Seven Preposterous Things

Three things are necessary for the salvation of man: to know what he ought to believe; to know what he ought to desire; and to know what he ought to do.
--Saint Thomas Aquinas

Corollary 1. A belief which leaves no place for doubt is not a belief; it is a superstition.
--Jose Bergamin

Corollary 2. In prison, those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all.
--Eldridge Cleaver

Corollary 3. I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act; but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act.
--Buddha


Millie had always wanted to see the inside of a hospital, but, not to sound like a wanker, she hadn't been interested in having the complete medical experience.

To be frank, she had never been in a magical hospital either; her granny had always healed what needed healing in her woods. It occurred to Millie, as she lay like a fowl on the block ready for carving with Muggles crowding round her, that she was a hick. It wasn't a word she'd been familiar with until recently. Maybe it was American. Maybe it wasn't American and no one had been brave enough to use it in her presence at Hogwarts. Either way, she noted, disgusted at her own racing heart, she was one. People on telly went to hospital all the time.

"Can you tell me what day it is?" asked someone behind a white paper mask that strangely covered only their mouth and nose instead of the usual eyes.

"No." But then she never knew what day it was. Millie wondered if this meant something, and if so, what? Did it mean she was as slow as people usually assumed? She tried to remember why she was at hospital and could not. Her brain was holding in thoughts nearly as well as cheesecloth. She tried to sit up and get her bearings, but a crushing pain behind her ear stopped her.

"Phil!" she called, fear overpowering her will yet again. "Where's my baby?"

"We're about to check," said a woman, also in a mask, who obviously misunderstood.

"Millie," said a voice belonging to someone out of sight, someone behind the white curtain. Granger, her brain chimed in. That was Granger. "I have Phil. Phil is fine."

"This is going to be a little chilly," said a mask, as someone pushed her legs apart.

Chilly was not the word she would use for cold metal going into her cunt then ratcheting wider. It was, all in all, a bizarre but not precisely painful feeling. Her only complaint was a pinch near the bottom of the opening. As far as she could figure, it was a device for holding the cunt open. The only reason she could think of for that was so they could take a look at the cervix and see if she was starting to labour. Ingenious really.

She pondered the inventiveness of Muggles for a moment before her mind wandered to something else.

Where was Draco?

"Where's Draco?" she called out to Granger, wherever she was.

There was no reply. She waited. One of the healers pulled the metal thing out of her vagina, which was a relief.

"Your cervix is high and hard and closed up tight as a drum," said the masked woman. "But it would probably be a good idea to take a look at your baby."

"My friend's got him on the other side of the curtain," Millie said.

"I mean the one you've got inside you right now," the masked woman clarified. "Is that one yours, too?"

Millie wanted to nod, but her head hurt too much so she said, "Yes," the 's' lingering rather longer than she intended.

"How did you manage that?" the woman asked.

Nosey, thought Millie.

"I mean, you're about six months, right? Your size is consistent with six months," the woman said, mucking about with some new machine. Millie grunted an affirmative, before the woman went on, "And that baby out there looks to be about three months old, give or take. That, and the fact that I can see by your cervix you've never given birth."

"He's... what do you call it when the cow who gave birth to a baby doesn't want it?"

"Adopted," the masked woman supplied. "You look awfully young to adopt."

"I'm old for my years or young for my age, something like that," Millie said.

"Which brings me to my next question. You don't know what day it is..."

"I never do..."

"Can you tell me when you were born?" asked another masked face.

Millie thought about that one, her head pounding. "In summer... I think... it was a long time ago."

"Do you know what this is?" the masked woman asked, holding up a long tubish thing on a coiled cord attached to a rolling beeping box-shaped machine.

Millie stayed silent.

"It's an ultrasound machine. I'm going to use it to take a look inside at your baby."

Without further ado she pulled up the weird arseless dress Millie wore and squirted a pile of something cold indeed on her belly. Millie found herself looking at what was happening despite the pain the shot through her skull, sheer curiousness winning out.

The woman hummed to herself as she clicked at the machine.

"Your baby looks healthy; can you tell me what happened to you? Why you're here?" she asked, turning the screen round to face Millie.

All Millie could see on the screen the healer was so absorbed in were dark masses.

"You're awfully nosey," Millie said rather than admit she wasn't quite sure herself.

The female healer stuck her head outside the curtains and a few minutes later Granger appeared beside the bed.

"The baby appears to be in good shape, but your friend here has a mild to moderate concussion. Can you tell me what happened to her?"

