Seven Preposterous Things

Extraordinary how potent cheap music is.
--Noel Coward

Draco had difficulty sleeping that night. Not that Azkaban was well known for its guest accommodations, but that particular night, the one after his first visit from Millie, it was worse than it had been before. The floor was harder, the cold was colder, the straw was itchier.

He turned on his straw pallet, attempting to shift the bedding into a more comfortable arrangement. It was as useless, as Severus had taken to saying in Texas, as teats on a boar hog. No, it was quite impossible to make a sack of straw on a stone floor anything but bone-jarringly unpleasant. Not to mention cold. He turned, and then he turned again. Leaving his head unsupported made his neck ache. Attempting to cushion his head with his crooked arm caused his shoulder to hurt. He had no idea whether he was better or worse off for having had his shackles removed. He had no idea what to do with his feet. He wished Millie were here to tell him what he did with his feet when he slept. He turned again. He wanted to weep. He wished he were a child again, in the Slytherin dorms, the reassuring scent of Uncle Severus' cigarettes winding its way from the common room.

When he was a firstie, Uncle Severus would come if he called. One bad dream was all it took and Uncle Severus was there with a glass of water, and if he whinged hard enough, or if Goyle sobbed for that matter, Severus was good for a song too.

Not that the Slytherin firsties could stall bedtime with a song - Severus wasn't stupid - but in the middle of the night, late, when the head of house's breath smelled faintly of liquor, with the right sort of tears, it was possible to get a song out of him. It was one of his most comforting memories of Hogwarts: snuggling down in clean sheets and drifting back to sleep to one of his godfather's exotic tunes.

Draco elbowed Severus in the back with the arm that wasn't tucked under his head.

He didn't move.

He elbowed harder.

This time Severus answered him with a quick hard blow to the side. Swift as it was, it managed to avoid the place where the guards had kicked him.

"Merlin's hairy sphincter, Snape, I just wanted to ask you a question," Draco whispered.

"What?" Uncle Severus bit out.

"Can you sleep?"

"I could before you decided I deserved your harassment."

"Do you remember that song you used to sing?"

"What song?"

Draco could practically hear Snape's brow knitting, even though they slept back to back, even though it was pitch black.

"I asked you first."

"Perhaps if you could recall either words or melody I might have some inkling as to the song to which you are referring." It was the slow, clear-voiced whisper of a man about to assign detention.

Draco wasn't afraid. They were both in Azkaban; exactly what could Snape do here?

"Love something or other," Draco said, hoping that was vague enough, there had been so many songs; most of them had love somewhere in there.

He could all but hear Severus' glare.

"It went sort of dum dee dum dee dum."

Severus hummed softly, almost too quiet to hear. "Something like that?"

"Not sure, would you mind terribly singing... with the words and everything?"

In the dank, echoey stone of Azkaban even Severus' softest voice, which was soft indeed, carried.

Here and there Draco could hear other prisoners in the dark sighing and snivelling in response.

"Love Hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars..." Severus sang. Draco was afraid he would stop, but he didn't. Just like when he was an ickle firstie, Uncle Severus kept singing until Draco drifted off to sleep.

Someone, fairly far off by the sound of it, sobbed hard.


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Severus had been enjoying the acoustics of Azkaban. Apparently, the old hellhole had something to be said in its favour after all. The lack of furniture likely played no small part. He never got this effect at Hogwarts. His thought trailed off and his voice with it.

"That you, Dingle?"

Severus didn't answer; after all they weren't addressing him.

"Whaddaya stop fer?"

"Yeah, what you stop for?"

"Who was it?"

"Yeah, whowazzat?"

A chorus of whispers protested.

"It was I," he hissed when he realised the complaints wouldn't stop otherwise.

"Who's I?" some voice in the dark asked.

"Snape," he answered against his best judgement. "Severus Snape."

There was a silence that seemed stunned, or perhaps that was wrong, perhaps he had frightened them. He certainly hoped so.

Then the silence ended.

"Sing Snape," whispered more voices than he could separate by ear, one on top of the other.

Severus Snape inhaled. He could feel Draco's backbone against his own. Why hadn't he gone to gaol with someone fatter? Someone he could share a pallet with without feeling like he was being randomly poked with spare bicycle parts? Was body heat too much to expect from a cellmate?

Still the hissing continued, "Sing Sing Sing," growing louder as he waited.

How could he possibly turn this situation to his advantage? True, he enjoyed singing, but he wasn't going to give it away for free, not if someone wanted to hear it.

