else entirely? All we need is a lock of your hair to get someone through the door, and that’s all.”

“That’s better, I suppose,” Lucius replied, “and he is bleeding me dry, what with all the bribes and fines I’m having to pay. You wouldn’t believe the amount I had to pay to get out of Azakaban last time. What with that and Narcissa’s shoe bills every month, I’m going to go broke soon. But what about my Friday nights?”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Alright, how about this. You tell Narcissa that you were in fact behind the removal of His Lordship so that you could become the next Dark Lord. Obviously, you are the natural rallying point for the cause once he’s dead, so there shouldn’t be any problems there. You still have to have Friday night meetings, of course, to rally the troops and all that; that leaves you free to cheat on your wife to your heart’s content.”

Lucius pondered; faint lines of concentration formed on his forehead, marring the perfection of his countenance.

“And if it goes wrong,” Hermione added, “there’s absolutely no comeback on you at all. As far as His Lordship is concerned you were elsewhere when the attack was launched, and you can’t be held responsible. As long as your Occlumency is up to scratch, you’ll be fine.”

Lucius liked that aspect even better. A plot that had only upside and no downside, as far as he was concerned anyway, was the sort of plot he liked. “If you don’t need me at all, other than as a source of hair, what do you need me to do? I assume you’ve been helping yourself already; I do hope you haven’t been obvious. Maurice will be devastated,” he said.

“Maurice?” muttered Hermione.

“His hairdresser,” Severus replied quietly. “In return for the opportunity not to be arrested with the rest of the Inner Circle, all you have to do is to get the Board of Governors to agree to some trifling changes to my terms of employment.”

“I might prefer to take my chances with the Ministry,” Lucius said. “It may well be cheaper than having to bribe the Governors.”

“That is if you live that long. May I say that death seems the more likely option bearing in mind how accident prone Potter is: all it takes is a simple slip of the wand, and then it’s too late to try and bribe your way out of things.”

“Ron, in particular, is very unhappy about what you did to Ginny,” put in Hermione. “And he’s ever so over-excitable. Who knows what might happen in the hubbub?”

Lucius considered that Miss Granger’s threats improved with practice, and hated to think what they’d be like given even more time. “Very well, I’ll arrange for you to be able to leave Hogwarts at short notice, in return for a gentle hint on dates when my presence in the vicinity of His Lordship is less than desirable. Will that do?”

“That is acceptable,” Severus replied. “And I’m sure I needn’t remind you how twitchy Gryffindors are, and how they hex first and ask questions later. If there is the slightest suggestion that you’ve gone back on your word, why, I don’t think I’d be able to stop them from doing something foolish.”

“Are threats really necessary, dear boy?”

“Of course they are Lucius. I believe the Muggle phrase is something about a carrot and a stick. Just be grateful there’s a carrot involved; it’s more than I’ve ever had,” Severus said with some bitterness.

Lucius smirked “You’d think that working for two masters would lead to twice the rewards, but somehow it doesn’t seem to have worked out that way. And now the House Elf wants to be free?”

“Oh god yes.” Severus was fervent in his reply. “Or I’m going to have to kill Albus, and you’ll have to help me hide the body.”

“Me too,” added Hermione.

“Erm, the Veritaserum has worn off, hasn’t it?” asked Lucius, rather nervously.

“Let’s see, what was your nickname as a child?” asked Severus.

A look of profound relief spread over Lucius’ face, as he wasn’t compelled to blurt out the truth. “Thank Merlin for that.”

“Mind you,” Severus said, “I’m perfectly bloody serious about bumping off Albus.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Hermione.

The three of them parted on amicable terms. Which is to say that Hermione cast a delayed release on the charm tying Lucius to the chair to give them time to apparate away safely before he could get his hands on his wand.

Lucius was as good as his word. A cryptically worded Owl made its way to Severus, indicating that the Governors’ meeting had gone well and that House Elves could look forward to a pleasant future.

What had actually happened at the meeting as relayed to them by Minerva the next day. Albus wasn’t at breakfast, and was still in his rooms sulking about the ambush that had been practiced on him.

“Apparently, the Governors started discussing discipline, and the need to be able to dismiss troublesome teachers at a moments notice,” Minerva announced to the Staff Room at large. She had a large audience; Severus wasn’t the only one trapped on a long-term contract. “He painted a dreadful picture of teachers having to be suspended on full pay for the rest of their contracts, because they couldn’t be dismissed for even the gravest infractions.”

“I don’t see how that helps,” Hermione said. “Surely that just makes it easier for Albus to give us all the Order of the Boot.”

“That was just the beginning. Once he’d stampeded them into altering the contracts so teachers could be dismissed for debauching the students, or stealing, or any other form of Grievous Misconduct, he then moved on to something he called Performance Related Pay.”

Hermione muttered to Severus, “I bet he got that idea from his Pet Mudblood. That’s Muggle talk that is.”

“Thank god for that,” he muttered back. “I was thinking it was some bizarre form of the Dark Arts. I had visions of a wholly perverse nature when she mentioned the word Performance.”

Minerva glared at Hermione when she giggled, making her feel like she was back in class again. “If you’re quite finished?” Hermione mouthed sorry and shushed as directed. “What we needed, he said, in the modern Wizarding World was flexible contracts which allowed for teachers to be remunerated according to performance and that this should be measured on a term by term basis.”

The rest of the teachers looked horrified. Performance related pay? Surely this didn’t mean that they would actually have to demonstrate their usefulness? Trelawney in particular looked ashen. “Surely it is impossible to measure the skills and abilities that we bring to our positions here? Who can put a price on learning?”

“The Governors can apparently,” Minerva said. “To the tune of ten galleons a week, full board and lodging, and three sets of robes. Not that I’m worried. I’ve looked at the contracts. All we really have to do is outperform Beauxbatons and Durmstrang in exams, and frankly, we’ve been pissing on them from a great height for years, so that isn’t a challenge. So there’s no danger to our basic salary, and, for the first time, we actually get paid if we supervise a Hogsmeade weekend, or for any other extra-curricular activities. We could actually be looking at the first pay increase some of us have seen in years.”

Hooch nudged Trelawney and sniggered a bit. “Extra-curricular activities, eh?” and received a glare from Minerva in her turn.

The rest of the staff murmured to themselves; that was good news. One of the biggest bones of contention between them and Dumbledore – or skinflint as they affectionately called him – was the way he expected them to work extra hours for what he called the love of their profession instead of the love of cold hard cash.

“But the best part of it all, is that, because these contracts are termly, we only have to give a term’s notice. So the next time that Skinflint gets on your nerves, you can tell him to stick his job where the sun doesn’t shine, and not spend the next year or so listening to him whine. ”

Trelawney grasped her tea cup in her hand and rose majestically to her feet. “I would like to propose a toast. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Lucius Malfoy. A murderous, lecherous, racist bastard, but a bastard who has stabbed Albus in the back, and is consequently alright with me.”

As one body the teachers rose to their feet – Hermione and Severus included – and toasted Lucius Malfoy in warm tea and weak coffee.

Severus made a mental note to tell Lucius all about his sudden rise in popularity; he would be immensely amused. And then wonder how to turn it to his advantage, though he may be disappointed to find that the well was dry when he got there. Severus fully intended to let it be known that he had been instrumental in securing Lucius’ beneficence whilst the warm glow of gratitude still prevailed. After all, he still had a term to serve in this prison and he’d need all the help he can get.

Their euphoric glow at having arranged things to their satisfaction lasted precisely three days, four hours, and ten minutes.

Harry had, according to the urgent Owl he sent, been Thinking.

Hermione thought that this was likely to be a mistake, but loyalty to her friend prevented her from saying so. She needn’t have worried; Severus had more than enough to say on the topic himself when presented with the letter.

“Of all the asinine, half-witted, dunderheaded, stupid things to do,” he snarled. “Here we are, running around trying to bring down His Lordship, desperately trying to keep it all a secret, and what does he do? Blab about it. To Neville Longbottom of all people. I give up. I absolutely give up.”

He collapsed into the armchair and put his head in his hands, giving ever sign of being a Broken Man.

“There, there,” Hermione said.

“And I don’t want to be humoured,” he snapped.

“I’m not humouring you,” she replied. “I’m expressing sympathy and solidarity with you in your time of need. Though if you’re going to take that tone of voice to me, you can shove it.”

Severus ignored her, in favour of continuing to complain bitterly about the stupidity of Potter. “What on earth was he thinking of? What does he think Longbottom is going to do for f-heaven’s sake? It’s not as if it’s a secret mission to blow up His Lordship’s cauldron, which is the only thing he is eminently qualified to do.”

“I think Harry’s worried that the Prophecy is supposed to apply to Neville and not to him.”

“So he thought he’d take Longbottom along, on the off chance?” Severus snorted. “What an idiot.”

“Well it’s better than having to nip back next week and giving it another go if Harry turns out not to be the Instrument of Prophecy after all,” Hermione said reasonably. “I know we’ve got enough of Lucius’ hair to make any number of forays, but I do think His Lordship might notice something eventually, no matter how good Smudger is.”

“I suppose so,” Severus grumbled. “And it does mean that Potter can’t take all the credit, can he?”

“That’s my Severus,” Hermione said fondly, dropping a kiss on his forehead. “Always looking on the bright side of things.”

Severus wrinkled his nose at her. “Just keep Longbottom out of my way, that’s all I ask.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a problem dear.”

And so it proved.

They’d arranged another meeting at Minerva’s cottage. This time Harry, Ron and Bloody Longbottom – as he was coming to be called – were invited as well.

Severus had been opposed to the meeting, wanting to know why on earth Potter “couldn’t bloody well do what he was told for once in his life, instead of demanding explanations and messing around with a brilliant plot just so he could look important.”

“Look,” said Hermione through gritted teeth. “We can hardly say ‘do as you’re told when it’s us’ at one and the same time as asking him to go behind the back of the Ministry, Shackelbolt, and Albus; it’ll just confuse him.”

Severus subsided to a dull mumble, which Hermione chose to take as agreement, because the alternative was moving to the next stage of their Relationship by having a Blazing Row. The Making Up would no doubt be spectacular, but it was a distraction they could well do without. The Unwritten Code of the teacher – that you present a united front to the children no matter what – applied in these circumstances, and the bickering would have to be postponed to a time when she had the luxury of Sulking.

Minerva had gone on ahead to open up the cottage to receive visitors. Her wards were a damned sight trickier than Malfoy’s, and they didn’t want to have to reassemble the Instrument of Prophecy or any of his friends before they could get started.

Hermione was a little nervous. This was the first time she’d seen the boys since she’d told them about her and Severus and by now they should have sobered up, and had had a chance to consider things. Things could be a little dicey for a while.

They apparated in with a crack, to find Harry, Ron and Neville huddled together in conversation. They shot apart guiltily, and Hermione could well imagine what they’d been saying, an opinion confirmed by the curious glances Neville kept throwing her way when he should have been concentrating on the planning.

Neville wasn’t too distracted to make sure that Hermione was seated between him and Severus, and that he was closest to the door in case he had to make a run for it. Which was silly really. Severus was extremely unlikely to hex Neville – she wouldn’t go so far as to say impossible - but if he did, it would take more than a head start to make a clean get away.

“Right,” said Harry, trying to take control of the meeting. “As we’re all here, I think we should get started.”

“I’m afraid, Potter, that as usual, you’ve gone off a little prematurely.” Severus managed to invest that simple statement with a great deal of meaning, and Harry flushed unbecomingly. “There is another person who has yet to arrive; the most vital part of the whole plan.”

Harry flushed again, but not from embarrassment this time.

“’Ello,” came Smudger’s cheerful voice from the doorway. “I can tell you’re talking about me; my ears are burning.”

“Mr Sm-Smith,” Minerva said, recalling the name Hermione had given to the boys just in time. “How good of you to join us at short notice.”

Smudger nodded in greeting to Hermione and Severus, then walked up to Neville and said, “Mr Potter, I presume, I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Erm, erm, I’m not Harry,” said Neville, still shaking the hand that was offered to him. “I’m Neville Longbottom.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Smudger said, still in that airy, cheerful tone. “I just thought you were a lad with the mark of destiny on you. Naturally I assumed you were Harry Potter.”

“Gosh, really,” stammered Neville, sitting a little taller in his chair.

“Absolutely. ‘Ere, you’re not having me on are you, and pretending not to be Harry Potter?” He winked at Neville. “One of those need to know thingies.”

“I can understand why you could make that mistake, Mr Sm-Smith,” said Severus at his most bland. “They do have very similar expressions, but you can put that down to the overlay of Gryffindor bravery. They’re all so very eager to be heroes you see.”

Severus and Smudger exchanged smug glances, whilst they were glared at by the Harry and Ron. Minerva was used to Severus and his jibes, and didn’t even flicker. Hermione had decided she was going to apply for political asylum in Slytherin anyway because she preferred green to red, the sex was better, and had no intention of being a hero. Neville, bless him, thought he’d been paid a compliment, and was puffing his chest out.

“Well it’s up to us Slytherins to keep them alive with our wiles and deceit then, isn’t it?” Smudger said.

“Bloody right,” said Minerva, shocking the boys with her bad language. “I don’t want anyone getting themselves killed. Which means you three will do as you’re told.” She glared at Harry, Ron and Neville. “And you two will stop trying to wind the children up.”

“Yes, miss,” the boys chorused, united in their return to the classroom.

There was a twitch, as Harry very nearly raised his hand to ask a question. “So who is Mr Smith, and what does he have to do with the plan?”

Smudger sat down, and stretched his legs before him. “That’s a very good question lad; it’s good to see you’ve got your head on right.”