Granger sighed. "We were coming in from holiday at Graceland carrying in our bags when Millie tripped and struck her head against the coffee table leg."

"That sounds like me," Millie said, not believing it for a second.

Granger looked at her with a puzzling expression in her eyes. The closer Millie looked the more it looked like something best discussed outside the earshot of Muggles. After assessing the facts of her life, she wondered what, if anything, they could discuss in public.


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"So... what are we to do?" Hermione said, after refreshing Millie's memory of the events surrounding her blow to the head.

"If it were the other way round and Aurors had us locked up, the blokes would be halfway to England by now," Millie said, frowning. "Probably wouldn't have bothered to shut the front door."

"Undoubtedly," Hermione said. "And yet somehow I'm not certain that is the wisest course for you and I."

"You've that right, for sure," Millie said with a snort. "How do you reckon we get started? First we'll need to see to the house, then I want to go round and give notice to Mrs. Bertolli and at Draco's work as well, perhaps squeeze a paycheque out of one of them."

"It will be difficult to travel with all the animals, which leads me to the question of exactly how we are to get back home."

"I don't fancy I could fly either a dog or a goat on the back of a broom."

"Nor do I relish trying to cross the Atlantic Ocean on a Firebolt," Hermione agreed.

"Well I've better than that, I've two Nimbuses in my bedroom closet, but I still wouldn't like to fly cross a sea with 'em. We could always take The Dutchman."

Hermione was surprised Millie brought up the flying ship up as an option, it was well known to be astronomically expensive. "Can we afford that?"

"I don't think I could dig it out of the divan cushions, if that's what you mean, but they'd send it from home if I asked."

"So how do we get to New York?" Hermione asked wondering if an offhand comment Severus had once made about Millie marrying down was true in more ways than she had realised at the time.

"That's the question, isn't it?" Millie said frowning.

In the end they had little choice but to take the car to New York with Miss, Whack, and Baby Phil in tow. The unnamed goat was presented as a gift to Albert Shakeleg's granny. Phil would have to make do with tinned goat milk from here out. The house was presented to Shakeleg himself, who thought it was a joke until Millie pulled the title out of her handbag.

Draco's co-workers seemed completely flummoxed by his sudden inexplicable return to England, and Mrs. Bertolli wept openly to see Millie go.


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Severus and Draco were stupefied and didn't awake until some undetermined point when they found themselves trussed up like two stags destined to have their heads mounted on the wall at a sporty club. Quick wand work from Weasley, and they were both petrified and stupefied once again.


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Millie had heard of the Zodiac, who hadn't? More or less the counterpart of the Leaky Cauldron in London, it served as a gateway to Magical Manhattan. Bearing this in mind, she expected it to be more... well, like the Leaky Cauldron.

Instead, a neon sign flashing blue directed them to a subterranean den of modernity. The robes were short or strangely cut or missing altogether, and more than a few people wore Muggle gear. Everything from drinks to food seemed to be served on square glass dishes. Electric blue light buzzed everywhere. Hazy pink, rose-scented smoke billowed. Three wizards in black trousers and close-cropped beards stood sullenly on the stage. The events on the stage were confusing all the way round. The piano she recognised, the drums were strange with metal discs and strange holders, but she knew them too. There was also what she could only describe as a fiddle as tall as man that was played standing up. The sound they made together was most accurately likened to a musical expression of what it felt like to take a tumble on the Hogwarts stairs.

Granger said it was called "jazz".

Millie didn't know whether she felt better or worse to be returning home. Would the past months in America be wiped away? She could certainly see it working out more or less like that. She would go back home and be little Millipede again. Her granny would say Draco and Snape were paying for their stupidity, and wasn't it clever how she got the best part of Draco while they were in America? What a good girl to get herself big in the belly like that. Two babies in only six months, how clever. She could see the future where she did nothing but please her family unfolding before her like a flower. A big, stinking flower.

Baby Phil chewed her shoulder, and Millie sipped at her terrible tea. She had gone away, and had something like an adventure; she was not going to let her family dictate the rest of her life. She would have to put her foot down from the beginning. She would see to it her husband got out of Azkaban, and Snape, too, it went without saying. She was not going to fall back into the same life she had before she left home; she wasn't going to do it the old fashioned way and let her Granny run her life as she saw fit. She was going home, but she was going to show them from the start that she was not Little Millipede any longer. She had been polluted by Mudblood associations, and she liked it.

Millie looked across the corner booth at Granger, worrying her drink, pensively.

"Granger?" she asked.