"Sing Snape Sing," came the sound of a thousand wizards begging under their breath. It was a bit heady.

What a dog buggering irony that he would have to go to prison to get his first real taste of power.

"What's in it for me?" he asked back at the dark.


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One of the things Hermione learned that day was that she had been wrong about several basic things about wizarding culture. She didn't particularly like knowing she had been wrong, but still she counted it as preferable to being wrong and not knowing.

She had never thought of Pureblood culture as appreciably different from the culture in the rest of wizarding England. As a Muggle-born, she never considered that there might be more to Pureblood Wizarding society than she was aware of. She believed the explanation she was given, there were no "real" Purebloods, and of those who used the name their chief attribute was a belief in their own superiority. Very simply put Pureblood equalled Racist.

But here, in Millie's Wood, things seemed rather more complex than that. She wasn't sure what sort of chores she expected to be assigned in preparation for what was being referred to as Phil's "introduction", sweeping the snow from a forest clearing with a bedraggled old broom hadn't been on the list.

She hadn't had much call to build fires in her day-to-day life, still she'd never even seen one built by Millie's method: a tall tower of heavy logs laid cross one another, like a child's building set, and topped with a roof of loose kindling. Had they been Muggle, it would have been a near-impossible task, but since they were witches it was work, hard work at that, to notch the logs with a small ax and to levitate them until they locked into place. Under the circumstances, she was thankful it was the dead of winter. The thankfulness receded a bit when Black Alice appeared fresh as a spring daisy with Phil in her arms and made the next decree.

"You two need to wash yourselves in the stream," the old witch said, handing Phil to Hermione, "and take this one with you."

"You can't be serious," Hermione blurted as Millie prodded her hard in the side.

"These are our ways, girl, follow them and you might learn something," Alice said apparently just to the side of bemused.

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"Bathe? In the stream?" Hermione asked in the sort of amazement that was closely associated with horror. "Why not simply order us to strip and roll in the snow?"

Millie shrugged. "It's the way it's done."

Hermione must have wrinkled her nose or given some other show of disapproval because Millie gave her a hard look and said, "Look on it as... anthropological field work."

Hermione blinked, not that she thought the concept was beyond Millie but rather because it was a rather Mugglish term for her friend to pick up on.

"You think Snape was the only one sneaking a read at your text books when you weren't looking?" Millie said, turning away and setting off, baby on hip, toward the stream that cut a path through the thickest park of the forest.


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And so, teeth chattering as the sweat froze sticky on her body, Hermione stripped. She couldn't help but stare at Millie, already naked, stuck between admiration at her resemblance to the picture of the Willendorf Venus in her mother's study, and horror at the way her body was being distended by pregnancy. Still, she noted in a dispassionate, completely unsapphic way, Millie did seem to carry it surprisingly well. Her eyes were bright, and her skin was clear and ever so slightly rosy. Millie glowed, which was quite a change from her usual affect. If she had ever glowed before, she'd done it rather darkly. Inwardly Hermione shook her head at herself a bit. Perhaps her admiration wasn't entirely asexual.

The whole string of thought took less than a second, and her teeth were chattering again.

She watched, still caught firmly between wonder and dismay, as Millie waded into the flowing water up to her hips, Phil clinging to his mother's neck like a little monkey.

Being an entirely different sort of person in some fundamental ways, Hermione decided she might as well get it over with and raced into the water.

It took an instant for the sensation to move from painful to exhilarating, but when it did, it was bracing, and she laughed with the sheer pleasure of it.

Millie's nostrils twitched, followed by one corner of her mouth and then the other. A second later Hermione was caught by a curtain of water that rolled across the stream the same way a ripple moves through bed sheets. When Hermione returned tit for tat, Millie erupted in a low growling chuckle.


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As the sun bounced along the edge of the horizon, Hermione dressed like Millie, only in a thick wool robe, in the traditional Pureblood manner she supposed, returned to the clearing to find the area mostly empty.

The only ones in the clearing besides Black Alice and Mr. and Mrs. Bulstrode were a pair of hags and a young boy of perhaps seven or eight. Millie acknowledged them with a tip of her head that Hermione had observed to be the standard greeting between Pureblood witches. She did her best to nod likewise but was left wondering whether her gesture had been too subtle or not quite subtle enough, since all either witch gave her in return was a flicker of eye contact.

Slowly, as night fell, when Hermione had very nearly decided it was to be an intimate family sort of gathering, people began to arrive in droves.