Harry preened a little. Hermione realised that Smudger, as Severus’ second in command for years, had long since mastered the art of herding cats with the simplest of nudges here and there. Smudger was Slytherin down to the bone, and whilst he may seem to be cheerful and chummy, he was just as sly in his way as Malfoy.

She wondered quite whose idea it had been to overthrow His Lordship after all.

Smudger winked at Hermione, and she had the feeling that Severus wasn’t the only one who practised a bit of legilimency on the sly.

“I, lad, am the key to getting you past His Lordship’s guards,” Smudger replied. “And that’s all. It’s entirely up to you what you do once you get in there.”

“So you’re just going to waltz up to the guards and tell them to go away,” Ron said in disbelief.

“Pretty much. I don’t want to give too much away, but that is the general idea. All I will say is that I might not look like this on the night in question, ok?” Smudger managed to pull off a look of almost Dumbledorean sincerity and wisdom.

Harry and Ron exchanged glances. “Look, I don’t know you from Adam,” said Harry. “And yet you expect us to trust you and not ask you tricky questions, like who you are and how you’re going to pull this off. I’m really not happy about that. Not happy at all.”

“Harry,” said Hermione. “I know what the plan is, and I can tell you that it’s almost guaranteed to work. We’ve got plans of His Lordship’s mansion, we know that most of his Death Eaters won’t be around, and we’ve got a way in past the guards. We just can’t give you much more detail until the night of the attack, because that will be putting not just his life at risk, but someone else’s.” Not to mention, very specifically not to mention, that if Harry knew that Malfoy was involved he’d have a fit. “We’re not asking you to trust Mr Smith at all. We’re asking you to trust me. Because if Mr Smith lets us down, he knows that I’ll hunt him down and skin him alive. Very, very slowly.”

“You know, you’re a really lucky bloke,” Smudger said conversationally to Severus. “I mean she’s a Gryffindor and all that, so her threats are a bit direct, but she’s got definite promise. She really sounds like she means that.”

“She does,” Severus said dryly. “And if she didn’t, you know I would.”

“Of course, mate. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Smudger looked hopefully at Hermione. “You don’t happen to have an older sister do you? Just a couple of years older, that you could introduce me to.”

“I’m sorry, no,” Hermione replied.

“Thank god,” Severus muttered. “I couldn’t have borne teaching two of you.” And was promptly elbowed by Hermione to Smudger’s immense amusement.

The smile was wiped off his face when Harry asked, “So you’re saying Mr Smith is trustworthy?”

“Oi,” said Smudger in outrage. “You take that back.”

“No, Harry,” Hermione replied. “I’m saying that Mr Smith is a Slytherin, whose interests happen to coincide with ours in this matter, and who can be relied upon to do his part in getting us into His Lordship’s lair. He is not trustworthy at all.”

“Oh, I see,” said Harry, who very clearly didn’t.

“Right,” Minerva said, applying Staff Meeting tactics – if you haven’t secured your colleagues agreement, just steam roller over them and pretend you have, because at the end of the meeting they won’t remember – “Let’s move on shall we. What are we going to do once we’re past the perimeter? I believe that is the technical military term.”

Harry and Ron nodded. They knew that perimeter was the proper word; they were highly trained Aurors.

“I suggest,” Severus said in tones of someone suddenly having a stroke of inspiration, “that I escort Mr Potter and Mr Weasley into His Lordship’s presence at wand point as my prisoners.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” sneered Harry.

Hermione wouldn’t be surprised to find that Severus dreamed of holding Harry and Ron at wand point, though that hopefully didn’t extend to handing them over to His Lordship. It was probably why the idea – and it was a good idea – sprang so readily to mind.

“If you’ve got any better ideas,” Smudger said. “I, for one, will be glad to hear it. After all, if you can come up with something safer, I’m all for it.”

Harry muttered something under his breath, but no one asked him to repeat it.

“Neville and Minerva should stay outside to make sure no one sneaks up on us from outside,” Smudger said, once it was clear that Harry wasn’t going to contribute anything useful. “And they can come and join the fun once it all kicks off. At that stage we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“Erm, what about me?” Hermione asked. “Where do I fit in?”

“I’m not taking you in there,” said Severus in horror. “You might get hurt.”

“So might you,” Hermione said. “And you don’t see me saying you can’t go.”

“Yes, but you’re a Gryffindor,” he said. “You’ll do something daft, and rush in and be brave and get yourself killed.”

“Severus, I’ve been keeping bad company recently, so you can rely on me to try and find something – or someone – to hide behind when the hexes start flying. I will not hurl myself into the fray expecting a good heart and intentions to prevail, and I can assure you that I have absolutely no qualms about hexing anyone in the back. And I am damned well going, so you’d better get used to the idea.”

Severus blinked at her, surprised by her vehemence, and then bowed to the inevitable. “You promise you’ll be sensible.”

“Absolutely,” she said crisply.

“I don’t suppose, I’ve got any choice, short of stupefying you,” he conceded. “Alright, so I escort Ron and Harry into see His Lordship at wand point. Hermione will follow on behind as back up.”

“She could always wear Death Eater robes,” Smudger offered. “She could pass herself off as a Minion. It’d be safer that way.”

Severus nodded. “Then all you have to do is take off your mask at the critical moment. I don’t want you being hexed by anyone on our side by accident. Some of your friends may get a bit trigger happy in the excitement.”

“Oi,” protested Ron. “I’ll have you know we’re trained professionals.”

“That’s what worries me,” replied Severus. “The Inner Circle are trained killers.”

“Who will we come up against,” Harry asked.

“Lucius will be otherwise occupied,” Smudger said. “If we do it in the next fortnight, Avery is on holiday. So the Lestranges, Nott, Macnair, Crabbe and Goyle, maybe a couple of others will be there. And Pettigrew, of course, but he’ll bolt given half a chance.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange is mine,” said Neville harshly.

“No, lad,” said Smudger. “She’s not. She’ll eat you alive. I think we’ll leave her to Severus.”

“It’s personal,” Neville said.

“Even more reason to leave it to Severus here,” Smudger said patiently. “Look lad, Bellatrix makes Malfoy look like a Hufflepuff. She’s vicious, she’s potty, and she’s bloody handy with a wand. Severus here has years of experience of dealing with people like that, and you haven’t. All you’ve got is your hate, and if you hate her you’re just going to make mistakes, and get yourself killed, and probably a couple of your friends as well. And the end result is that she’ll get away. Do you want that?”

Neville shook his head mutinously. “No,” he muttered.

“If it’s that important to you, there’s bound to be a couple of minutes after it’s all over and before we call in the Aurors, and you can take her into a quiet corner and hex her till the blood comes out of her ears,” Smudger said. “You can’t say fairer than that.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Neville said, shocked and revolted. “I just want her to be locked up. For good, this time.”

Smudger shrugged. “Well then, it’s not really personal is it? If that’s all you want, it doesn’t matter whether Severus hexes her, or you, as long as she’s dealt with.”

Neville sighed. “I suppose.”

“Good boy,” said Minerva.

“Right,” said Harry. “So we get in. Professor Snape’s job is to get Bellatrix. Hermione, and Ron lay down covering hexes, and I go for His Lordship. Seems simple enough.”

“And Neville and I will keep an eye on things from the outside, and stop anyone from sneaking up on you,” said Minerva. “And if the worst comes to the worst, we can always call in reinforcements.”

“If we’re really lucky, we can hex any rats who decide to desert a sinking ship,” Smudger said. “Pettigrew in particular has always got right on my nipples; it’d be a pleasure to sort him out once and for all.”

“Something in it for everyone then,” said Ron cheerfully, to Harry’s obvious discontent.

“You said something about having maps,” Harry commented, determined to assert his authority over the meeting. “I think we ought to have a look at them, and see what’s what.”

Smudger rummaged in his robes, and produced a couple of dog-eared pieces of paper. The plans were crudely drawn, on what was clearly the magical equivalent of the back of a fag packet. “’ere you are, lad.”

“They’re not very clean,” sniffed Harry.

“Well no, but then they were drawn under conditions of utmost secrecy and I thought a bit of dirt would add a bit of camouflage,” Smudger said civilly, but with an underlying edge of narkiness.

“Let’s spread them out on the table,” Hermione suggested, determined to keep the peace. “That way we can have a good look at them and familiarise ourselves with the layout.”

The others gathered round the table to look over the plans of His Lordships lair, leaving Smudger and Severus behind. There was no need for them to learn the layout, having spent many a tedious Saturday night listening to long speeches and wondering why they couldn’t have comfortable seats.

Severus sighed. “I just hope she’s going to be alright,” he said quietly to Smudger. “It’s just, you know, I’ve never been particularly lucky, and it all seems to be too good to be true.” Severus was aware of a cold, hard hand clutched round his intestines.

Smudger patted him on the arm. “You might not be lucky, but is she?” he asked sensibly.

Severus thought about it. She’d been up against His Lordship as a First Year. She’d been petrified by a basilisk. She’d turned herself into a cat, sort of. Yes, she had a habit of getting herself into difficult scrapes – largely down to Potter and Weasley – but she also had a habit of getting out of them; she was lucky.

“I suppose so,” he said slowly.

“She must be,” Smudger replied. “After all, she’s ended up with you. How much luckier can one girl get?”

Severus had to smirk at that.

Harry looked up from his deeply technical conversation, full of terms like enfilade and ambush and tactical advantage, and frowned. Harry might not be able to hear what Smudger and Severus were discussing, but he disapproved of Severus smiling on general principles.

Hermione stabbed her finger down on the map, and asked Harry a question, forcing him to turn his attention back to the discussion.

“And I suppose we’ve got prophecy on our side,” Severus said sourly, not liking seeing his girlfriend in such close proximity to The Prat. “So we can hardly fail. And if you believe that I’d like to sell you a potion that can turn lead into gold.”

Smudger grinned. He’d always appreciated Severus’ cheerful outlook on life.

“And if… when we’re successful, it does mean that there are fewer people to share the glory with,” Smudger said. “There’s only a certain number of Orders of Merlin you know. I only hope we’re alive to enjoy it. A posthumous Order of Merlin is no good to anyone. It’s no use pulling the totty when you’re no longer able to enjoy it. Mind you, sod’s law says that’s what’ll happen.”

“Not to us,” Severus said, looking at the three boys with an evil grin. “After all, they do say it’s the good that die young.”

Smudger snorted. “You may not be good, my lad, but neither are you young anymore. Middle aged, is what you are.”

Severus glared at him. “I’ll have you know, I’m in the prime of my life,” he said indignantly. “Compared to a Muggle, I’m barely into my twenties.”

Smudger grinned unrepentantly. “You always were easy to wind up, Snapey.”

Severus sneered half-heartedly, “Just be grateful I’ve mellowed with advancing age, and no longer feel the need to hex everyone I meet.”

“It’s not like you’ve suddenly matured over the last couple of weeks, you know. I’m sure it was barely a month ago that you were offering to slice Grytpype-Thynne’s bollocks off, and use them as potion’s ingredients.”

Severus smirked at the memory. “Well, he asked for it.”

“I’m not arguing about that. I’ve been tempted to do it myself, a time or two. You know that he got me banned from playing darts, the bastard.”

Severus nodded. He knew. Everyone knew. And anyone who didn’t know, soon would, given five minutes of their time. Mind you, when it came to darts, Grytpype-Thynne had a point; Smudger was a bloody danger to anyone in a hundred yard radius. “It’s a pity the Prophecy doesn’t call for His Lordship to be eliminated in a game of darts really. We could have polished him off years ago.”

“Nah, you can’t see His Lordship settling down to a game of darts. Not without cheating anyway. He’s always struck me as a bad loser. Worse than Malfoy.”

“True. True. And I bet he wouldn’t stand a round. Even Malfoy’s been known to do that,” Severus said.

“I bet old Bumbledore’s just as bad when it comes to sticking his hand in his pocket when it’s his turn,” Smudger prodded, knowing what the response would be.

“Bloody right,” Severus agreed. “What’s the difference between Bumbledore and His Lordship?”

“Dunno, mate.”

“One’s a power-crazed lunatic who wants to rule the world, and the other one has a beard.”

Smudger dutifully sniggered, though it was probably the hundredth time he’d heard the joke. He thought Severus deserved a medal for putting up with the Greater Bearded Tit alone, regardless of his work as a double agent. All those poisons at his disposal, and his hand had never twitched. Mind you, for once he seemed to be getting jam now and not tomorrow.

He nudged Severus in the ribs. It seemed that the Instrument of Prophecy had made his mind up, and they had to treat the situation with the gravity it deserved. After all, it wouldn’t look good in their memoirs if they were sniggering like schoolboys at this crucial moment in History. He wouldn’t put it past the boys to be truthful and accurate in what they chose to record for Posterity, rather than being sensible and making sure that they showed to best advantage.

“So,” Harry said slowly, surveying the map now covered in scrawls and scribbles. “We’re really going to do this.”

“I think so mate,” Ron said.

“Well now that that’s settled, I think we could all do with a nice cup of tea.” Minerva moved towards the kitchen. “Could you give me a hand Hermione dear?”

It was just on her lips to suggest that Neville could help her make tea, and why should she be volunteered to do it, just because she was a girl, when Hermione realised from the tension in the air that the boys still had a certain amount of posturing to go through before things could truly be called settled. “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Once Hermione had gone, and the rattle of crockery could clearly be heard in the kitchen, Severus said, “I want it clearly understood that if anything happens to Hermione as a result of someone in this room being careless or gung ho, I will make the rest of your short life extremely painful.”

The boys nodded. “And the same goes if you or your mate here turns out to be unreliable,” Harry said. “Just so we know.”

“He’s reliable,” Severus said. “In fact, if it all goes pear shaped, I want him to make sure that Hermione is safe.”