"Yes, Millie?" Granger answered.

"Would you show me how to use cosmetics?" Millie asked; it was one thing that would set her apart among Pureblood witches, the use of paint instead of glamour.

"Now?"

Millie nodded. "Before I Floo my granny."


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Draco first returned to awareness in the distinctly unpleasant way particular to a spell deteriorating on its own. His eyes were loosed first. Thanks to the rest of the binding spell, he couldn't move much else. Still he could see. And if he turned his eyes as far to the side as anatomy would allow, he could just make out Severus. Or the side of Severus' head at any rate. The hair made it all but impossible to mistake him for anyone else. Besides, he knew Severus' smell so well he'd have known it was Severus beside him even if he hadn't spied his greasy black hair.

Draco made a mental note to ask Snape, when his vocal cords worked again, if Snape thought he could sniff Draco out in the dark.

It was only once Draco had assured himself he was not alone, that he still had Snape with him, that he thought to take in his surroundings.

Despite the dark, he could tell the walls were curved and quarters were close. He had the sense that even had he been able to move there wasn't enough room to manoeuvre. He closed his eyes and tried to still whatever it was that was causing the unstable feeling. The air was awfully humid. His hair was likely as lank as Severus' under these conditions.

He tried to have a proper think, as Millie would say. But no matter how hard he tried, his head kept rocking; it was like he was on a fucking boat.

Then the floor shifted, and he rolled on top of Snape. He was on a fucking boat!


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Hermione was more or less used to Millie's oddness, but this was a bit beyond the pale. Still, based on Hermione's experience, Millie was constitutionally incapable of acting without reason.

"Do you mind if we do it here?" she asked, opening her purse.

Millie looked puzzled. "Why would I?"

"The loo is traditional," Hermione said with a wince, knowing Millie felt more or less the same way she did about spending more time than necessary in public bogs.

"We'll do it here," Millie said.

Hermione rummaged through her bag, laying each piece of make-up on the table as she happened upon it until an array of coloured powders, creams, and liquids lay before her. The trouble was they were the wrong colours. Millie would look bizarre in Hermione's make-up.

Finally she culled from a herd a duplicate of her favourite liquid eyeliner, a lipstick that hadn't suited her either, some mascara, and an off shade of eyeshadow. Drawing her wand discreetly she touched the tip to the eyeliner and spoke a simple spell. It took a few tries to get the colour she was after.

Millie sat, her usual subdued self, Phil fussing a bit as Hermione did her best not to fight Mrs. Malfoy's natural features but instead augment them a bit. It was a bit of a challenge though, to make up a face that looked so different from her own. She could understand why Lavender and her bunch had considered it such fun during their school days. Where Hermione's eyes were large and round with curling lashes, Millie's eyes were small and slanted with heavy lids with a bit of a fold at the corners. Her lashes were fairly long, but as stick straight and coal black as her hair.

Millie's lips were more of a problem. They were much smaller than her own and so pale they had a tendency to fade into the rest of her face. No colour Hermione tried looked right until, in a flash of inspiration, Hermione thought of Snow White. She doubted Millie would appreciate the comparison, but there it was all the same. Millie Malfoy could have been formed on exactly that premise, hair black as ebony, skin white as snow; all she needed was lips red as blood.

After she traced the surprisingly coquettish cupid's bow of Millie's lips in blood red and pulled back to take in the look as a whole, she was impressed with her work.

Millie looked rather pretty, in a distinctly odd sort of a way. Exotic. That was a nice way to put it.

"You never told me where your Granny was from, Millie," she asked, wondering if the answer would clear anything up.

"That's 'cause I don't know, exactly. She says she climbed over the edge of the world, hunting vampires... but that can't be right. Sometimes it takes a bit before the things she says make proper sense," Millie said turning her teacup over on her saucer.


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Hermione couldn't say how the meeting went, exactly. As sometimes happened with Millie, all one had were guesses. Millie asked the barkeep for a private Floo and got one, leaving Phil to fuss on Hermione's lap. When she returned, she offered no details of her conversation, and her jaw was set hard.

"We're to set sail in the morning. They'll pay for the passage on their end,"

Hermione wondered that the ship's captain would allow them aboard simply on the strength of a single Pureblood name. She had to fight to keep a shiver from shaking her shoulders.


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Severus's dignity creaked a bit after all his mistreatment. but he managed to co-operate well enough with his forced disrobing not to get a boot to the kidneys as he was stripped.

He wished he could say the same for Draco.