Then on the scene, arriving in the same gleaming black coach they had used to collect her and Millie from Blackpool, was Mrs. Malfoy. Accompanying her was, of all people, her husband, the wanted felon. She was also surprised to see both dressed in plain, though clearly well made, woolen robes. She was even further taken aback when, after a flickering nod between the Bulstrodes and the Malfoys, they made their way directly toward Millie and her.

"May I hold my grandson?" were the first words out of Mr. Malfoy's mouth. Up close he looked far older than he had last time Hermione had seen him.

"Are you up to it?" Millie asked earnestly.

"Your mother-in-law makes me out to be rather more delicate than I actually am," said Mr. Malfoy. "I will not drop him. You have my word."

After another concerned look, Millie passed Phil gently to his hands.

Mrs. Malfoy laid a strengthening hand on her husband's elbow as he cradled Phil in his arms. As usual Phil studied the object which was set before him. The object in this case being the face of Lucius Malfoy and the expressions on the faces of grandson and grandfather mirrored one another perfectly. For an instant, Hermione thought they were both going to burst into tears and then, almost simultaneously, the two of them, one well into his adulthood, the other barely born, visibly steeled themselves. After that the baby seemed quite content to snuggle hard into Lucius' chest. Contrary to the maxims one heard about the revelatory nature of the battlefield, Hermione noted she knew nothing of Lucius Malfoy aside from rumour and innuendo. If she believed everything she'd heard she'd have imagined he preferred eating babies to cuddling them.

By the time Phil was back in his mother's arms, Hermione was startled to see how many people had made their way to the enchanted wood, with more making their way into the clearing every moment. The moon shone down brightly, and she realised she had missed the moment when night had truly fallen. By the time the rush of witches and wizards began to slow to a trickle, she estimated there were somewhere in the neighbourhood of a thousand magical folk gathered in Millie's wood, among them faces she never imagined she would see in such a place. Most of all, she was shocked to see Molly and Ginny Weasley, and behind them Percy and Bill, as well as Bill's wife, Fleur. The Weasleys were off in a small knot, clearly avoiding, and being avoided by, a number of the other guests.

Hermione's reverie over the relative social position of the Weasleys was derailed by the sight of a tall figure made even taller by a rather forceful hat, topped as it was, by a stuffed vulture. The figure approached the thus far empty centre of the clearing, matched stride for stride by Black Alice beside her.

Hermione was struck by a sudden memory from third year Defense Against the Dark Arts. That figure cutting through the crowd could only be Augusta Longbottom.

"What're they..." Hermione started to ask before she noticed a general hush had fallen over the throng.

"It's starting," Millie whispered, elbowing her expressively in the side.

Without a word or bit of pomp, Hermione could recognise Black Alice sent a small ball of flame, issuing not from her wand but seemingly from her left hand, to the top of the wooden tower she and Millie had so carefully constructed.

Then Mrs. Bulstrode, whose previous movements Hermione hadn't been paying much mind, stepped into the circular clearing where she spread a blanket nearly the size of the Hogwarts staff table.

She watched as Millie seemed to gather herself for a moment before stalking out into the circle. She set Phil in the dead centre of the blanket. Phil, predictably, set to wailing the moment she set him down wearing nothing, not even a nappy. Millie meanwhile opened a small expandable trunk she had apparently been carrying in her robe pocket and with the help of her mother and grandmother began surrounding little Phil on his blanket with gold Galleons. Hermione hoped she wasn't goggling at the sheer bulk of gold piled about little Phillipus Malfoy, or at least she hoped she wasn't goggling any more than anyone else. She glanced to her left to see Mr. Malfoy wearing an expression of pride she would very nearly describe as fierce. When she looked back at Phil, the Galleons were being topped with gold ingots, strands of pearls, and loose cut gems in a rainbow of colours. Hermione was no goblin, but she knew that had to be at least one vault's worth of wealth surrounding Phil. What was it there for? It had to be display. The only question was: what came next?

She was certainly not expecting Augusta Longbottom to strip bloody starkers.

Hermione blinked, but it was still true; a witch who was, by reputation at least, more likely to don iron knickers than anything else, had stripped naked, her vulture hat standing serene guard outside the circle. The two hags who had been the first to arrive had also followed suit, beating an unearthly ringing rhythm on the side of their cauldron, the song to which Mrs. Longbottom danced.