Smudger nodded, looking serious. “If that happens, I’ll stupefy her from behind, and get her out if at all possible. My word on it.”

“Not unless it’s really hopeless though,” Ron said. Severus and Harry glared at him. “Look, in the first place, she’s a grown woman and has a right to make her own mind up what she wants to do, and in the second place, I think she’d be bloody useful to have around, and in the third place, I really don’t want to explain to her why she was plucked out of things at the height of the battle if I haven’t actually snuffed it.”

“He’s got a point there,” Neville said. “You know what she’s like; we’d never hear the end of it.”

Smudger winced. “I can imagine she’d be a bit forceful about things. So, very much something to be done when all hope is lost, and explanations won’t be possible without the aid of a ouija board.”

The boys nodded.

Hermione was surprised by the air of unity that prevailed in the room when she returned with the tea things. It was fortunate that she didn’t know precisely what they were united in; she would have been extremely cross. As it was the meeting broke up with considerably more amity than the one with Lucius, and a damned sight more than anyone had expected at the beginning, though that didn’t stop Severus complaining about Potter in bed later that night.

Hermione stopped him in a most effective and agreeable manner; it was probably what he was angling for all along.

Avery was indeed on holiday, and apparently Severus owed Avery one – and not in the ‘I’ll get you back as soon as I can you bastard’ sort of way – so it was decided that the plan would be put into effect on the Thursday. This would give Harry less time to mess things up by discovering independent thought. It was also most convenient for Lucius, who had a Ministry engagement that evening, and therefore wouldn’t have to come up with an excuse to slip away from Narcissa.

There were tactical reasons as well.

His Lordship was as regular as clockwork in summoning his Minions on a Friday, so Thursday was a bit of a quiet day. Much as they wanted to take out all of the Inner Circle, Severus preferred not to do it all at once. They could always track them down one by one later, he’d said; His Lordship was the crucial target, and it was more important to take him at a disadvantage.

There were only seven of them after all.

Severus made it very clear that he would prefer it to be six, but got nowhere. He didn’t really expect to. He’d been incredibly persistent though, and Hermione’s patience snapped when he referred to ‘putting her life at risk for Bloody Potter’ just once too often. “Don’t be so bloody stupid,” she’d snapped. “I’m going along to make sure you’re safe, not him. Neville and Ron will look after Harry perfectly fine, but who’s going to watch your back? Certainly not them, after all those years in Potions, they think you’re invincible.”

He hadn't said anything, just wrapped her in a fierce hug, but that was the last she heard on the subject.

They managed to find her some Death Eater robes quite easily, though it made her feel uneasy to be wearing them until Severus quietly pointed out that they were Smudger’s second best robes, and hadn’t been worn out and about.

Finding Robes for Smudger proved to be much more difficult. There was a small moment of consternation when Smudger sent a note saying he couldn’t get hold of anything like the Malfoy special, not without breaking the bank, anyway. The price the tailor had quoted was enough to make Severus wince, and he should have been used to the prices as he had all his robes handmade.

“Well, you’ve got two choice,” Hermione said. “Get Minerva to transfigure you some or ask to borrow Malfoy’s robes. He’s bound to have a spare set.”

Minerva, when asked, expressed her concern that she would be unable to Transfigure something into something else, when she didn’t know what that something else looked like. Severus and Smudger attempted to draw a likeness of the Robes to provide a guide, but it was clear from Minerva’s wrinkled nose that she was unimpressed by their efforts.

It was an expression that rested on Hermione’s face shortly afterwards when she surveyed latest attempt, which no Malfoy would give to a House Elf to use to scrub floors let alone wear.

“I’ll just have to sneer, and hope that his reputation for being a vicious bastard carries me through,” said Smudger doubtfully as he examined the robes. “I suppose I can always say my robes were in the wash.”

“Bloody house elves and all that,” said Severus, embellishing the theme. “He’s always complaining about the poor service house elves give these days, and how much better it was in the old days when you could skin them alive and nail the hide to the door frame to encourage the others.”

“That’s true.” Smudger brightened. “He’s almost as obnoxious about house elves as he is about Mud-ggleborns. And it is going to be gloomy,” he said, trying to convince himself as well as the others. “We might be able to get away with it.”

“Do you really want to risk your life on that?” asked Hermione.

“Not, really no,” Smudger replied.

“So we’re going to have to ask Lucius,” Severus said.

“He’s not going to like it,” confirmed Severus. “Not one little bit.”

“I think we ought to have a Plan B then,” said Hermione.

“And C,” Smudger replied. “At the very least. Although I have had an idea………”

As it turned out Lucius managed to convey every impression of being wholly delighted to see Hermione and Severus when they arrived at Malfoy Manor without warning, but then he’d had a lifetime to practice his dissembling. Smudger had elected to stay behind on the basis that a secret weapon isn’t very secret when it tips up to Malfoy Manor for a fitting.

There was something of a delay after the House Elf Butler escorted them into what Severus referred to as the Second-Best Waiting room, whilst he went to see if the Master was At Home. Hermione was fairly certain that Lucius had spent several minutes spitting tacks that he hadn't had the sense to tell the Elf not to admit visitors, especially awkward visitors who might be wanting favours, and then another couple of minutes brushing his hair until it shone.

No one, she thought bitterly, could have hair that looked that neat and tidy and not spend every spare minute of every day teasing it into place. She wondered whether Maurice took on female – and Mudblood – customers, because she could certainly do with his help.

She made a mental note to have a word with Lucius about the issue at a later date.

“Severus,” Lucius said, with every sign of pleasure as he advanced into the room in a flurry of robes that was just a shade less dramatic than Severus could have achieved. “How very kind of you to drop in like this.”

“And how very kind of you to receive us at such short notice,” Severus replied, with only the faintest hint of a smirk.

Lucius offered them a drink, which was politely refused, and then sent the anxiously helpful House Elf from the room.

“So what can I do for you?” Lucius asked. “I assume you do want me to do something for you.”

“Isn’t it sad when one so young is so cynical?” Severus said to Hermione, not entirely sotto voce, and very definitely applying flattery like with a trowel. What Slytherin could resist being called cynical, and what middle-aged man – no matter how lovely his hair - could resist being called young.

“Surely there should be more dancing around the issue,” Hermione replied. “If you ask a direct question like that, don’t you get reported to some sort of committee that upholds Slytherin values. Won’t he get into awful trouble? I’d hate to see him get into awful trouble.”

“I think he’s worried about Narcissa finding out we’re here.” Severus detected the infinitesimal flinch that showed that shot had hit home.

“The question still remains,” Lucius said, a trifle impatiently. “What do you want?”

“I think I’d like to see your bedroom,” Hermione replied, causing Lucius’s magnificent sang froid to fracture completely.

“What?” he spluttered. “What on earth do you want to do that for?” There was a fractional pause, whilst his eyes slithered over her body and made an assessment of her attractiveness, Severus’ propensity for sharing, his desire to enter into a threesome where he might show to disadvantage, and the likelihood of being found out bearing in mind Narcissa was in the same house, if not the same wing of Malfoy Manor.

The answer he came up with: passable; nil; also nil: he’d heard rumours about Severus and his ahem wand; and bloody guaranteed and he liked his bollocks in their present location and not in a jar above the fireplace, thank you very much. Though, bearing in mind the legendary vindictiveness of his wife, he thought it unlikely that the suggestion the Mudblood wanted to see his bedroom should be taken at face value. He may be attractive, but it was unlikely that Hermione would be prepared to take on Narcissa face to face rather than sneaking around behind her back.

She was very clearly up to something. It was probably a diversionary tactic, so that he would be daft enough to agree to anything else, but he was too bright to fall for that little trick. She would have to work a lot harder to fool Lucius Malfoy.

He was just on the point of risking a leer and a lascivious comment to call her bluff – whilst keeping a weather eye on Severus, who was bound to go for his wand – when his wife burst into the drawing room with all the tact and grace of a Gryffindor.

“Lucius,” she snarled. “What have I told you about bringing your women here? I won’t stand for it. Get this filthy Mudblood out of here.”

For one bright moment Lucius, seeing Severus hand twitch towards his wand, hoped that he was about to see the back of Narcissa – permanently, and preferably painfully – but Hermione had seen the same movement and attached herself to his wand arm like a limpet.

His disappointment was ameliorated to some extent by the expression on his wife’s face when Hermione announced airily that, “ I’m afraid there’s been some sort of misunderstanding, Mrs Malfoy. I’m not one of Lucius’s women at all. I’m Severus’ Pet Mudblood, you know.”

Narcissa deflated abruptly. “Oh. Oh, erm, I’m sorry.” Narcissa had always prided herself on impeccable manners – when she wasn’t behaving like a shrew – but there was no Death Eater etiquette for dealing with someone’s Mudblood Pet. Obviously, under general principles a Mudblood should be sneered at and insulted, but when they were someone’s property that was out of the question. On the other hand, you wouldn’t want to shake their hand.

Lucius was even more amused when Hermione raised the social stakes, by holding her hand out to Narcissa. “I’m Hermione Granger; pleased to meet you at last Mrs Malfoy. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Narcissa, perforce, took her hand in as limp a grip as possible for as short a time as possible. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment, Severus, Hermione, I need to have a little word with my husband.”

Narcissa’s hands were like claws digging into Lucius’ arms as he was almost dragged into the corner. There were very strong similarities to the last time Severus had seen an Auror wanting to have a Quiet Word with one of The Lads, although it was unlikely that Lucius would Stupefy Narcissa and make a spirited break for freedom.

“What the hell are those two doing here?” hissed Narcissa.

“I was in the process of determining that, when you interrupted us dear,” Lucius replied with careful patience, uncomfortably aware that Severus was immensely entertained by his situation.

Severus crossed the room to join them, leaving Hermione to admire the potraiture which was grimacing at the thought of a Mudblood under their roof. “Narcissa,” he said pleasantly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid Lucius and I need to be Elsewhere.” Severus rubbed his left arm meaningfully.

“Why?” she snapped back, suspicious as ever. “The Meeting isn’t until tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’s strictly need to know. For your own safety you know.” Narcissa looked mutinous.

“Absolutely, my dear,” Lucius agreed. “ I could never forgive myself if something were to happen to you.” – and I wasn’t there to see it – “I know you’re dedicated to the cause” – of buying shoes – “but I can’t allow you to take the risk.”

“Why does she get to go then?” Narcissa asked spitefully.

“Cannon fodder,” Lucius said succinctly.

“Oh, well that’s alright then.” Narcissa felt marginally more gruntled. It was one thing to take a Mudblood out for fun and frolics, but quite another to use her as something to hide behind when the hexes started flying.

“You don’t think she heard, do you?” muttered Severus. “Otherwise I’ll have to Obliviate her again. At this rate she’ll end up with a mind with more holes than Swiss Cheese.”

“I shouldn’t think so, or she’d have run out of the room screaming.”

Lucius’ callous comment had the effect of soothing Narcissa’s remaining concerns, and she kissed her husband on the cheek by way of silent apology. “Well, you’d better hurry up and get changed, dear. You wouldn’t want to keep Him waiting.”

“Yes, dear,” replied Lucius meekly, which would have blown the whole scam if Narcissa hadn't been distracted by the sight of Hermione poking her tongue out at Great-Uncle Bernard. He might indeed be an obnoxious and uncouth individual, but he was Family.

Lucius disappeared to change, as Narcissa descended on Hermione like a tigress ready to protect her cubs.

“Ah, Miss Granger. I see you’ve been admiring Bernard Malfoy. He is a bit of a character.”

“Oh indeed. It’s a real privilege to be able to put a face to a name.”

Narcissa looked faintly puzzled. She made it a rule never to display strong emotions, in case it caused wrinkles; there was only so much potions could do. “Oh,” she said vaguely. “How would you have heard about him?”

“Professor Binns mentioned his name in class one day, and I did some extra research. He was so brave and determined.”

The portrait stood a little straighter and began to smoothe down his robes to ensure he looked his best.

“Brave?” Narcissa asked.

“Oh yes. He stood up against Grindelwald, and fought for the rights of Muggleborns to be accepted in society.”

It was hard to tell whether Uncle Bernard or Narcissa was the more shocked by the news. Unfortunately, shock kept him silent, and that was tantamount to an admission of guilt.

“Really?” Narcissa said, throwing a suspicious glance at the traitor in their midst. “I had no idea.”

“Well, it had to be kept a secret at the time,” Hermione replied. “If any of Grindlewald’s followers had ever found out what he’d been up to, well, it wouldn’t have been pretty. It must be terrible, to be forced to do good by stealth, and never get the credit for it. A bit like poor Severus and Lucius here.”

“It’s a lie,” spluttered the little man. “I murdered Muggles in their bed. I raped, I tortured, I practised the Dark Arts. Crucio Malfoy they used to call me.”

Severus was watching the exchange with amusement. Bernard Malfoy was the Death Eater’s Death Eater. Even Grindlewald had thought that he was a bit of a nutter, and if the Evil Overlord of the day thought you were a bit of a nutter, then it was time for you to be locked away with the jackets with long sleeves and attached mittens that fastened at the back. He had been, however, a rich and useful nutter, dedicated to furthering the cause of the extinction of Mudbloods.

“Oh dear,” Hermione said, sadly shaking her head. “I had no idea that it would still upset him so badly. He had to do so many terrible things to preserve his cover as a spy, and the guilt must be eating him up.”

Bernard glared at her. “I do not feel guilt about anything.”

“Of course not,” Hermione replied soothingly. “After all, why should you? In war, terrible things happen, and sacrifices have to be made so that others can be free.”

Bernard was staring at her in bewildered horror. “What do you mean, sacrifices have to be made? There’s no excuse for killing people.”