Still he did not wince as he saw the blows out of the corner of his eye. He had no desire to grant the worthless cunt of a gaoler the satisfaction. Also, in Severus's world-weary estimation, it would always be unwise to do anything to upset a wizard who is currently lifting one's testicles to search for whatever might be hidden there.

What exactly could one safely hide in such a location?

"Spread yer arse," the larger gaoler ordered.

Severus' skin crawled, but if there was one thing he knew it was how to comply. He had certainly never even considered hiding anything there, in any event. Perhaps if he had been the sort to secret things away in his rectum, his entire life might have gone differently.

The gaoler was rough, and thorough, but at least he was professional about it. For a horrible moment, Severus had been afraid the whole thing could have turned more... well... personal.

But it didn't. And in not turning into something found on late night telly, it gave Severus, who had been through quite a bit in the ten days since his fortieth birthday, a bit of hope. Hope, as Severus well knew, was a traitorous bitch.

The Snape family axiom didn't come to Severus until later, though.

At the moment, it was all he could do to blurt, "Pardon me, but have you any notion of when we are to be tried?" as the gaoler, referred to by his fellow as "Shaun", apparently satisfied that there was no wand to be found up the former spy's backside, removed the sneak-o-scope. It was nearly as uncomfortable coming out as it had been going in.

"Already been done," said self same Shaun. "You two was tried in-absentia, three months back. This is the beginning of a life sentence, Sunny Jim."

Once again fate was fucking Severus Snape. At least, he thought morbidly, this time he was in the proper position for it.


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Millie looked natural and at ease boarding the ghost ship, with a baby on her hip and a cat on her shoulder. Hermione had been wrong to think a single name would get them aboard the ship. They hadn't had to say a thing, just step aboard as if they had every right.

The captain kissed their hands and ogled Millie's belly with the biggest leer Hermione had ever seen, sending a chill up her spine. The transparent sailors, too, despite their caps in hands and diffidently downcast faces, stole glances with something slightly less than wholesome intent in their eyes.

Hermione inhaled and the scent of salt water nearly caused her to sick. Millie linked arms and dragged her, bodily below deck.

The cabin was luxurious, if decrepit. Perhaps in addition to being crewed by ghosts, the ship was appointed by a spectral decorator. She easily pictured some grey-faced soul flouncing through, ordering more dust on the velvet coverlet, more cobwebs on the silver framed mirror, and requesting more unnerving creaking in all the furniture.

She sneezed hard, twice in a row and fought off a third, nearly missing Millie setting quill to a piece of parchment in the captain's hands. Three bold scratches later and the captain backed his way out of the room, bowing as he went.

Severus's dog apparently didn't mind cobwebs; she took a flying leap onto the centre of the bed, sending more dust flying and starting Hermione on yet another round of sneezes.


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When night came to Azkaban, Severus still hadn't moved from the pile of straw that served as the prisoner's bed. He didn't see the point. Certainly the time would come when he would pace his cell like a jungle cat in a Victorian zoo, but this was not that time. He refused to allow his own nervous energy to wear him out. He would, instead, sit tight and think, keep himself in one healthy piece. Recall all the days he'd wasted. All in all he'd wasted more of days in his life than he'd used to his advantage. He cringed at the thought of summing up all the time he'd spent planning his brilliant seduction of Granger, too terrified take the slightest action. Each plan had been blindingly dazzlingly clever, so clever in fact that he was afraid to commit to one tactic for fear he would come up with a better one in the morning. Or perhaps it was something else. Perhaps it was the way that what seemed brilliant when he was drinking in his dungeon rooms, or at the base of some tree in the enchanted woods, became questionable when reality came into play. If it had been left to him, chances were Granger would have remained nothing but an exercise for his imagination. His head ached, likely from the way he was grinding his teeth.

He needed to put a stop to this quickly. Had he been anywhere else, he would have drunk himself into a stupor as a remedy.

He hadn't been in the nick as a habit, but he was his father's son, and he knew what not to do. After all, Azkaban was, finally, his location. Perhaps it was where he had been headed all his life.

On consideration he might have a kip; it wasn't as though there were any babies creeping round the corner waiting to cry and spoil it.

And so, while Draco paced the stone floor of his cell till his expensive shoes were quite ruined, periodically gripping the iron bars and looking mournfully to the cell across the way, Severus Liston Snape stretched himself out on the floor of their mutual confinement and willed himself to sleep.

He fell asleep to the sound of Draco's voice, and he awoke it as well.

"Do you miss them yet, Severus?" he said mournfully. What a stupid sodding question.