And dance she did. True, her arse sagged and so did her tits, but her presence was so commanding and the strength of her magic so clear Hermione thought she'd give up any amount of gravity defiance to be like Augusta Longbottom some day. When Mrs. Longbottom moved there was a grace in her spindly limbs stemming from the sort of power that only grows stronger and more fascinating over time.

Hermione watched, transfixed, as Mrs. Longbottom made a dancing circuit round the now raging fire to stand before Phil, who had finally stopped crying. Mrs. Longbottom made a great show of squatting down and sifting through the jewels and gold with her hands before lifting a long strand of pearls from the pile, testing it cheekily with her large teeth, and placing the strand round her neck.

She then bent and took up Phil, dancing him in her arms as she circled the clearing a second time.

A cry of approval went up from the crowd, and Hermione could see that all round her, despite the now gently falling snow, witches had disrobed.

Hermione felt breath in her ear and realised Mrs. Malfoy was standing rather close. "As a close friend of the family, Mrs. Snape," she said so quietly Hermione was surprised she could hear her, "it is expected you will join during Phillip's first round."

"Of course," Hermione answered and feigning nonchalance pulled her robes over her head. She did her best despite the fact that she felt like a silly cow. The most difficult part, she imagined, would be wondering where to look. She warned herself as she made her way to the circle, that it would be difficult not to notice who had a tiny penis, or a huge one for that matter, whose tits were different sizes, and whose arse was as square as a brick; nothing could have been further from the truth.

Instead the ringing of the cauldron swept over her, and she could barely think. She had never been much of a dancer, but the minute she stepped into the circle, her body moved independent of her brain's direction, only faltering when she tried to consciously order her steps.

It was so hot, sweat flew from her breasts as she stepped in time with the other witches without even trying. She was glad for her nakedness. She didn't expect she would ever feel this way again, but naked seemed simply a different sort of clothed in this situation.

The ringing of the cauldron took on the sound of a human voice as she listened. A witch's voice, it spoke in words that she could very nearly have made out if she hadn't been keeping one eye on Phil, trying to parse out what the meaning of all this was.

She watched as little Phil was danced from witch to witch, noting that each witch who took the child in her arms did so only after taking something from the pile of gold and jewels. Many took several somethings.

It gibed perfectly with everything she'd ever read about matriarchal systems and the "gift economy" though her anthropology book had more examples of the behaviour among monkey colonies than human beings. By accepting a "gift" from Little Phil's family, the witches were accepting a debt and cementing a relationship with the infant. But how did the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort fit into the puzzle? She thought back to the monkeys, recalling adolescent males living on the margins of the colony, depending on the social positions of their female relatives for power. That would explain why a threat to the Pureblood social order seemed so frightening to many Pureblood males. Frightening enough to die fighting against. Frightening enough to kill for. It also explained why those who had allied themselves with the Muggle-borns were those with relatively little to lose positionwise; the Weasleys for instance. The Pureblood witches who got involved were to a woman either unhinged or protecting wizards from their own family.

And of course Severus would join the Death Eaters. It was the only way he could reject Toby Snape.

Suddenly the last ten years of her life made sense. If only someone had explained it to her before.

She laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of it all.

Magical folk were renowned neither for their self-awareness nor their study of anthropology. A solution was possible, but given the cultural differences between Purebloods and Muggle-born not bloody likely.

Not sure what else to do, she danced. She danced with a pleasure and abandon she'd only known in sex before. So close to the fire that as she leapt, she could feel her perspiration sizzle.

And then her turn came, all hedging her bets gone now she went by instinct as well as reason and took a jewel as big as an apple and as red as pidgeon's blood and tossed it onto her robes piled outside the circle. She watched Millie, outside the circle, heave a sigh of relief.

Little Phil laughed when she took him. He was probably glad to see a familiar face. This was a pivotal night in more ways than one, it seemed.

As the night wore on, the wizards joined the dance as well; so it came to pass that sometime past midnight, she found herself face to face with a naked Neville Longbottom. She had completely forgotten he was a Pureblood.

"Hallo, Hermione," he whispered, awkwardly gesturing toward the tables practically swaying from the sheer bulk of the food laid out upon them. "I'm on the brink of going weak with hunger. Would you care to join me?" Then for an encore he blushed making Hermione uncomfortable for the first time all evening.

Hermione noted that she felt less at ease with her robes on, picking over the buffet tables with Neville than she felt dancing naked with his Granny. She gave him the once over twice. He looked roughly as comfortable with his new position as Minister for Magic as he would be wearing his granny's knickers.