Narcissa had a similar expression of horror, though much muted, and for different reasons. One of her great childhood heroes was being exposed as a fraud. He’d actually been a good person, with moral standards. Whatever would the neighbours say?

“That’s a fine moral principle in theory,” Hermione replied. “But surely you can see that in practice, in the hard, real world, that that just doesn’t work. After all, you’re allowed to kill people in self-defence; that’s what you were doing really, wasn’t it? You had to kill or be killed.”

Bernard was lost for words, but then rallied. “I used Unforgivables you know.”

“Who hasn’t?” she returned coolly.

“There’s a reason they’re called Unforgivables, you know. That’s what they are: unforgivable.”

“Ah, I see what the problem is,” Hermione said. “You think that what you did was unforgivable, despite all the good you accomplished. I’m sure that, in time, you can come to find the peace you need.”

“Forgiven? Forgiven?” he shrieked. “How can I be forgiven? Do you think that those Mudbloods I killed would forgive me?”

Hermione just sighed. “Poor thing.”

Bernard realised, too late that his speech had confirmed Narcissa’s worst suspicions, and his transfer to the attic or cellar was now guaranteed. Incensed beyond all reason, he drew his wand and shrieked, “Avada Kedavra!” A small, green cloud formed at the tip of his wand, drifted across the picture, but could go no further than the frame.

“You dare,” hissed Narcissa, drawing her own wand with commendable speed and uttering that one word that chilled the non-existent blood of Wizarding portraits. “Turpentine.”

“I was aiming at the Mudblood,” he whined, and then retired to the chair in the corner of his picture, where he could clearly be heard muttering about the iniquities of Mudbloods and Blacks. Even he wasn’t prepared to push his luck in the face of that threat.

Narcissa glared at him, then her calm mask descended again as she remembered that this would lead to frown lines. “If you will excuse me, Severus, I’ll have to find out where that errant husband of mine is, and I have a number of household chores to see to.”

“Of course, Narcissa. I’m sure you have many important things you should be doing”, Severus replied.

She turned on her impeccable heel, left the room in a flutter of robes, and could be heard calling for her husband in a tone of strangulated gentility.

Lucius was impeccably turned out, as ever, when he eventually joined them. His hair had been carefully arranged in a queue, and his Death Eater robes were pristine and starched to perfection. Hermione examined them carefully. It was her job to fix them in her mind, so that her memories could be transferred to a Pensieve for Minerva’s benefit.

Her inspection made Lucius feel nervous. Obviously, the girl was impressed, who wouldn’t be, but couldn’t she be a little less obvious with Severus and Narcissa around? He pulled his Robes more tightly around himself, entirely coincidentally giving Hermione a better view of his arse, and said, “I don’t know what you came here for, Severus, but, whatever it was, the answer is no.”

“It could have been very much to your advantage,” replied Severus, giving Hermione more time to complete her survey.

“I doubt it. It would have involved me in financial expense, personal danger, or a combination of the two. That answer is still no.”

“Very well,” Severus said. “But you’ll come to regret being so hasty.”

“I doubt it. Now, I’m sure you’ll understand when I say, charming though your company is, I could well do without it.”

As he watched Severus and Hermione leave, ostensibly chagrined, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d been stitched up somewhere along the line. He would have given the matter some thought, but he had a Mudblood pet to see, and the chance of spending the evening in comfort. Narcissa simply wouldn’t accept that these wretched spindly chairs might be very pretty, but they were damned uncomfortable, even with the benefit of cushioning charms. He’d very nearly suggested that they be used as a form of torture to His Lordship, but he wasn’t an Evil Overlord noted for his sense of humour.

Besides, though he’d kill anyone rather than admit it, Lucius had discovered something of a taste for Muggle Fellytision. It appeared to contain lots of women in advanced states of undress, which was something he found that he approved of. What was even better, he could admire the young ladies, without his Mudblood expressing a forcible opinion about his morals. He couldn’t understand what Narcissa was complaining about: he a Death Eater, he was supposed to leer at scantily clad young ladies. It was in the job description.

He sighed wistfully. Even if Severus were successful in defeating His Lordship, there was no chance that he would ever be able to shack up with his Mudblood openly. He wondered what he’d done in a previous life to deserve Narcissa; he only hoped he had enjoyed it.

He transfigured his robes into something more acceptable and apparated away with a sharp crack. At least he had tonight……….

Hermione was feeling very pleased with herself. She had accomplished their mission, and she had also had the immense pleasure of winding up the portrait of one of the nastiest supporters of Grindelwald. It would have taken a better woman than Hermione not to gloat.

“I think that went rather well, all things considered,” she said as they made their way up from the apparition point.

Severus just grunted.

“I’m sure Minerva will be able to put together a much better set of robes with my memories.” Hermione was beginning to feel a bit peeved that he wasn’t being a little more supportive.

Severus humphed.

“What on earth is up with you?” she asked in exasperation. “I thought you’d be pleased it had gone well.”

“You were looking at Lucius’ bum,” mumbled Severus.

“What?” Hermione stopped abruptly and stared at him.

“You were looking at Lucius’ bum,” he repeated, more loudly this time, but not quite meeting her eyes.

“Don’t be bloody silly. I was looking at his robes, I grant you, and they were in the vicinity of his bum, but at no time was I actually looking at his bum per se.”

“Lucius thought you were,” he replied sulkily.

“The disgusting, foul, horrible little man. Why on earth would he think that? Why on earth would anyone want to?” she said, horrified.

“He’s good looking.”

“Is he?” Hermione shrugged ostentatiously.

“He’s blond.”

“Insipid, I’d say.”

“Charming.”

Hermione spluttered with amusement. “To people he wants something from, perhaps, not to insignificant little Mudbloods.”

“He’s taller.”

“Well, I’ll give you that, but I think he’s wearing lifts in his shoes to make him look taller. Anyway you’re the perfect height for kissing, which is much more important, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” he replied, sounding like a three year old being told that he had to eat his greens before he could have his pudding.

“For heaven’s sake, Severus,” she sighed. “You can look at my memories in a Pensieve tomorrow and see whether I was looking at his bum. Besides yours is nicer.”

They continued walking up to the castle a little way. “I did like the way you dealt with Bernard,” he offered tentatively. “I met him when I was a toddler. He was a nasty piece of work.”

“Narcissa is a bit of a nightmare as well,” Hermione replied, letting him off the hook a bit.

“God yes. It must be like clambering into bed with an iceberg.”

“And you think about what she’s like in bed often do you?” Hermione asked blandly.

“I may have done, in the past, when I was very young, before I developed taste, and certainly never since I met you,” Severus replied equally blandly.

Hermione gurgled with laughter, and allowed herself to be pulled against him for a kiss.
They only broke apart when Minerva gently coughed to draw their attention to where she was standing in the shadow of Hagrid’s hut. “I suppose this means that you’ve been successful,” she said.

“Absolutely,” said Hermione. “I got a very good view of Lucius’ robes, and you should be able to copy them relatively easily.”

“Shall we get on with it now then, or do you have something more pressing to do?” Minerva asked, making Severus flush bright red. “Smudger is waiting for us, up at the castle.”

Severus nervously smoothed down his robes, and followed the women up to the castle. The sooner that this damned coup was sorted out, the sooner he would be able to concentrate on the important things in life.

Smudger was waiting for them in Minerva’s sitting room, and nodded at Severus and Hermione by way of greeting. “I take it all went well then?”

“I’m not sure that plan C wasn’t better,” said Severus, mindful of the unhealthy interest Hermione had taken in Lucius’ arse.

“What, waiting until he’d got down to business with his Mudblood and then accio-ing his robes?” asked Smudger.

“Yes,” said Severus.

“Leaving him to walk home in the nud – or worse, in Muggle clothes – would have been bloody funny,” he said. “But then he’d have known what we were up to, and I definitely don’t trust him. Not one little bit.”

“Besides, we’d have had to hang around for ages,” Hermione said absently.

Severus smirked and Smudger grinned at the implication.

“What are you two grinning at,” Minerva said.

“Just the thought of dear old Lucius worrying what we’re up to. It can’t be conducive to … er … romance,” Severus said smoothly.

“Hmmm,” Minerva replied, giving the pair of them a hard look that reduced them to errant schoolboys. “Shall we crack on then?”

Hermione felt a little nervous about using a Pensieve. She worked so hard to acquire knowledge, it seemed unnatural at the very least to reverse the process, and what if she muffed the charm and ended up transferring the wrong information? She could end up a gibbering wreck.

She knew that Albus regularly used a Pensieve and she had strong concerns that this could explain his less than firm grip on reality: after eighty years he probably had a mind like Swiss cheese.

She could end up wholly unable to remember the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, or the correct angle to hold your wand to perform a levitation charm. And they were certainly some very interesting memories she’d acquired recently that she was rather keen to keep hold of.

So there was a faint tremor in her hand when she raised her want to her temple and started drawing out the particular memories of their trip to Malfoy Manor. The pensieve turned cloudy as the silvery trail fell into the bowl, showing that something had been transferred. She poked around in her mind after the transfer to find that there was indeed a gap where the memories once were, and all that remained was a dull impression of having been in the house, but the details were fuzzy.

She ran through some complicated mental arithmancy to check that things were still in working order, and then ran through the finer details of last evening’s events. She noticed that Minerva was looking at her oddly and realised that she had a wide smile on her face, which could be misinterpreted, especially by jealous lovers. “I was just checking my memories were still in place,” she said.

“Oh.” Minerva didn’t pursue the subject, which was probably for the best, and moved the basic robes they were transfiguring closer to the pensieve so that she could keep one eye on both of them and make the necessary adjustments.

When Minerva completed the transfiguration she stood back and admired the robes with pursed lips; they seemed to have passed inspection and she put them on the table for wider scrutiny.

Smudger examined the Robes for defects, paying particular attention to the finework on the hems. It was his life that was at risk after all. “A fine job, Minerva,” he said eventually. “I can’t find fault with them. Even Lucius himself couldn’t tell the difference, and he’s a connysoor.”

“He’s pretentious as well,” said Severus. “I mean, what Death Eater with any self-respect would wear poncy robes like this, so that you could be more easily identified by any survivors. It’s daft, that’s what it is.”

“Well, he never intended to get his hands dirty,” said Smudger. “He always leaves that to the Minions, doesn’t he? Just sort out a bit of light torture for me, there’s a good fellow, and I’ll nip outside and cast the Mosmordre. Tricky bit of magic that, and can’t be left to a mere underling. It has to be just right. Artistic even.”

“Good job really,” Severus said.

“Bloody right,” Smudger agreed. “That way we can start squealing like a pig on its honeymoon as soon as he’s out of the door, and by the time he’s done his little bit – and he never rushes back, bless him – we’ve sprayed a bit of animal blood round the room, and knocked the offending Muggle or Muggleborn unconscious. He returns to a vision of savage butchery that would put His Lordship off his tea, and we’re all happy.”

“And we can always rely on Skeeter and her kind to sensationalise the story so it sounds much, much worse,” Severus said smugly.

“Don’t any of the victims ever tell the truth about what happened to them?” Minerva asked in amazement.

Smudger snorted. “What, and ruin a perfectly good gig as a poor, unfortunate victim, where everyone’s giving them sympathy and understanding. I should think not.”

“Even if they did tell the truth, what good would it do? It’ll just be put down to having a stiff upper lip and being brave, or covering up some deep, deep trauma. People want to believe the worst. Before you know it, a simple raid where someone got a black eye and a bit of a bloody nose, before sensibly deciding that heroism can be left to someone who isn’t being held at wandpoint by people in funny clothes, turns into a sodding blood bath. The public don’t want the truth, they want scandal.”

“That can’t be right,” said Minerva. “Surely there’s some truth to all these stories.

“Last month, some silly sod fainted before we’d even got started, and the next day he’s telling the Prophet about his harrowing ordeal and hinting at unspeakable torments,” Severus said.

“I remember him,” Smudger said indignantly. “He clipped his head on the coffee table on the way down, and swore blind that a burly Death Eater had hit him across the face whilst he was held back by three others. I still say we should have nipped back and had a Quiet Word about the situation.”

“You can’t spend your time exacting revenge for every little slight,” Severus said.

“Says the man who deducted 70 points from Gryffindor last week,” Hermione muttered to Minerva.

“Besides,” he continued, pointedly ignoring the comment. “You know how stroppy His Lordship gets about unauthorised visits.”

“True. True. And it’s a bugger getting all the saliva off your robes.” Hermione looked puzzled, and Smudger enlightened her. “He spits when he’s angry. You don’t want to go to a meeting when you’ve crossed His Lordship, without casting a couple of water-repelling charms. It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.”

“I thought poor old Avery was going to drown last time,” Severus smirked.

“He should know better than to turn up late. Very particular on timekeeping is His Lordship. At least when he’s being kept waiting.” Hogwarts clock chiming the hour interrupted them. “Speaking of which, I’d better be getting back. There’s a decent programme on the Wireless tonight.”

“And I’ve got lots of marking to see to,” Severus said, lying through his teeth. His plans for the evening did not include marking, or hanging around in Minerva’s rooms going over plans for the umpteenth time. What was the point? It wasn’t as if Potter was going to stick to it anyway.

“When shall we three meet again?” Smudger asked with a grin.

“Next Thursday, as you very well know,” Severus replied. “And there are four of us you know.”

“I was being literary,” Smudger replied, “in honour of the seriousness of the occasion. It’s artistic licence, that’s what it is. When we come to write our memoirs, we want to sound a bit posh, don’t you think?”

“Quite right,” Minerva said, amused.

Severus gave her an irritated glance, before returning to his point. “You won’t sound very posh if it’s obvious you can’t count, will you?”