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Millie stood on the deck observing the setting moon illuminated by the rising sun. It unnerved the sailors when she came up in these silver hours, but she did it just the same. She was too restless to reasonably expect herself to stay still while Phil and Granger were having a peaceful snore.

It was good, too, to have time to herself, the salt water spraying over the deck, the ship rocking along with her belly, the sun barely starting to peer over the horizon, and somewhere beyond her sight, Blackpool. She could feel herself moving inexorably closer to her family and the battle to pull Draco's bacon out of the fire. The anticipation of the fight was very nearly sexual.

It was a strange feeling. If she'd had a sodding clue being up a pole would make her feel so strong, so powerful, she'd have done it ages ago. Magic at her fingertips in such surges practically begged to impose her will on the rest of the world. If she'd known it would feel like this, she would have gotten pregnant instead of going to Hogwarts.

If she'd felt like a brute before, it was doubly true now. At times, when she woke up quite sure she'd smelled Granger having a lusty dream, she wondered if this was how werewolves felt. She had a difficult time not doing magic. In the galley, the tastiest dishes tipped themselves toward her. If she was tired, the cosy counterpane rose up to meet her. And it was all a pleasure. She took pleasure in everything. Even the January sea stinging her cheeks made her body glow with delight. Everything stirred up the magic because there was so bloody much of it.

She could feel, in the base of her spine and rising to the crown of her head, something unfurl full length at the thought of the struggle to come. Millie wondered vaguely if she should feel a bit guilty at enjoying, yes, enjoying the idea of rescuing Draco and Snape. It wasn't a thought she'd had much before; how she ought to feel, so she discarded it fairly quickly.

No, she felt however she felt. She was what she was. And she was not in the habit of taking stances she had the slightest trace of doubt about. No, the feeling was little more than the side effect of spending too much time with Snape and Granger, the two of them always taking every thought apart and putting it back together again like clockwork. Why shouldn't she enjoy the bloodlust she felt? What would be served by not enjoying it, provided she didn't allow her judgement to be clouded?

No, Millie was a Pureblood witch regardless of the allegiances she'd made. She would wear her wrath like a fiery crown.


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Hermione wondered, as she stepped off the ship and onto the entirely unmagic dock at Blackpool, why it was that every Pureblood she knew seemed to conform to some Muggle fairytale stereotype.

There, striding toward them from the Coffee-To-Go shop, were two figures that no one could mistake for Muggles, even in the light of dusk. The larger was closer to seven feet tall than six, dressed entirely in black with shoulders like twin boulders and breasts to match.

Her hair was pulled back into a single bun so tight her eyes squinted a bit. Her eyes were like two seeds. There was something beyond mere size that reminded Hermione less of a person and more of a monolith. It was as inappropriate and magical as seeing an escaped Avebury stone shambling along under the Blackpool lights.

Her companion was an old woman of middling height so stringy and angular she looked as though she'd been fashioned out of dried meat. Like the other, she wore her hair in a tight bun, and in addition she smoked a cigar as black as night. Unlike the woman of stone, she seemed nearly frenetic, as lively as a bird, even as the two walked side by side. Instead of black, her dress was a vivid purple calico. Her shoes were aged work boots and her socks, once long and presumably white, were grey and bunched about the top of her boots.

They had to be Millie's mother and grandmother. It was inconceivable they could be anything else. Still it was strange. Either one of them could slide into a copy of Grimm's fairytales undetected.

Apparently they only had one thing on their minds. The huge stone of a woman extended her arms as soon as they were face to face.

Miss whined as they came into proximity, burying her nose in Hermione's robes.

"Give us see the new one, then, Mil," the large woman said, taking Phil up in her arms.

The bird woman cocked her head at the baby and puffed on her cigar. "Looks like a man baby to me," she said, as though she didn't quite approve of male children. "He looks like a little man."

The huge woman looked in Phil's nappy for confirmation and nodded.

Hermione had to grant that Phillip did look more like a tiny man than a real baby; still she wasn't quite comfortable with the tone.

"He's my boy, and I love him just the same," said Millie with a sharpness that made Hermione blink. She had rarely heard Millie emote quite that much at once.

The bird woman, presumably Millie's gran, shrugged. "If the one you've got in your belly now proves a witch, we could marry them off from the start."

"No," Millie said, simply.

"Why on earth not?"

"He's Draco's blood, from a potion." Millie squinted as she said it.

"All the better," said the old witch, "the Malfoys are good stock, doubling up focuses the magic."