"How are you doing, Hermione?" he asked stuffing a piece of ham the size of a garden gnome in his mouth.

"Aside from my husband being in Azkaban?" she said as breezily as she could.

Neville's eyes bulged, but he managed to swallow everything that was in his mouth in one painful looking gulp without choking. There were some rather mundane advantages to being a wizard.

"That's just a vicious rumour!" he said emphatically.

Hermione couldn't help herself, she blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You couldn't... You wouldn't... You're convalescing from a traumatic kidnapping."

"Is that why none of my old school chums have been round to see me?" She smiled as she said it. "Nothing to do with marrying Severus Snape?"

"Because you didn't marry Snape," Neville said, nodding. "I checked. It's not registered with the Muggles or the Magical authorities."

Funny that, she had more or less forgotten it was pretend; she felt married to Snape. Perhaps a marriage was more or less a real as you made it.

"You've been through a lot," Neville said continuing to nod in agreement with his own words. "You'll need time."

Inappropriately amused Hermione popped a grape in her mouth before answering him. "What would you say if I were to tell you I held Severus' hand in a car park and vowed 'until Death do we part'?"

Neville's eyes were enormous. "I wouldn't say anything because you would never do that. Not the Hermione Granger I know. It's insane."

Hermione shrugged and bit into a shiny black fruit that turned out to be a plum. "Right."

"You win Neville, I'm not married to Severus Snape," she was surprised by how easily she lied. "But I do want to see that he has a fair trial."

She watched as the tension unwound from Neville's shoulders. "He had one."

"You know what I mean... lawyers, witnesses, evidence... that sort of thing," she said casually.

"This is like the business with the house elves, isn't it?" Neville said with a worried expression.

"Something like that," Hermione said, wondering at herself. She really had spent six months in a house with a man who would lie or steal without pause or conscience; it showed.

She knew she was getting somewhere when Neville gave her what was meant to be a stern and judicial nod. "Tell you what, you get seven witches to give witness before the Wizengamot that Snape should be given a trial, not that he'll found innocent, of course he won't because he's not, but I'll see that he gets his trial."

Quite spontaneously she leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks Neville, you're a pal."

"Do you think we might get together in the future... next Saturday, maybe?"

"Sorry, Neville, I need time. I was traumatised, remember?" she smiled at him feeling genuinely happy all of a sudden, nearly giddy.


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Fruit.

Of all the things Snape could have asked for, he demanded a pile of fruit before he'd sing the next night.

And a bucket to put it in. Waterproof.

Had it been anyone else, Draco would have chalked it up to madness but he knew his head of house too well for that. It worried him all the more that he had no clue what Snape was planning.


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The next day it seemed reasonable to Hermione to call on Eileen Prince. And when she proved impossible to locate by other means, it seemed also reasonable to contact the Princes who were at hand.

Others would later note that Hermione tended to be the barging sort, particularly when aggravated, but then what else was to be expected from someone who had been raised by people who thought nothing of sticking their hands inside other people's mouths for a living. Others noted that an awkward sod like Snape was beyond the reach of any other sort of witch.

Still, Severus Prince, owner of a quill shop, seemed a rather obvious choice when hunting for Eileen.

Hermione never could say how it had gone so wrong so fast. It was a small but scrupulously orderly shop. She waited to approach him until only a witch replacing ink on the shelf remained.

"Excuse me, sir, but are you Severus Prince, the proprietor of this shop?" she asked the white-headed wizard who stood behind the counter.

"Who wants to know?" he asked in an ordinary sort of voice that suggested nothing of Snape.

If he was some relation of her Severus, and she was guessing grandfather, he resembled him in only the worst ways. The colouring was different, suggesting he likely had been blonde in his younger days. His eyebrows met in the middle, though they had a curve very similar to Severus Snape's. The unremittingly squinty eyes were blue. Colour aside they were the same, though. Exactly the same.

She hoped Severus wouldn't have the tendency to jowls when he was older, but genes were clearly not on his side.

None of it would matter if she couldn't get him out of Azkaban.

"My name is Hermione Snape, sir, and I am trying to locate an Eileen Prince," she said, ignoring his brusque manner.

"I don't know anyone by that name," he said, his expression that of someone who had just caught wind of a foul odour.

"Are you by any chance familiar with my husband, Severus Snape?" she asked.

"Never heard of him," he said, his eyes never leaving her face.

Hermione looked down. On the counter between them lay a copy of the Daily Prophet. The headline read "Severus Snape Captured" in huge bold letters.