Hermione, seeing that the whole discussion could continue for hours, hours that could be better spent doing other things – like, ahem, marking – decided to help things along. “Severus is right, Smudger, but there is a solution. If we step out into the corridor, and Minerva stays here, then you can ask the question again, and you’ll be both posh and accurate and you’ll both be happy.”

“She is a clever one, isn’t she?” Smudger said, nudging Severus in the ribs.

“She is,” he agreed. “And I’ll thank you to keep your elbows to yourself.”

Smudger attempted to look repentant, and they dutifully trailed outside to repeat the scene. When Severus said, “How about Thursday, 6.30 for 7.00?” she had the feeling she’d heard it somewhere before, but she couldn’t place it.

Their place in history assured, the three of them went their separate ways: Smudger to his Wireless, and Severus and Hermione to their marking. It wasn’t strictly a lie: Hermione did give him an Outstanding, but then that was nothing less than his due.

Severus Snape was not noted for being a happy bunny. He may, in the privacy of his – or Hermione’s quarters – achieve the state of happy bunniness, but as no one but Hermione saw that, it could be disregarded. The innocent bystander, if such a thing exists in a world full of sin, watching the events of Thursday evening would have noticed that Severus was a very unhappy bunny indeed.

He was risking his newly acquired girlfriend in a reckless endeavour in the company of The-tit-who-lived, his ginger sidekick, and a boy so stupid he couldn’t boil water without burning it. It was a recipe for disaster.

It was only the knowledge that he had Smudger and Minerva backing him up that persuaded him to carry on. That and the thought of all the nagging Hermione would do if he backed out now.

They assembled in the Hog’s Inn in Hogsmeade looking furtive and like they were up to no good, which meant that they blended in with the other patrons. Longbottom was late, as usual, and scurried into the pub looking sheepish and very nearly tripping over his robes.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “But Mr Phrense wanted me to stay late to do some potting on.”

Severus didn’t roll his eyes, because Hermione had sharp elbows, but it did nothing to put his mind at ease.

“Never mind, lad. You’re here now,” Smudger said. “Sit down, and take your weight off your feet.”

Neville subsided onto a bench, and was handed a pint, which he clutched tightly to him.

“Right, so now we’re all here,” Severus said with a pointed glance at Neville. “Now we can get on.” He drew out the flask of carefully prepared polyjuice, and passed it to Smudger. “I’ve added an extender to it, so it should last a bit longer. It makes it taste worse, I should warn you.”

Smudger grinned. “It’s not that nice to start with.”

Severus grinned back, before he realised that the boys were watching them with interest, never having seen him smile before. He scowled at them, and they took a sudden interest in their pints.

“Sup up lads,” Smudger said. “We’ve got an important appointment, and we wouldn’t want to be late, would we?”

They supped up slowly, savouring every drop of what could be their last drink. It was a shame it wasn’t a better pint really. He couldn’t remember a worse pint, not on any of the boys’ nights out. They may not be fussy drinkers, but they had standards, and this was definitely sub-standard.

There weren’t any nibbles either.

If they got out of this alive – when they got out of this alive – he was going to make sure that they had a damned good party. They’d invite The Lads, and get the pub to lay on some special nibbles, and he’d raid the last of the funds that Dumbledore had given him for bribes and other incidental expenses, and they’d have some fun. As far as he was concerned, it would be the Revel to end all Revels, and Smudger could even play darts.

Pints supped, they departed for the Mission with suitably grave faces.

They apparated to the Meeting Point in two groups. It had been tacitly agreed that Severus and Harry should be kept apart as much as possible. In fact, it was clear that Severus should be kept apart from almost everyone. He was a bundle of nerves, and inclined to take them out on anyone available, though he was still sensible enough not to try that with Hermione or Minerva.

Smudger just ignored him; Smudger was used to it.

Smudger, Hermione and Severus went on ahead, to check that the apparition point was clear. Once they were sure that there was no one around who shouldn’t be around, Smudger nipped back to fetch the Minerva and the boys, who popped into existence a couple of minutes later.

“Do we all know what we’re doing? Minerva and Neville will stay behind, whilst we take Potter and Weasley inside at wand point,” Severus asked.

Everyone nodded, though neither Minerva or Neville looked very happy about it. Both of them had now realised that there was every chance they would miss all of the fun, and were prepared to be sulky about it.

“No last minute questions,” Smudger asked. “Now’s the time to pipe up, if you have. It’s no good thinking of something when we’re in the thick of things, is it?”

Everyone shook their head.

“Give it another ten minutes,” Harry said, unable to resist the urge to show off, though he doubtless thought of it as making a valuable contribution, “And then we’ll head off.”

Smudger dropped the carefully purloined hair into the polyjuice, and took a long swig from the bottle. “Dear god, you weren’t joking,” he spluttered. “That is disgusting.”

Severus watched the transformation with a professional interest, then pulled his mask out of his pocket, and buffed it on his robes before handing it to Hermione. “You look awful,” he said.

“I feel awful,” Smudger agreed. “I look like a ponce.”

“Not quite you don’t. You need to put on the special, poncy robes to look like a real ponce,” Severus replied.

“Good point.” Smudger disappeared behind some convenient bushes to dress, away from the prying eyes of Young Ladies, and emerged several minutes later trying to arrange his robes in some semblance of order.

“Bloody hell, you look just like Lucius Malfoy,” Neville said, and then blushed. He gave Severus a worried look, clearly expecting house points to be deducted, or some sarcastic remark.

“I should bloody hope so,” Smudger said. “That is the point, after all.”

Hermione walked round Smudger, checking to see whether he was up to scratch. Severus glared at her. It was bad enough her taking an interest in Lucius’ arse when it was attached to Lucius, but now it was Smudger’s arse and that was beyond the pale. “You’ll do,” she said. “Though you still look a little crumpled.”

“I’ve obviously just been involved in some life or death struggle with awkward Mudbloods,” Smudger said. “So I may have been forced into some evasive actions that led to me getting crumpled, and no one’s going to ask me about it, are they? ‘Cos I’m a snotty bastard at the best of times.”

“When in doubt sneer at people,” Severus said. “It’s what Lucius would do.”

Hermione had worn her robes under a cloak, so all she had to do was slip it off and stuff it behind a bush, then put on the mask Severus had given her. “Bloody hell,” she said, her voice heavily muffled. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Well try not to fall over your own feet,” Severus snapped.

Hermione put her hand on Severus’ sleeve. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” he replied gruffly. “See that you do. If you get yourself killed, I warn you I shall bring you back from the dead just to tell you how stupid you were.”

“And the same goes for you too,” she said fondly.

Harry realised with a sinking feeling that Hermione wasn’t going to get over this any time soon, and was only brought back to the matter in hand by Smudger thrusting his wand into his throat. “If you could manage to look a little frightened, Harry, that would be helpful. Try and think of something nasty – potions classes for instance.”

Severus drew his wand as well, and grasped Ron firmly by the arm. “Neville, give us a quarter of an hour, to give us a chance to deal with whoever’s on guard. Otherwise, if you hear our signal, come dashing in.”

“What signal is that,” asked Neville.

“The sound of screaming. Whether it’s ours or someone else’s,” Severus said dryly. “Do try not to get yourself killed.”

“I didn’t know you cared, Snape,” Harry said.

“I don’t, but Hermione does, and she’ll never let me hear the end of it.” He couldn’t understand why Harry smiled at that; he was perfectly serious.

“Off we go,” Smudger said brightly, muttering a little more quietly, “And best of luck to us all. I need my head examining for agreeing to this.”

Harry found himself held in a vice-like grip, and a very silky voice in his ear, making his blood run cold, which said, “Now come along quietly there’s a good little Boy-who-lived, and I won’t hurt you just yet.”

Peter Pettigrew was a Gryffindor, a traitor, and no one doubted that a rat was the perfect representation of his character. He was also a superb administrator. He did all the dirty jobs, the ones that no one wanted to, and this didn’t mean torturing, raping or otherwise having fun. It meant keeping the minutes of meetings, preparing the Memos, keeping track of the petty cash, and generally issuing polite reminders to people who had forgotten to pay their dues for the month.

He was always surprised that more people hadn’t worked out that keeping the minutes of the meeting was almost as good as making the decisions. A missed word here and there, a certain amount of discreet editing, and a meeting in which it was decided that Lucius Malfoy should be in charge of a particular project rapidly became one in which it was decided that Avery should do so.

Depending on the project, it was perfectly possible to extract bribes from both parties to arrange things to their satisfaction.

Nor had people appreciated the power to be gained by sitting by the entrance of His Lordship’s room. He could see who was coming and going, and who was in favour or not, and if he pressed his ear against the wall he could usually make out what was being discussed. And if all that failed, then His Lordship could usually be persuaded to discuss the week’s events when Peter was oiling his scales. Oh no, His Lordship had no secrets from Pettigrew

He knew he was despised; he was used to that. But what he was now was rich and despised, whilst before he had been merely despised.

Nor was he entirely stupid. He could see that matters were coming to a climax soon, and had taken the necessary steps to remove himself from the scene of the conflict. He had already secured His Lordship’s signature on an order that he should perform some unspecified and secret task in the South of France and, if things went badly, he could conveniently forget to come back. If all went as planned, he would return to His Master’s side, and complain bitterly how he had missed out on all the ‘fun’ whilst he had been busy elsewhere.

And if any of his colleagues tried to suggest that he had run for cover at the first sign of trouble, well, they’d find out exactly what power knowledge could bring. He knew where the bodies were buried. Literally, in some cases.

And who’d dug them up, and why.

But he’d never been invited to the after-Revel drinkies at Malfoy Manor, and this was something that rankled with him. Why? Wasn’t he good enough for them? Wasn’t he Pureblooded enough? Or were they just jealous of his closer ties with His Lordship. That had to be it, jealousy.

Well, he would just have to find some way of reminding Mr Malfoy that he was a force to be reckoned with, and that he should put aside his petty vanity for the sake of the greater good, or His Lordship might just find out about his pet Mudblood. And that wasn’t going to go down well, was it? Let Lucius find out what it felt like to spend a couple of minutes under Crucio, and see how he liked it?

Pettigrew was so absorbed in thought, that he barely noticed the black-shrouded forms stalking towards him until their shadows slanted across his page. “You’re in my light,” he complained, not bothering to look up. “And I’ve got to get these notes finished before tomorrow.”

“This is rather more important than your notes,” Lucius drawled.

Pettigrew looked up, mouth open, to remind Malfoy of just how important these notes were, and to complain about how unappreciated his contribution towards running things was, when he recognised Harry. He squealed in alarm, and jerked away from him, nearly falling off his chair.

“So, if you’d announce us to His Lordship…” Lucius continued, in the same, affected manner. “Chop. Chop.”

“His Lordship left strict instructions he wasn’t to be disturbed,” Pettigrew replied, determined to be awkward. “Not for anything.”

“For heaven’s sake, man. Don’t be as big a fool as usual. I rather think His Lordship will be very eager to see us.”

“That may be,” he replied. “But I don’t have the authority to let you in. You know what he’s like when he’s having a nap. It’s more than my life’s worth to let you in. Why don’t you park the prisoners in a cell somewhere, and I’ll let him know as soon as he wakes up?”

“Well, if you won’t do it the easy way, we’ll have to do it the hard way,” said Smudger grasping the man by his robes. He pulled Pettigrew towards him, and quietly and efficiently chinned him. He slumped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, and Smudger made no attempt to slow his fall. “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” he said. “D’you know he tried to make me pay my subs twice last month? An accounting error, he said; bloody cheating, that’s what I call it. The bastard won’t be doing that again.”

“It’s a shame we didn’t have a chance to ask who else is in there,” Severus said sourly. “I don’t like surprises.”

Smudger shrugged unrepentantly. “You couldn’t trust anything he said anyway.”

Hermione pulled off her mask, and huffed a piece of hair out of her face. “If he’s asleep we’ve got the element of surprise. That’s good isn’t it?”

“I dunno. You remember what he did to Lestrange when his slumber was disturbed. It wasn’t pretty, was it?” Smuger shook his head sorrowfully. “It took ages for him to find his ears, and even longer to stick them back on. Poor sod.”

Harry looked green. He wasn’t sure whether Smudger was pulling his leg or not, but he wouldn’t put anything past Voldemort. “What can we expect when we get in there?” he asked.

“The room’s about twice the size of this one. There’s another room off it, on the left hand side, and we can expect the Lestranges at least to be in there, maybe others as well. The idiot that built this place had delusions of grandeur, so there’s pillars and vaulting and arches everywhere. Suits His Lordship’s warped world view down to the ground,” Smudger replied

“If he’s having a nap, he’ll be dozing on a bed in the right hand corner. You can’t miss it; it’s covered in snakes,” Severus added, grasping the door handle firmly. “On the count of three. One, two, THREE,” he shouted, and threw the door open.

Harry and Ron rushed through the door first, and veered in opposite directions to divide Voldemort’s fire in the approved Auror fashion. Smudger, Hermione and Severus followed in quick succession, and found what little cover the room offered: a pillar here, a sofa there. They needn’t have bothered: roused from sleep so abruptly, he was in no condition to fire off hexes. It took him several seconds to realise what was going on, and several more to find his wand, giving both Harry and Ron time to cast first.

And that would have been that, if it hadn’t been for the Lestranges bursting into the room. Bellatrix shrieked like a banshee and wildly fired hexes in all directions, laying down covering fire so that Rodolphus could reach Voldemort’s side, presumably with the intention of laying down his life to protect his master. He didn’t look too keen on the idea. Bellatrix clipped Ron, who went down hard. Instead of doing what Severus would consider to be the sensible thing and concentrating on taking out His Lordship, Harry dashed over to check that Ron was alright, giving Voldemort time to cast a hex at Severus before rolling off the bed and out of sight to join Rodolphus.