"I dunno, the Blacks are dogdy though. Two thirds of the house of Black always have been nutters, and you don't want to double up on that," said the massive witch as she gave Phil what looked like a sincere kiss on each cheek.

"Phil's not a nutter; he's not one now, and he's not growing up to be one either," said Millie. Hermione could swear she was struggling to keep her voice level.

Millie's granny... well she cackled. Millie's mother softened even more and held Phil to her bosom.

"That's a little man, Phil, just like yer granddad," said Mrs. Bulstrode, practically clucking.

"Come along, you lot, Narcissa's likely worked herself into a frenzy waiting in the barouche," said Millie's gran, turning on her heel to lead the way.

From a distance the two older witches hadn't appeared to be moving quickly, but now Hermione and Millie both struggled to keep up as they wove between the clamour of the Muggle crowds.

"Granny," Millie huffed as she said it. "Granny, this is my friend Hermione. She'll be staying with us."

"Is she a real one?" the old witch said.

"A real one what?"

"Hermes... does she have both sexes in one? If she is, I'd like to see that. I haven't seen one of those in years," shouted the old witch over her shoulder.

"That's not what I said," Millie shouted over the crowds. "It's her name; Her- My- Knee. She's staying with us."

"Who's her family? Do we know your gran?" shouted Mrs. Bulstrode as they approached a coach and restless horses, waiting improbably on the beach.

"No, no, no, Prunie," said the old witch, stopping before the coach to light a new cigar "Don't you know? Our Millie's new chum is Snape's Mudblood bride."

Before either Hermione or the much out of breath Millie could find an appropriate reply, the door to the barouche flung wide and out stepped Narcissa Malfoy who immediately took baby Phil in her arms and kissed him from cheek to chin


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As frustrated as Millie was by her Mum and her Gran, they were fairly pleasant to Granger in the coach.

When they came to the woods, Millie had to admit to being a bit embarrassed by the way her dad threw his arms round her neck and cried. Still she tried to be stoic about it. That was the way of dads, and who really wanted them to be more like witches, in the end?

"Have you seen your Uncle? You must go to London for a visit. He's been worried sick," Dad said as he poured Millie's tea.

Then being the broody type, he turned to Granger with both tea and smothering concern. "Have you told your parents where you are? You're welcome to stay in the wood as long as you like. Of course, any friend of Millie's is welcome as long as she likes, but do let your family know you're safe, dear."


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So they went to see Millie's Uncle, Mr. Eye, the very next day.

Mr. Enoch Eye was not a name known by the rabble of the magical world, but in certain circles he was the stuff of legend. There had never been as much as a whisper of scandal connected with his name, yet it was said there was no pie, large or small, from which he did not take his discreet slice. One did not joke about Mr. Eye. Nor did one cast aspersions of any sort upon him. There was nothing humorous about him. He stood quietly and effectively over his domain. It was a serious mistake to underestimate Mr. Eye's power or well-mannered ruthlessness. It was said he had no tender feelings for any creature, or less than tender feelings for that matter. He was rumoured to have lost all capacity for human feelings long ago and lived a life ruled by nothing but cool calculation. It befitted his calling, one supposed. It took a special sort of wizard to work as a tax attorney to goblins. They were a suspicious race, and for them to trust a wizard above one of their own the wizard in question had to somewhat out of the ordinary. No one had ever argued that Mr. Eye was ordinary.

The fact that Phillipus Bulstrode was not in Azkaban, was, without dispute, entirely due to Mr. Eye's influence. General opinion to the contrary, from what Hermione had heard in Millie's wood, Mr. Eye sounded very fond of his mother and his sister... and it seemed to Hermione sitting in his office, several over-large dogs.

"Uncle," Millie called with no decorum whatsoever.

Perhaps they should have brought Miss.


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Millie was relieved to be visiting her Uncle. It wasn't like home where she had to fight her Mum and Granny on everything she wanted. Her uncle loved her in a way that had less to do with seeing that she kept the side up and more to do with revelling in the glory that was herself. It was, all told, much more relaxing.

"Uncle!" she called again, louder this time. The sea of dogs moved at a boil. "Would you put those damn things out?"

Uncle laughed low. "Are they bothering you? I find them very soothing."

"It's like the inside of a kettle in here," Millie said.

"Am I right in supposing this isn't a social visit?" Uncle said, crossing his legs.

Millie hmmphhed. "Draco and Severus are in Azkaban, what do you bloody think?"

"They've no one to blame but themselves,"

"I don't care; I want them out."