"Are you going to buy anything, or are you just going to skulk about my shop all afternoon?" the old man asked peevishly.

"Thank you for your assistance," Hermione said primly.

She was half expecting it when the witch who'd been restocking shelves followed her out onto the street, a bottle of ink still in her hand.

"My aunt lives in Suffolk," she said.

"I beg your pardon," Hermione said; she hadn't even introduced herself.

"My aunt, Eileen, she goes by King now," the witch said. "She married the King who bought out Eeylops."

She was tall and thin and dark headed. Pretty; she was pretty in a exotic way that was not even vaguely reminiscent of Severus; hair dark unless you contrasted it with ebony like Severus', eyes a pale brown that a more poetic person would compare with gold, skin that was more olive than chalk white.

"But don't let on I told you where to find her," she said with a grimace, "And before you ask, no, I won't testify on his behalf. It's not worth losing my inheritance over."

"Thank you for the information," Hermione said. "No one seems to be very interested in helping Severus."

The witch shrugged casually. "He killed a very powerful wizard, and he wasn't very popular before. To tell the truth, it did surprise me a bit."

Hermione nodded in agreement and leaned closer. Perhaps this witch knew something important to freeing Severus.

"Not as much as him making head of Slytherin, mind you, he is HALF-blood after all," the witch said with a vaguely familiar smirk. "But he's always been more yellow than green if you know what I mean. I didn't know he had murder in his heart."

She looked proud. A shiver went through Hermione.


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Meanwhile at Azkaban prison, Draco watched studiously as Snape stuffed two days worth of mouldering bread rations into an unwashed sock, knotted it, and added it to the bucket of fruit.


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The witch who opened the door in Suffolk was undoubtedly Eileen Snape. Large serious brows, wide scowling mouth, outsized nose, she looked enough like her photo in the Hogwarts annual that she wasn't likely to be anyone else; besides as a witch, ageing had done its work slowly, and as she neared sixty she could pass for a Muggle at a fairly ill-tended 40. Still she was small, surprisingly small, surprisingly Severus-like in her gestures. Having met Toby Snape and now Eileen Prince, it was clear that while Severus couldn't rightly be said to resemble either of his individual parents, he did look quite a bit like both of them. His thin delicate lips were Toby's, Eileen's mouth, while hardly what one might call attractive, was so wide it seemed to reach all the way across her face. His nose was a combination of both, sporting some of Toby's fine-ness of form and Eileen's contribution of sheer size. It was strange for Hermione, standing at the door, to look at this tiny woman and realise she had given birth to Severus Snape. The greasy black hair was achingly familiar.

Eileen King let Hermione in, made her a cup of tea, sat her in a comfy chair in the parlour, then proceeded to lie through her teeth all without ever quite looking her in the eye.

"I don't believe I'm acquainted with any Snapes," Severus' mother said, addressing a point a few millimetres to the left of Hermione's face. She was as pleasant as a person could sound without going so far as to smile. Her black robes were close tailored, except for an outrageous puff at each shoulder, revealing a body not unlike that of a child. She had no breasts, and it would appear the bustle on her gown was only there to give an illusion of hips where none existed.

It was a typical middle class wizarding home. Hermione noted Floo powder on the hearth, wizarding wireless set on low, kitchen bubbling away on its own in the background, needlepoint cushions on the settee. Doilies on the arms of the chairs. In other words, a world away from Spinner's End. But still something about the whole place, something about the witch herself fairly sweated joylessness from beneath the cosy surface.

Still the witch who'd once been known as Eileen Snape was also wary, worried in a way that seemed fairly unconnected to anything Hermione was doing.

It was difficult not to catch anxiety with someone glancing round every few seconds. Finally, with Eileen constantly staring over her shoulder, Hermione turned round to see a clock like Molly Weasley's directly behind her.

There were three arms. Eileen. Justinian. Maximus. Justinian's arm read WORK. Maximus' BACK GARDEN.

Before Hermione's brain could respond to the implications, the arm shifted and sound clattered, doors flung open and the pounding of muddy boots echoed through the house.

"Mummy, Grunt's caught himself again." It was a boy, in heavy robes, with a small dog under his arm. The dog appeared to be choking on his own tail alternately gagging and growling.

With a perturbed frown, Eileen pulled a forked tail out of the dog's throat.

"That animal is too stupid to live," she said in an exasperated but not entirely unaffectionate tone.

"Hello," the boy said suddenly, taking notice that his mother was not alone. Apparently, he was accustomed to finding his mother sitting alone in the parlour.