Severus’ hastily cast Protego deflected the hex, which rebounded onto a hideous vase and shattered it.

“McNair will be upset,” Smudger said. “He bought that for His Lordship special – the creep.”

“Have you got some Gryffindor in the family tree?” Severus responded, casting a nasty slicing hex at Bellatrix, who yelped when it hit home.

“No,” Smudger said.

“Then stop acting like a tit, and concentrate on the job at hand. We can work out the smart Slytherin dialogue afterwards… Watch out, there’s more of them,” Severus shouted as two more black-clad figures ran into the room. They checked, assessed the situation, and then retired rapidly behind a pillar. There was a scuffle as they chose the same pillar, until one of them was forced from his hiding place to shelter behind a rather inadequate table.

“I’ll keep an eye on those two,” Hermione said. “You concentrate on the others.” The one hiding behind the table incautiously poked his head out to see what was going on, and was rewarded with a hex that parted his hair.

“Fuck. I missed,” Hermione said, wiping her sweaty palm on her hand.

“Never mind that,” Severus replied. “Just try not to get hit. Smudger will want his robes back in once piece, and I feel the same way about my girlfriend.”

Hermione patted his arm affectionately, but didn’t take her eye off her targets.

“Oi,” shouted Smudger. “You two, Perkins and Smith, isn’t it? If I were you, I’d start reconsidering your options right about now. This might be a good time to lay down your wands, and let discretion be the better of valour.”

Perkins and Smith didn’t lay down their wands, but neither were they taking a particularly active part in the fight. They were neutral, for the moment, until they could work out which was the winning side.

“You bastard, Lucius,” screamed Bellatrix. “You two-faced backstabbing bastard. I’ve never liked you.”

“That’s not what you said last month when you tried to get into my robes,” Smudger shouted back, winking at Severus. “What was it you said, something about me being the consummate Slytherin and how that idiot of a husband couldn’t get it up any more.”

There was a wail of outrage from behind the bed; Rodolphus wasn’t taking the news of his wife’s infidelity well. His head shot up above the edge of the bed to make his feelings known, and Ron fired off a Stupefy that caught him in the chest. There was a loud thump as Rodolphus hit the floor.

“Alright,” said Severus. “We need to get Bellatrix out into the open. Ideas anyone?”

“I was thinking that someone could dash out into the open and draw her fire, giving someone the chance to hex her whilst she’s distracted,” Smudger said.

“Sounds good,” Severus said. “I take it you’re volunteering?”

Smudger snorted.

“Toss a coin then?”

Smudger nodded, and fumbled in his robes for a knut. Smudger flipped the coin, caught it smartly, and slapped it down on his palm. “Heads, or tails?”

“Heads.”

“Sorry mate.” Smudger showed Severus the coin: tails.

“Shit.”

Severus took a deep breath, gathered his robes around him, and prepared to make a run for it. “You all set?” he asked Smudger, who nodded his confirmation, and then he was off – shooting out of his hiding place like a startled rabbit.

Bellatrix missed with her first hex, but not with her second, and he felt a shooting pain down his wand arm. He stumbled, slipped, and was horribly aware that he was about to fall flat on his face – in front of bloody Potter too! – and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The floor was hard. It was a trite thing to think, but all the breath had been knocked from his body, and he really wasn’t up to forming complex thoughts. He tried to get his breath back, expecting to be hit by some hex at any moment, and was on the point of making a spirited crawl for safety when a heavy foot came to rest on the back of his neck with unnecessary force.

A heavy foot with a pointy heel, which could only mean Bellatrix.

“Now we are going to be sensible about this, aren’t we children?” she said spitefully. “One false move and we’ll just have to find out how much skin a man can lose before he dies.”

“Why should we care?” Potter said. Severus felt reluctant admiration for the boy; that was precisely the line to take, though he wished that it had sounded rather more like a bluff, and rather less like he meant it. You didn’t have to be a tactical genius to realise that he was in a rather sticky situation. One that was likely to get a lot stickier in both the literal and metaphorical sense.

He supposed that if their positions were reversed, Potter might take comfort in knowing that he’d sacrificed himself for a good cause. Well, he didn’t find any comfort in it, and would like to test that theory by actually being able to swap places with Potter.

Bellatrix laughed, which sent a chill down his spine. She only laughed like that when she was about to do something really unpleasant. “Crucio,” she said, and the world went away, and all he could feel was his blood boiling in his veins, and all he could hear was someone screaming and it was him.

Hermione watched in horror as Severus’s body convulsed in agony. Smudger’s arm shot out and grabbed her very firmly. “Not yet,” he hissed. “Just wait.”

Hermione’s vision blurred and she blinked away tears. “Someone has got to do something,” she said.

“Just wait,”” Smudger repeated. “Just a little longer. Bellatrix is expecting you to do something. We need her to turn her attention to Harry and Ron before we make our move.”

Hermione nodded. He was right, but it was hard to crouch there and do nothing whilst Severus was in pain. She mentally rehearsed a list of the worst curses that she knew; Bellatrix was going to pay for this.

Neville, waiting patiently outside, heard the screaming. “Is that the signal?” he asked nervously.

Minerva cocked an ear to the sound. She didn’t think it was the signal at all, but someone was in trouble, and she wasn’t about to hang around here when she could be in the thick of things. “Absolutely. Come on then.”

They ran down the corridor, towards the noise. Neville reached the door first, and grasped the doorjamb to keep himself upright. That must have been what his parents looked like, when Bellatrix was torturing them, before she burned their brains out in pain and terror.

“You!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t think so, little boy,” she mocked, and turned her wand on him “Crucio!”

Neville ducked back through the door, knocking Minerva backwards, and the curse missed. Hermione saw her chance, and with an almighty shriek launched herself across the room. Bellatrix, unprepared for the full frontal assault, gaped at her, giving Hermione the few seconds of surprise she needed to bring the woman to the ground in a rugby tackle.

Hermione elbowed her viciously in the gut, to prevent her getting enough breath back to hex anyone, and then took her by the throat and banged her head into the ground repeatedly. “Don’t,” she said, in between each contact. “Don’t – ever – lay – hands – on – my – boyfriend – again.”

Neville poked his head round the door, and watched Hermione round-eyed. How he’d dreamed of doing the same thing to Bellatrix, how he’d dreamed of the way she would beg for mercy and he would show none. Not that Bellatrix was doing much begging with Hermione’s hands round her throat. He realised that, peculiar as it might seem to him, Hermione must be really fond of Professor Snape, love him even.

She always was a bit odd – all that reading must have turned her brain.

Voldemort was also transfixed by the sight of his most dangerous Death Eater being throttled by a mere Mudblood. How dare she? How dare she touch one of the Inner Circle with her filthy Mudblood hands? She wasn’t worthy.

Neville saw the movement from the corner of his eye, and realised Voldemort was about to hex Hermione. “Watch out,” he shouted.

Hermione rolled onto one side, taking a limp Bellatrix with her, who took the full force of the hex in the back, shielding both Hermione and Severus.

Harry shouted, “Avada Kedavra!” but Voldemort cast a shielding charm, and it deflected onto the wardrobe next to him. The wardrobe groaned ominously. Neville, in all the excitement, fell back into the drills they had gone through with Dumbledore’s Army and shouted, “Tantellegra!” which was deflected by the shield too.

What a stupid hex to use, he thought. Voldemort seemed to think so too, and hissed at him, “Prepare to die, boy. You are no match for me…”

Minerva shoved Neville to one side, and prepared to cast a hex of her own.

He didn’t manage to complete the sentence. The wardrobe had been unaffected by the Avada – it wasn’t living, so how could it die – tantellegra was a different story. The wardrobe had feet, and the feet wanted to dance. With a squeak and a creak and a groan, it slowly and ponderously began to dance.

The old legs couldn’t take it.

There was a crash, then a moment when everything seemed to stand still, and then, inexorably, the wardrobe toppled over, crushing Voldemort beneath it.

Silence.

Then the twin clicks of two wands hitting the ground.

And then the plaintive voice of Severus, “Is someone going to give me a hand or not? I’m in bleeding agony here.”

Hermione heaved Bellatrix to one side, and half-crawled, half-rolled to Severus. “Oh my poor dear, are you alright?” she crooned.

Harry and Ron expected him to snap something rude at being asked such a question, when the answer was obviously ‘no’. Instead Severus opted for the approach that Molly would call ‘dying duck in a thunderstorm’ - and which would have got a Weasley nothing more than a rap round the ear with a wooden spoon – and allowed himself to be gathered into her arms to have his forehead gently kissed.

“Are we sure he’s dead,” Harry asked.

Severus rolled back the sleeve of his robe to reveal a bare, white arm. “Oh, yes,” he said, his voice slightly quavering. “He’s dead.” Then he turned and hid his face against Hermione, his shoulders shaking. It wasn’t clear whether he was laughing or crying or whether it was just the after effects of the Crucio, but everyone took a sudden interest in something, anything, else to give him a moment of privacy.

“If I were you two, I’d scarper,” Smudger said to Perkins and his mate, who were looking lost. “Leave your wands there, and I’ll see you get them back.”

They looked like they were going to argue – no wizard would surrender his wand – but thought better of it. No doubt Aurors would be there fairly soon, and it was obviously a very good idea to be very conspicuously elsewhere when they arrived.

They scarpered.

Bellatrix whimpered, obviously coming round from whatever Voldemort had hexed her with. Smudger gave her a measuring glance, and then looked at Neville. “Are you sure you don’t want to give her a couple of kicks while you’ve got your chance?”

Neville shook his head. “Hermione seems to have done a good enough job.”

“She was hurting Severus,” Hermione said indignantly. “Poor thing.”

Severus smirked at the boys. He was going to milk this for all it was worth.

Smudger shrugged, and then Stupified Bellatrix. “Well if you’re sure…That should hold her till the Aurors get here.”

“You know,” Severus said thoughtfully. “We might want to have a quick rifle through Pettigrew’s papers - preferably before the Aurors get here. You never know what we might find.”

“You mean we might find evidence against other Death Eaters,” Harry said. “We could pack the whole lot of them off to Azkaban for good.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what he means,” Smudger replied, giving Severus a meaningful look.

“And then we’d better get our stories straight,” Hermione said.

“What do you mean, Hermione,” asked Neville.

“I’m damned if we’re going down in history as the people who brought down Voldemort with Tantellegra,” Smudger said indignantly. “You can see the headlines in the Prophet now – Terpsichorean Tragedy Terminates Tyrant. It’s not going to get the girls, now is it?”

Neville looked thoughtful. “Girls?”

“Girls, lad. Girls of the female persuasion,” Smudger said.

“Gosh,” Neville said.

And Severus laid his head back on Hermione’s lap and thought of all the blackmail material that they were about to uncover, and how the story of Voldemort’s fall was going to put Neville and not Potter in the limelight, and he smiled the smiled of a very happy man.

Severus Snape was, at last, a very happy bunny.

Epilogue

Severus had daydreamed of how he would spend his first night of freedom from the Dark Mark almost as long as he had worn the Dark Mark: sign up for world domination in haste, repent at leisure.

None of his elaborate fantasies had included being popped into bed with a cold compress and a warm Hermione to sleep off the after-effects of Crucio, but in the end it was this prosaic and unromantic coda that convinced him it was really over and that he was free.

Severus found that, although he wasn’t used to being cheerful, nothing could dent his good mood. In fact, his cup was very definitely runnething over. He didn’t have to get out of bed before lunchtime on Friday, as he had a sick note. Heroes, who had just been injured in the Final Showdown with His Lordship, did not have to lever themselves out of bed to face the herds of dunderheads; they got a lie in.

He hadn’t dwelled long on the pleasurable thought of Albus having to teach his classes, because there were far better things to dwell on.

Such as breakfast in bed with advanced and non-breakfasty deployment of raspberry jam.

Such as a long leisurely soak in the bath to remove the raspberry seeds which seemed to get everywhere.

Such as a solid hour spent drafting his letter of resignation to ensure that the utmost contempt was conveyed in as few words as possible.

Such as reading through Hermione’s resignation letter and considering whether any or all of the suggestions were anatomically feasible.

His good mood continued through lunch, which Albus was unable to attend due to a trifling difficulty involving a cauldron, a sherbet lemon, and a very nasty rash of boils. It remained unimpaired even when faced with a long and contentious meeting to go over their stories to make sure that all available fame and fortune would be parcelled out appropriately.

Mr Potter wasn’t pleased that Neville had despatched His Lordship.

Potter was filling Neville’s head with tales of revenge attacks from Death Eaters, and horror stories of being Crucio’ed till his brains leaked out of your ears, in the hopes of persuading him to allow Potter to show to best advantage.

Severus found he could cope with Mr Potter’s disappointment, though it was difficult, but Neville was proving to be a weak straw.

‘Nonsense,’ Severus said when Potter stopped his lurid tales long enough to draw breath. ‘Bellatrix is the only one who could ever have been called loyal – and Hermione has taken care of her. Most of the remaining Death Eaters would probably like to shake you by the hand.’

‘And you’d know all about it,’ Potter sneered.

‘Certainly more than you,’ Severus replied haughtily. ‘In fact, Neville, why don’t you come to the after-Coup party and meet most of them and see for yourself.’

Smudger nodded. ‘After all, it’s only fair that you should be invited, since you’re the one that did the final deed. I expect you won’t have to buy a drink all evening; I bet even Grytpype-Thynne will put his hand in his pocket.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ Severus replied.

‘It’s the sort of thing that happens once in a lifetime,’ Smudger pointed out.

‘We hope,’ Severus said. ‘I definitely don’t want to do that again.’