"Have you considered a prison break?" he said, the corner of his lip curling.

"I'm serious,"

"So am I," said Uncle, smirking even harder.

"Stop it!" Millie said. Uncle being silly was one thing, but Draco and Severus's lives were at stake. "I mean it; I want to get them a new trial."

"Would you like them to be found innocent as well?"

"If you don't mind."

"Consider it your Christmas gift."

"You missed last Christmas anyway; I was in America,"

Uncle bent forward and frowned at Millie, which made Millie squirm a bit in her seat.

"Perhaps... Perhaps I can see to it that Draco is acquitted. Severus Snape is another matter entirely. The Mister for Magic has a special grudge against him, I understand, which does complicate matters, not even taking into account the fact that Snape laid quite an insult at my mother's door when he refused your hand," Uncle said.

"I'm married to Draco now, so it hardly matters," Millie said, searching for Uncle's understanding.

"Does it?" he said, his eyes flickering like candle flames.

"Not to me."

"You may be distracted by young Malfoy at present, but I remember how you sulked for months. From the moment of your birth, your grandmother has made a point to give you everything you've ever wanted. You've had only to crook your little finger, and it is done. Snape broke precedent. He disappointed my mother and the only daughter of my only sister. You may be young and callow enough to take this lightly, but I cannot."

Millie couldn't help but frown; it sounded like Uncle was describing Draco, not Millie. She scrolled back through her memory trying to think of a desire, other than Snape, that had been denied. She was embarrassed to find nothing. Could it be true?

In that moment, Millie Malfoy came to two resolutions. First off she resolved that Draco was likely her soulmate, if such a thing existed. The bleeding wanker. Secondly, she promised herself that she would make a point to tell Phil so early and often.

Not sure what else to do, Millie put her feet up on the ottoman.

"It was good for me. Him saying no like that. Character building," Millie patted her belly for emphasis.

Uncle frowned. "Character is one attribute you have never been short of, precious girl,"

"How about this, then, now that I'm grown, I prefer not being married to Snape; I like Draco, he does as I tell him. So you can't hold it against Snape that he knew he wouldn't be able to make me happy. Furthermore, if you are so interested in making certain I have what I want, you can see to it Snape gets out of Azkaban right alongside Draco," Millie said, not realising until the end how loud and shrill her voice had gone.

Uncle gazed at her across his cup of tea. "Anything else you desire, my liege?"

"Just the loo," she said, suddenly aware of the pressure on her bladder.

"Do you plan on visiting your paramours today? I assume you do know Wednesday is visitors' day at Azkaban," he called as she waddled toward the bog.


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Hermione Granger was not a tender blossom. The first time she faced death, she had been, by any practical definition, a child. Throughout her adolescence, she had continually confronted horror and hardship, simply rolling up her sleeves and swallowing whatever fear or misgivings she was heir to and doing what needed to be done. It was what she did.

Still it was strange to her, as a former Auror, one who had locked up her fair share of miscreants behind the grey walls of Azkaban, that seeing Severus Snape behind bars would be more than she could bear.

She knew it was only temporary. She knew justice was apt to prevail in the long run.

She and Millie, with Phil in tow, presented themselves during visiting hours, surrendered their wands, and were led down grey corridor after grey corridor until the gaoler came to a dead stop before one cell just like all the others. And with a shocking clank, they were let inside the cell.

Had she been paying attention, she would have noted how despite his shackled hands, Draco balanced Philip on his hip and pressed his lips to the ring on Millie's hand. She likely would have been surprised to see while Draco wept both openly and loudly, Millie's cheeks were also wet. Fortunately for Millie's dignity, she wasn't paying attention to any of that.

Hermione on had eyes for the figure who stood, scarecrow like, in the corner farthest from the door. He stank. As she stepped closer, the acrid scent of unwashed male body hit her like a fist. The figure though, in prison stripes, with features obscured by a shock of unwashed black hair, remained perfectly, horribly, still.

"Do you by any chance happen to have my fags in that blessed handbags of yours?" the voice came rusty, as if he'd been silent for days. Who knew, perhaps he had.

For the barest instant she didn't know what to do or how to respond. Yes, her best judgement lost out to sentimentality for a moment, and she had taken his cigarettes from the dining room table and put them in her purse before leaving the house. But was that all he could think to say?

Her own tongue turned to stone in her mouth as she sought the right reply or even a reply more articulate that a closed mouth grunt. In the end, she narrowly managed to wordlessly wrest the cigarette from her purse and pass it to Severus's bound hands.