"Maximus," Eileen said, reproving. "This is Mrs. Snape."

"Maximus King at your service," the boy said, clicking his heels together with an unctuous politeness. "How do you do?"

His somewhat grubby little hand gripping hers, he paused, his small dew bright eyes gleaming under heavy black brows. He looked like a small over-stuffed version of Eileen, and thus not entirely unlike Hermione's own prince. Eileen sat on the edge of her seat as if she were on the brink of bursting, as if she feared for nothing in the world so much as this boy.

Hermione realised at that moment that whatever help she managed to enlist for Severus Snape would not come from the mother of Maximus King.

"Snape? Like the chap that killed Albus Dumbledore?" the boy said, brightening. "You know the Aurors caught him all the way in California. The Aurors always get their man. Before the war they used to have Dementors in Azkaban that would suck a condemned wizard's soul right out of his body. They called it 'The Kiss'. Too bad there aren't Dementors in Azkaban anymore. If anyone deserves to have his soul sucked out, it's this Snape. It's a disgrace he has the same name as my Granddad."

Hermione forced herself to smile. "Perhaps the people who know him feel differently."

The boy wrinkled his nose. "You some sort of relation?"

"No," Hermione said.

"I didn't think you were. He probably doesn't have any relations, going about murdering people; he was probably hatched from an egg by a bugbear or something," the boy went on, enthused. "If he hadn't killed Albus Dumbledore, I would have got to meet him when I go to Hogwarts next year."

"Maximus!" Eileen said. "Would you please take your mud and your dog and your theories about the criminal mind outdoors where they belong."

"I'm going to be an Auror," the boy said, with a swagger.

Hermione forced a smile and nodded, uncertain what to say. She sincerely hoped he achieved his goal and found himself up to his nostrils in paperwork.

"Maximus, there are cakes on the stove, take one on your way out. Now shoo." She motioned for him to go, desperation bare in her eyes.

Eileen and Hermione did nothing but stare at one another until well after the door banged shut.

"He's bound to learn the truth eventually," Hermione said, finally.

"But not today," Eileen said, her lips pinched.

"Severus needs your help," Hermione said. "If I can find seven witches willing to speak before the Wizengamot, Severus will be allowed a new trial."

Eileen pressed her lips so hard they met in a thin line. For an encore she looked at the floor but did not answer.

"Severus is also your son," Hermione said, hoping to arouse some sentiment.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eileen said.

"It means, Mrs. King, that everyone has turned their back him and..." Hermione said.

"Is that my fault?" Eileen shook her head. "He's not a child. He's dug this hole, and he can lie in it for all I care. I was barely more than a girl myself when he was born. Now I've done my best to correct my previous errors in judgement. Unfortunately I cannot erase Toby Snape... or the years I wasted with him. I would if I could, believe me. But I'll not ruin all I've made for myself since on his account."

Gooseflesh raised itself on the back of Hermione's neck.

"Severus isn't his father," she said.

"No, he's worse," Eileen said.

Hermione breathed in sharply. "What if I could find some proof he killed Headmaster Dumbledore at his own request?"

"I wouldn't care," Mrs. King said, her voice growing louder by the second. "Do you know... Do you know when your precious Severus was still in school, the day he took he-who... Voldemort's mark, and that very day he came home to Spinner's End. He came home proud. Proud to show me his Lord's mark and so drunk on his own arrogance at having sworn himself to that other stinking half-breed he kissed his own mother on the lips."

Hermione knew her mouth was hanging open. It was unfortunate that she had no idea what to say. She did her best to shut it quickly. Frankly, fond as she was of him, she knew Severus was rather perverse, in the emotional sense. He was also impulsive and many of his attempts at affection came out skewed. Dead awkward, were the truth told.

She wondered what he meant by it. It was a demonstrable fact that what Severus intended by any given act was usually quite different than what it would mean to anyone else.

She had also come to the conclusion she could argue all day with Eileen King and it wouldn't make a bit of difference.

"I don't know what lies Severus told you to gain your sympathy," Eileen said with quiet intensity, "but he's a dark wizard. As far as I'm concerned my only son was born ten years ago."


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Later, in the privacy of Millie's childhood bedroom, the two witches declared Eileen King a bloody cow of the first order.


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Hermione wasn't sure why she hadn't thought to go to Minerva McGonagall in the first place. She had worked for years alongside both Severus and Headmaster Dumbledore. The Wizengamot was sure to listen to her and so was Neville, both as Headmistress of Hogwarts and as an interested party. If she had never been particularly fond of Millie, she had certainly made up for it with warm feelings for Hermione.