‘He was definitely dead,’ Hermione said. ‘Every single one of the Aurors cast Avada on him, just to be sure. And Moody says that they’re going to cremate the body, and spread the ashes over as broad an area as possible in a secret location. Even Dracula couldn’t come back from that.’

They all took a moment to enjoy that prospect, before resuming hostilities.

‘I still think,’ Potter said, holding on to the bone of contention like a terrier, ‘that Neville is taking a big risk, if he comes out into the open as having killed Voldemort, He’s much better off if people assume that it was me, because I’m already a target.’

‘Hero Potter,’ Severus sneered.

Even Hermione, who didn’t have a pin-studded wax figure of Harry in her sock drawer, thought that this was a bit rich, and said so. ‘I’m not letting you take all the credit, Harry. Severus and I did all the planning, Smudger was the key to getting in, we couldn’t have got Smudger in without Minerva’s transfiguration skills, and Neville did the dirty deed. When you get right down to it, it was a team effort.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Smudger. ‘We all did our bit, so we should all get some of the glory. Now, what I suggest is that we stick to the order of events as they actually happened right up to the bit where His Lordship hexed Bella by mistake. Severus is a wounded hero, narrowly escaping death in an attempt to distract His Lordship. Hermione looks nicely romantic in her dash to rescue Severus, though it might be better if she shielded him with her own body and not Bella’s. That’s the way that things are supposed to be done.’

‘I suppose so,’ Hermione said. ‘Though I’m not sure I’d want to be famous for doing something as stupid as that.’

‘It’s not stupid,’ Smudger replied. ‘It’s Romantic.’ He ignored her muttered comment that there didn’t seem to be a lot of difference between the two. ‘And besides, that way you’ll have a reputation to build on that might be useful when conducting future salary reviews. Not to mention the fact that Severus won’t get a look in with the ladies, once they hear what happened to Bella, which leaves them all for us, doesn’t it boys?’

“Not that Severus would be interested in the Young Ladies, anyway,” Severus said smoothly.

Harry perked up at the thought of being besieged by adoring Young Ladies.

‘What did I do then?’ Ron asked, with a hint of bitterness. ‘Stand around looking ornamental, whilst everyone else did something useful.’

‘Nah, lad,’ Smudger replied with a wide grin. ‘You, Minerva and me were engaged in a hard fought battle with the other Minions. We were laying down covering hexes, and generally being heroic with a small ‘h’.’

‘But there were only two of them,’ Ron scoffed. ‘That’s hardly heroic at all, whether with a small ‘h’ or a big one.’

‘You know that. And I know that. But do the Young Ladies, or Young Men,’ he added, nodding at Minerva, ‘know that? I don’t think that they do, and they won’t find out provided we all stick to our story.’

Ron considered the point, mentally playing over conversations with admirers to see how it would all sound. ‘That might work,’ he said slowly.

‘But what about the killing blow?’ Harry asked. ‘Who struck that?’

‘A joint effort,’ Smudger said promptly. ‘You both cast at the same time, so it’s impossible to say who struck the fatal blow.’

It seemed horribly unfair that Potter should be allowed to take credit for something he hadn’t done, but Severus was aware that any protestations he made on the point would be dismissed as sour grapes. Besides, life wasn’t fair, he knew that, so it wasn’t an argument he felt comfortable making.

He sighed. Neville clearly wasn’t Hero material, and would be only too grateful for the scraps that fell from Potter’s table. Still, the blackmail material secreted away in his rooms would be a much more reliable basis for a bright future than shallow notoriety. In six months time, Potter would still be an Auror, and all the girls would be chasing some new celebrity.

‘Never mind, dear,’ Hermione said quietly. ‘You still haven’t resigned, you know. That should be fun.’

That was true. And tomorrow was the weekend, so he didn’t have to teach for two whole days.

And he had a party to arrange.

For old time’s sake, the party was to be held at their Local, but with rather better nibbles than usual, and a free bar.

Severus had been prepared to use up the last of his bribery money but, in a stroke of genius, Hermione had sold the exclusive rights to cover the party to the Daily Prophet. That august chronicle had applied its usual ethical standards to the story, and the journalist sent to cover the story was quite happy to take a couple of photos of the group, and then bugger off clutching the article that Hermione had dictated to him and several galleons to buy himself a drink.

‘Right,’ Smudger said. ‘Now we’ve got rid of him, we can get the real party started.’ He stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled, summoning the Lads from their hiding place in the Saloon Bar.

‘Blimey,’ said Seagoon. ‘I thought he’d never go. Didn’t he realise that there were people waiting for drinks in there?’

‘Bastard,’ said Grytpype-Thynne, with narrowed eyes, trying to keep up his position as Evil Minion by striking a threatening pose and fondling his wand meaningfully.

‘Never mind lads, it’s a free bar and there’s plenty of ale,’ Smudger said. ‘Help yourselves.’

There was a stampede for the bar, as the full complement of Lads made a dash for the bar at once. There was a certain amount of jostling, and the discreet application of elbows, before some sort of order was established.

Severus waited until the last few stragglers were placing their orders before going to the bar. It wasn’t as if the bar was going to run dry; he’d left very clear instructions as to how much alcohol would be required for this evening.

“Hermione, Minerva, what would you like?” he said, over his shoulder.

“Oh, I think we should try the cocktails, don’t you Minerva?” Hermione said, deftly inserting herself between two stragglers to pick up the cocktail menu and peruse it.

Minerva was torn between blushing and giggling at the silly names. “I’ll have a Slippery Nipple,” she said. “That sounds interesting.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Are you going to have a Slippery Nipple too, Severus?” Hermione asked innocently.

“Do you know, I think I might,” he replied. “I certainly don’t feel like bitter tonight.”

They settled at a table with their drinks. Minerva cast a discreet cleaning charm, and sniffed at the general state of cleanliness in the pub. “Do you come here often?” she asked Severus.

Hermione snorted into her drink. “Stop chatting up my boyfriend, Minerva.”

“It’s a perfectly innocent question,” Minerva replied. “I was just wondering how Severus could bear to spend his Friday evenings in a dump like this.”

Severus looked round at the pub. It was dingy though not actually dirty, with the accumulated grime that was made up by a combination of London pollution and hundreds of smokers busily puffing away, the tables were slightly sticky, and the wallpaper had probably been on the walls in the time of Victoria. It was also the place where he’d spent some of the happier moments of his life.

He sighed. “It’s not much, I grant you, but at least no one ever tried to stab me in the back here.”

Hermione patted his hand soothingly. “Never mind, dear, I’m sure you’ll have lots of other evenings in here, and at Lucius’ expense too.”

“Hmmm?” queried Minerva.

“Lucius is going to be the next Dark Lord,” Severus replied. “So, obviously he’s going to need new Minions, and they may take a bit of persuading to join up.”

“Fair enough,” Minerva said. “So, have you two given any thought to what you’re going to do next?”

Severus was in the middle of laying out his plans to take over the Wizarding World through a combination of blackmail, blackmail and more blackmail when Seagoon came up beside him.

‘Harry’s just challenged Smudger to a game of darts. You have to do something,” he said.

‘Oh, I don’t know; after all he did finish off His Lordship.’ Severus picked up his drink and smirked. After all, the whole point of Harry taking credit for despatching Voldermort was to protect Neville from the consequent dangers. Playing darts with Smudger had all the hallmarks of being a consequent danger.

‘But he’s been drinking depth charges!’ Seagoon persisted.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’ Severus shook his head sadly.

From behind him came a muffled thud, a scream, and the panicked voice of Ron Weasley saying, “Harry? Harry? Talk to me Harry. Tell me you’re alright?”

“Severus, stop gloating,” Minerva said sharply. “And see whether Mr Potter is still in the land of the living.”

Hermione downed the last of her drink, and stood up. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.”

Harry wasn’t badly hurt, but removing the dart from where it had lodged in his shoulder was a tricky manoeuvre. If she wasn’t careful, the dart could get bent. Severus, peering over her shoulder and cutting down her light, supervised the whole procedure and offered a steady stream of advice.

“There you are,” she said briskly, pulling the dart free and handing it to Ron. “No harm done.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Harry protested. “That bloody hurt.”

Severus muttered something unflattering under his breath. “You should know better than to play darts, Smudger,” he added, a little more loudly.

“If you can’t play darts on a day like today, when can you?” Smudger said, slightly sulking. It wasn’t his fault that the lad was too stupid to cast Protego before the game started, now was it?

“Why don’t you have another drink?” Hermione said. “I think you’ve won this game anyway.”

Harry nodded. “I concede. I’m not taking the risk of another go; I’d like to make it out of here in one piece.”

“Oh well, if you’re going to be a spoilsport,” Smudger said. “Another drink it is then.”

There was less of a crowd at the bar now, just a steady stream of people going up in one’s and two’s to collect their next round so it didn’t take Smudger long to get served. Not for him the poncy drink with an umbrella in the glass; he stuck with the traditional pint.

‘So,’ said Smudger, watching the Lads carry on the game with a fond eye. ‘How did the Old Bastard take your resignation?’

‘Disappointingly well,’ Severus replied. ‘I think he was rather more focussed on the Soothing Ointment that Madame Pomfrey was applying to his nether regions rather than the news that Hermione and I were leaving. He didn’t beg me to stay once, which is annoying.’

‘I think he’s expecting to be able to dump the problem of recruiting new staff on Minerva,’ Hermione said. ‘Once he realises that she’s taking six months holiday, to catch up on all the holidays she’s missed over the years, and that he’s going to have to do the interviews himself, then I think the news will sink in. I expect we’ll get a couple of Owls about then, begging us to come back, and laying on the emotional blackmail.’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll go as far as giving you a pay rise, will he?’ asked Smudger.

‘I shouldn’t think so for one moment. Not that it matters,’ Severus replied. ‘All the gold in Gringott’s wouldn’t get me to work there again.’

‘Hello,’ said Smudger, his attention suddenly attracted to a figure by the door. ‘Who’s the girl with the purple hair over there? She looks rather nice.’

‘That’s Tonks,’ Hermione replied. ‘She’s here as our protection. Shacklebolt insisted that we needed some protection, and she’s it.’

‘She’s an Auror,’ Smudger asked. ‘That’s interesting. I’ve never been out with an Auror before, apart from that one time one of them pulled me out of the pub she was so keen for my company.’

‘She was arresting you at the time,’ Severus said dryly. ‘For being drunk and disorderly, as I recall, and lewd behaviour.’

‘That was just a ruse,’ Smudger replied. ‘So she could pat down my robes.’

‘It cost you a ten galleon fine,’ Severus said.

‘It was worth it, I tell you. Very nice hands she had; she even warmed them up before she searched me. Now that’s what I call considerate.’

‘If you’d like to meet her, just say the word,’ Hermione offered. ‘I think you might get on. She likes Quidditch, for a start.’

‘Does she play darts?’

‘Probably not.’ Hermione winced at the thought of Tonks and sharp implements; it was bound to be trouble.

‘Never mind, eh? No one’s perfect. Maybe she’d like to learn?’ Smudger said hopefully.

‘Maybe.’ Hermione smiled at Tonks, and invited her over with a wave of her hand. ‘Tonks, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine – Smudger. Smudger, this is Tonks.’

‘’Ow do,’ said Smudger and promptly became tongue-tied.

‘He’s just a bit shy,’ Hermione said. ‘But he’s been admiring you from across the room, and was wondering if you’d like to go out with him on a date some time?’

Smudger shuffled his feet like a schoolboy. Hermione didn’t believe it for a moment. It appeared that Tonks didn’t either.

‘Just a date?’ asked Tonks. She was an Auror, skilled in the art of interrogation, and was determined to pin down exactly what ‘just a date’ meant.

Smudger blushed at the implication. ‘I can assure you that my intentions are perfectly honourable.’

‘Rather defeats the purpose of the date then, doesn’t it?’ Tonks asked, grinning widely.

‘Alright then, my intentions are perfectly dishonourable, but I can recognise that you’re a witch of character and determination who won’t give an inch. That’s alright, I like a challenge.’

‘Right-o, then. Since we understand each other perfectly well, I agree to go out with you.’

‘I don’t suppose you know how to play darts, do you?’ Smudger asked.

‘I know the rules,’ she said. ‘But they won’t let me play; I’m not really good enough.’

‘Funny you should say that,’ Smudger replied, taking Tonks by the elbow. ‘But for some odd reason, the Lads won’t let me play darts either. What do you say we give it a go and show them how it’s done?’

The pair of them drifted off towards the darts board, leaving Severus and Hermione to watch them indulgently.

‘Perhaps we ought to move away,’ Severus said.

‘You’re right; we should give them some privacy,’ Hermione replied.

‘I was thinking that we could do with taking cover. I’d be happier with something thick and wooden between me and Smudger when he’s got darts in his hand. You saw what happened to Potter.’

‘He can’t be that bad?’ Hermione said, ignoring Severus’ smirk. ‘Can he?’ That was a one off, surely?”

Severus shook his head. Hermione flicked a nervous glance at the pair, where Smudger was preparing to take his shot, and wondered whether it would be tactless to move.

‘Ah,’ Severus said, sounding very pleased with himself. ‘Look who we have here – the next Dark Lord himself.’

Hermione followed his gaze to see Lucius Malfoy, who was standing by the door looking supercilious, though saying Lucius looked supercilious was like saying Lucius looked like Lucius. It was a permanent condition, and nothing short of a decent hexing was going to wipe that expression off his face.

How she itched to test that hypothesis personally.

Lucius sauntered over to join them, managing to convey his unease at being seen with so many common people with every step. ‘Severus. Mu-Miss Granger.’

‘Lucius, we were just talking about you,’ Severus returned smoothly, turning slightly so that he was interposed between him and the dartboard. ‘Come to inspect the troops have we?’