"A light?" he asked through his teeth, tipping one long white stick from the box and grasping it with his lips.

Ten days without a proper bath and Severus was all but transformed into Argus Filch. Hermione's skin prickled. It was the first time in her life she had been elated and heartbroken at the same time. How was one to behave in circumstances like that? Exactly what did one say when one's heart fluttered at the precisely the same moment as one's gut plummeted?

The best Hermione could come up with was a whispered, wandless, "Incendio."

Severus's hand shook as he exhaled.

"It's a filthy habit," she said listlessly.

"Thank you," Severus said, the smoke curling round his face. There didn't seem to be a trace of rancour in his voice.

"We're getting you a new trial; they can't convict you in absentia and expect it to stand. It's outrageous," she said, barely pausing for breath; she was so glad to have a topic of conversation she could speak to.

It would have helped had Severus done more than stare at her, expressionless.

"We're going to get you out," she assured him.

There was no change in his face; his black eyes remained as impassive as ice.

On pure instinct she closed the space between them.

"I'm not leaving you here to rot," she said, their faces perilously close. "I refuse."

Severus seemed quite prepared to go on saying nothing, but then, for no reason Hermione could figure, there was a strange and subtle shift and Severus, no longer focused on larger issues, like cigarettes, decided to look at Hermione rather than through her.

"I wasn't aware the powers that be had given you a choice."

"You know me, Severus."

"Yes, I believe I do."

"Then you know I tend to be somewhat relentless."

Slowly Severus raised his manacled hands between them. "Do you honestly believe you can do something about this?"

"I'll move heaven and earth for you if it comes to that."

"Heaven has precious little to do with Azkaban, my dear," Severus said.

Hermione wished she could disagree.


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"The trouble with Severus," Black Alice said, cigar clenched in her teeth as she applied a rolling pin to a lump of dough easily twice the size of her head, "isn't that the poor bugger is neither flesh, nor fowl, nor good red herring..."

"Not his fault, though, those Princes've gone all Mugglish for generations. Still throwin' out their daughter... mark my words, Millipede, that's what comes from spoilin' the male of the species, they get above themselves." Mrs. Bulstrode nodded in agreement with herself as she shovelled food into baby Phil's mouth. "They start lookin' for fulfilment. Getting' their own ideas. The mind of a wizard is a dangerous thing."

Hermione hadn't felt so much like a child in years, going from Millie's feather bed to the cottage's warm and cosy kitchen still in her nightgown.

"Gingerbread, girls?" said Mr. Bulstrode brightly, lifting up the top on the heavy lidded cake bell. Out leaped a dozen gingerbread men, each half as big as little Phil. Before Hermione could assess the situation, Millie speared half of them with a large meat fork. They continued to wiggle, but much of the fight had gone out of them.

"More tea, Hermione?"

"Thank you, Mr. Bulstrode," Hermione said politely; it was odd to her how, well, normal, Mr. Bulstrode looked in comparison to everyone else in the family. He was a medium height, medium colouring, medium weight, absolutely polite, and decidedly mild. She never would have taken him for a Death Eater if it hadn't been an established fact.

She twitched a bit as Miss made short work of a gingerbread man who thought he'd found safe haven under the table.

Black Alice brought all attention back to herself with the simple act of lighting a cigar.

"The trouble isn't that Snape's half one thing and half another, no, his trouble is that he's all wizard and all Muggle, both at the same time. "

It sounded like bad maths to Hermione, but she could see the truth in it.

Hermione watched in sleepy surprise as the gingerbread in Millie's hand shuddered as she bit its head off.

"Granger and I need the tub first," Millie said, or at least that was what Hermione thought she said; she still had a mouthful of gingerbread.

"Ah, ah, ah, Millie," Mr. Bulstrode said patiently, "eat first, then talk."

"You lot had any dreams?" Mrs. Bulstrode said, addressing Hermione, presumably Millie knew better. "If you have, don't say anything. We'll tell dreams after we read the breakfast tea."

Millie yawned and rolled her eyes simultaneously. "We've work waiting for us at Uncle's."

Black Alice tapped the ash from her cigar onto the ornate saucer beneath her teacup.

"You're not heading into Enoch's labyrinth today, neither of you. Your baby's going to be introduced tonight."

Hermione watched as a shrug of acquiescence came over Millie. Whatever it signified, it meant something to her friend. Hermione had the feeling she was about to learn more about Pureblood society that she ever dreamed of.


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Author's Note: Author's Note: Thanks as always to Shiv and Scattered Logic who make my stories possible.