‘Something like that,’ he replied. ‘Narcissa was getting a bit twitchy about our place in the new order, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. If I popped in here, it looks like I’m doing something to improve our position, and at least I wouldn’t have to listen to her whine for a couple of hours.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Severus said with patent insincerity. “Narcissa was always a little shrill when she didn’t get her own way, as I recall.”

Lucius winced. “It’s enough to drive a man to drink,” he said. “Only I can’t drink too much. The last thing in the world a man needs the morning after the night before is Narcissa laying into him about how she never gets to have any fun, and she never gets to go anywhere, and it’s just not fair the way the boys get to have all the excitement.”

“I can see her point,” said Hermione.

“You would,” Lucius said bitterly. “Women – you’re all the same.”

“I think you’ll find that we are not,” she replied, with ice in her voice. “However, if you were quite as bright as you thought you were, you would be able to turn Narcissa’s disappointment to good effect.”

Lucius looked blank. He was more adept than the boys at looking intelligent whilst wondering what on earth was going on, but he was still clueless.

“Naricssa is bored,” she said patiently. “So give her something to do. Surely there are people you need persuading to do things - and I mean real persuading and not the sort that happens at the end of a wand – where an attractive woman could be useful. I’m sure any number of wives would be grateful for an invitation to Malfoy Manor, just so they can boast to their friends that they’ve been there.”

Lucius still looked blank, but this was the blankness of someone who’d just had a series of truly brilliant ideas, and was wondering which of them to try first. Hermione knew that the first steps had been taken whereby her idea would become his, unless it all went horribly wrong, when he would suddenly recall that it had been her suggestion in the first place.

Once she had been young and innocent and trusting, but that had been stripped away by her first staff meeting.

“Lucius, old boy,” Severus said with the faintest of stress on the old. “I thought you said you were dying for a drink?”

“Hmmm. What? Oh yes, yes I did,” Lucius replied, coming back from whatever dark place his mind had been dwelling in. “Does this mean that you’re actually offering to buy me a drink?”

“Of course, Lucius,” he replied smoothly, putting an arm round him to direct him to the bar. “Feel free to order anything you like. Anything at all.”

The fact that Lucius couldn’t work out what the catch was didn’t prevent him from ordering a triple brandy. If he was going to get stiffed in some way, it would be best to make sure that he was stiffed whilst mildly squiffy to take away the pain and provide him with some sort of alibi.

Besides, no true Slytherin would refuse the chance to take advantage of any opportunity that was presented to him

Once he had secured his drink – no ice, and how he resisted the urge to hex the philistine of a barman when he suggested that, he would never know – he faced the tricky issue of who to grace with his company. Hermione was deep in some private conversation with Severus, who was smiling fondly down at her. It would be rude to interrupt them, and he had to admit that Hermione made him nervous. He’d heard about her treatment of Bellatrix and, whilst you could discount the story as told to the Daily Prophet as just so much rubbish, he’d heard eyewitness reports from Perkins and he knew just how dangerous she could be.

Nor was he natural fellow traveller with The Lads. Smudger wasn’t that bad, but Grytpype-Thynne would be all over Lucius like a rash, determined to make the most of his chance to talk to a Malfoy. Lucius didn’t usually object to obsequiousness, but for once he fancied a quiet drink.

His gaze fell in Minerva, sat alone at a table, watching Smudger playing darts.

He’d spoken to her at Governor’s meetings, and she’d seemed like a sensible witch; someone with whom he could have a bit of a natter, and who might be wheedled into letting slip a little information about Dumbledore’s future plans whilst under the influence of alcohol.

“Professor McGonagall,” he said politely. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

“Certainly, Mr Malfoy,” she replied, equally politely.

“No Dumbledore?” he asked, reasonably enough; everyone had heard the rumours about those two, and it was odd that he wasn’t here with the rest of the winning side.

She winced; he’d hit a nerve there. “I’m afraid Albus was unavoidably detained: lots of paperwork, that sort of thing.”

Aware that he had dropped a clanger of monumental proportions, and that this wasn’t conducive to persuading people into confidences, he changed the subject with immense tact. “What is that vile Muggle concoction you’re drinking? I assume it’s a Muggle concoction, because it’s certainly nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“It’s a Slippery Nipple,” she replied. “It’s something called a cocktail. All I can say is, it slips down very nicely, but goes straight to your feet. My feet are very, very drunk.”

“That sounds…intriguing.” Lucius considered the matter carefully. There was no one here who would care that he had abandoned the Muggle-hating habits of a lifetime, and it was a free bar after all. He downed his simple brandy with barely a flinch, and said, “Would you care for another?”

She looked at her glass, then looked round at the party, and her lips firmed. “Why not? If you can’t have a drink when you bring down a Dark Lord, when can you? Why not bring back the cocktail list, and we can work our way down it?”

It was a recipe for disaster, but he couldn’t back down from a challenge like that.

Several luridly coloured cocktails later, he’d been treated to a brief summary of Albus’s perfidy, and the room was whirling round him. Now he understood what Minervaverva meant about having drunk feet. It was as if the alcohol went straight to your feet, and numbed you from the toes up. At this stage of the evening his legs were full, and the liquid was rising up his torso and had reached his nipples. Every once in a while, when Minervaverva looked away, he would surreptitiously sneak a hand to his chest and give his nipples an experimental tweak; yes, they were definitely losing sensation.

It was in mid-tweak that Dumbledore chose to enter the room. It didn’t look good, he had to admit, sitting there, apparently playing with his nipples suggestively, in the middle of a Slightly-Shady Revel, with an inebriated Minervaverva McGonagagagalll.

Still, there was no need for him to shout like that. Nor to make suggestions as to his parentage, or any of the other insults he saw fit to hurl across the crowded pub. He was trying to decide whether being called a two-face twisty, backstabbing Slytherin was an insult or a compliment, and if it was an insult, which of his two wands he should use to make his objections known, when a large shape crossed his field of vision.

“Now, now granddad,” said the shape. “There’s no need for that kind of language.”

“Who are you calling granddad?” Albus shouted.

That was a pretty stupid question, Lucius thought blurrily. It wasn’t as if there were many white-bearded men in the pub, and he was certainly the only one who was shouting the odds.

There was only one logical response to that, and sure enough, the barman said, “You, granddad. And if you can’t keep it down a bit, then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Albus was poised to hex the man into oblivion, when he realised that it was a Muggle pub, and had to content himself with a poisonous glare. “But he’s stolen my girlfriend,” he said, pointing at Lucius.

The Lads were fascinated. Smudger even stopped playing darts to watch the entertainment. Lucius Malfoy was a notorious seducer of women, but no one had ever suspected that he’d have the nerve to attempt Old Iron Knickers herself.

He’d gone up in their estimation.

No longer was he a dilettante and a ponce; he was a brave and determined man. Opinion was divided as to whether he’d gone over to the winning side as a result of Minerva’s charms, or whether he’d been using her as a back up plan in case His Lordship fell at the last fence, but in either case he had demonstrated superior plotting skills.

“Don’t make an idiot of yourself, Albus,” Minerva said waspishly. “I’m not your girlfriend; you’ve made that very clear. So don’t come crying to me if I choose to spend my time with another man.”

Albus gaped at her. “What do you mean, you’re not my girlfriend? We’re engaged.”

“Not any more.”

“What’s got into you, Minerva? Has that… that… Malfoy cast Imperius on you?” Albus stuttered.

“The only thing that’s got into me is three Brandy Alexanders, a Slippery Nipple, a flaming Sambuca and several Crème de Menthes. Mr Malfoy has been a perfect gentleman and we were having a rather pleasant evening until you came along.”

Lucius had listened to Minerva’s tale of woe with surprise. He was a man of his word, as he found a reputation for reliability was important. Obviously that didn’t extend to matters of sexual fidelity, but surely Narcissa realised that he didn’t mean it when he promised to be faithful?

Not that that was the point. The point was that you didn’t go round making promises to people and then break your word. Whether the promise was of the ‘I am going to hunt you down and kill you’ or the ‘I agree to temporarily suspend hostilities in order that we may deal with this third party, before recommencing our rivalry at a suitable date’ variety, your word was your bond.

The only occasion on which it was permissible to cross someone, was when you were sure that they wouldn’t ever be in a position to take revenge. That certainly didn’t apply to reneging on a proposal of marriage to your Deputy Headmistress.

Not if you wanted to ever get any work out of her in the future, anyway.

“Minerva!” wailed Dumbledore. “How can you do this to me, after all we’ve meant to each other?”

Minerva just sniffed, and put her nose up in the air.

“Ooh, you’re in trouble there mate,” Smudger said helpfully. “It’s always a bad sign when they do the sniffing thing.”

That married members of the Lads all nodded.

“I think I can manage this without your contribution, thank you very much,” snapped Albus.

“You don’t seem to be doing very well so far,” Smudger replied. “If I were you, I’d consider a bit of grovelling. I was shocked to hear how you were treating a fine figure of a witch like this. You should be going down on your hands and knees and thanking the deity of your choice that someone as wonderful as Minerva is prepared to go out with you.”

“I don’t see what I’ve got to apologise for,” Albus said, “if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t. I’ve yet to hear what it is that I’m supposed to have done.”

The married Lads looked sympathetic. They too knew the terror of having to work out what they had done wrong on the basis of a couple of pointed comments and some meaningful silences.

“You bloody swine!” Minerva exclaimed. “How can you stand there and say that when you’ve been trying to wriggle out of our engagement, almost since the very moment you proposed.”

“I have not,” Albus said indignantly. “I was just trying to keep you safe, you daft bint. It’s bloody difficult to enjoy married life when you’re wife is spread all over the quidditch pitch in tiny pieces.”

Minerva snorted. “A likely story.”

Albus took a step closer to her and put a hand on her arm. “Minerva, please… You know I love you.”

“Prove it then, Albus. Do something to show me how much you love me – give up the most important thing in your life.”

“What give up being Headmaster?” he said, white to his lips.

“The beard,” she said. “Lose the beard. I’ve always hated it – it’s like snogging a hedgehog.”

There was a collective gasp of horror from the Lads. When Minerva struck, she went straight for the jugular. Everyone knew how fond Dumbledore was of his beard; it made him look venerable and wise. Even Lucius felt a brief moment of sympathy for his fellow wizard before it was ruthlessly crushed.

“You can’t be serious?” Albus said, playing for time.

Minerva nodded, implacable.

“And then we’ll go back to the way things were?” he asked.

“No, Albus. Then we’ll talk about what we do next, but if you don’t lose the beard, you won’t even get that far.”

Albus gulped.

Slowly, very slowly, he drew his wand. There was pause to allow him to enjoy to the full his last moment of beardedness, and then he said, “Barbae.”

His beard came away from his face as each whisker was severed one by one.

“There,” he said. “Are you satisfied now?”

Minerva softened for a moment in the face of such sacrifice, but quickly reminded herself that she was taking a strong line with him in future. “It’ll do for a start,” she said. “But we have a lot to discuss, Albus.”

“Well can we do it somewhere else,” he replied, looking meaningfully at their audience. “Come home with me, Minerva, come home.”

“Very well,” she replied. “But don’t think that this means that everything is alright, because it isn’t. Not by a long chalk.”

Albus nodded, and picked up her cloak from the back of her chair to hold for her. She allowed him to help her into it, and then they made their way to the door together.

There was absolute silence for several seconds after they had left, until Lucius said, “Well, that was disappointing. I was expecting rather more hexing.”

“Me too,” Seveus agreed. “It would have been the perfect end to the evening.”

“You can’t have everything in life,” Smudger said sagely. “Anyway, I’m sure that with Minerva’s new determined approach to life, it’s only a matter of time before she hexes his nose off or something.”

Severus smirked at the thought.

“And in the meantime, there’s always another drink,” added Smudger.

“There is always another drink,” Lucius said, nodding his head.

“Well I think we should have a toast,” Hermione said. “To one of the bravest wizards I know, without whom none of this would be possible. I give you – Smudger!”

“Smudger!” the crowd chorused.

Severus smirked at Harry, who was looking very disgruntled at the plaudits being offered to Smudger.

“Of course we couldn’t have done it without you either,” Hermione said, reaching up to kiss his cheek. He was having none of that, and turned his face so that they could kiss properly.

“Oh, god,” Harry said, from behind them. “Can I poke my eyes out with a wand now?”

Hermione dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and continued kissing Severus.

“That’s not such a bad idea,” Lucius said.

“What, poking your eye out with a wand?” Ron asked.

“No, finding an affectionate young lady with whom to pass a quiet moment or two. I think, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I will go in search of just such a young lady.” He cautiously rose to his feet, and walked very carefully towards the door. “I’ll see you all next month, I presume?”

“Sounds good to me,” Smudger said. “We’re always ready for a bit of evil plotting, aren’t we Lads?”

“Very well then,” Lucius replied, holding the door ajar. “Severus, old friend, do strive to behave with a little more decorum. I’m sure you have a perfectly comfortable bed in which to misbehave.”

“Even Lucius is right sometimes,” Severus murmured against Hermione’s lips. “Shall we leave these reprobates to enjoy themselves without us?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

It took several minutes for them to gather their belongings, and say their farewells to the Lads, and then they were outside and Apparated away.

Later that night, lying in a state of exhaustion, with his nose comfortably buried between Hermione’s breasts, he thought that he’d never been happier. What was even better, was that he expected to be happy again tomorrow, and the day after that as well.

He smiled sleepily.

Maybe he would even award points to Gryffindor on Monday. After all, they weren’t all bad. Some of them were very nice indeed.

Besides, it would frighten the children witless, especially if he smiled as well.

Oh yes, there was still a certain amount of quiet fun to be managed at Hogwarts.

And after that: freedom. At last.

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