So they went to her office.

It was strange.

It hadn't been that many years, all told, since they'd been in school themselves, but the simple knowledge that both Dumbledore and Snape were gone made the place seem like a lively, well-populated vault. It occurred to both witches independently that the headmaster and the potions master had occupied such polarised positions during their childhood, it had been impossible to see either of them clearly. One had permitted everything; the other forbade everything short of breathing. And yet there had been a kind of careless sadism to Dumbledore's approval of everything under the sun and a secret underlying protectiveness to Snape's eternal "no".

Little Phil wiggled on Millie's lap.

"Come in," Mistress McGonagall called out sharply, and they obeyed. She was standing when they entered.

"Mrs. Malfoy, Mrs. Snape," she said, as if the names tasted bitter in her mouth. As if the names themselves were an accusation.

Millie responded as graciously as she could, "Headmistress."

"Headmistress, we would like to talk to you about events leading up to the night Headmaster Dumbledore died," Hermione said sombrely.

"To what end?" the Headmistress asked.

"To clear Draco and Severus," Hermione said.

"Exactly how, Mrs. Snape, do you propose to do that, in light of the fact that they are both guilty as sin?"

"You know Severus; you know he was loyal to Dumbledore. You know he would have done anything the headmaster asked of him..."

"Correction; I thought I knew Severus Snape. I thought he was loyal to the headmaster. I was clearly mistaken."

"Headmistress," at a loss, all her well-crafted plans dropping away as she faced the one person whose approval had mattered most to her child self, Hermione asked plainly, "How can I convince you?"

"Tell me the truth of what happened, and don't spare my sensibilities by glossing over the uncomfortable bits."


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The law of averages being, as usual, allied with whatever forces stood opposite Severus Snape, the day his prison wine was ready for swilling would be the day Granger would come to call.

It was difficult to keep track of the time of year, much less visiting day in a windowless cell on an island in the North Sea, so he did have a very good excuse for being blissfully pissed when his wife came to keep him apprised of her struggle to free him.

He'd downed most of the bucket, and feeling somewhat celebratory, he lay down on his pallet a few moments before gravity compelled him. His largesse was such that he felt moved to serenade his musical aficionados free of charge, confident in the knowledge that drink had not affected either tone or pitch of his delivery. Not seriously at any rate.

Deep in the act of illuminating the inmates at Azkaban as to the lesser known works of Black Sabbath along with a smattering of selections culled from his granny's stereo cabinet for the sake of variety when the cell clanged to admit someone, and he opened his eyes to find himself looking straight up Granger's robes.

He had married a lovely witch, hadn't he? It was exceedingly clever on his part. Not that that was surprising, clever was his middle name. Sonny Clever Snape, that was him. No, wait, he hadn't been Sonny for nearly thirty years. Severus, now that was a name for a wizard, not some half-baked Mugglish child's name.

The song in his mouth shifted without thought, and his voice dropped to the bottom of his range. "That old black magic has me in its spell, that old black magic that you weave so well, those icy fingers up and down my spine, the same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine." He could keep it up no longer and dissolved into debilitating laughter. Fuck! A sharp pain roused itself in his side.

"Severus?" she asked and he struggled to pull himself to sitting without letting go of his suddenly tender side. Granger really was quite kind, allowing him to steady himself with a firm grip on her calves.

"Severus, you're to be allowed a new trial if I can convince seven witches to speak on your behalf to the Wizengamot," Granger said, peering down at him.

It was only fair to note that Severus tried to count out seven possible witnesses on his behalf before his mind drifted and hands began to wander to Granger's dimpled knees. He inhaled her scent; she was only a few days from her menses. He rubbed his face against her skin, noting from the stubble on her legs that she likely hadn't shaved them since he was taken. No doubt about it, Granger was the best girl in the world. He ought to lick her cunt.

She stiffened a bit when his left hand reached the wild nest of curls hidden under her utilitarian knickers. He nuzzled at her legs, allowing the hem of her robe to fall over his head. Good, he liked to see what he was doing.

"I believe we should waste no time coming up with a list of witches to contact. Minerva was resistant at first, but she seems to be coming 'round, so that's one. Draco's mother offered to speak on your behalf as well, but Mr. Eye feels that her public support might do your case more harm than good in the long run," she said evenly though he was doing his best to get her knickers off. Apparently she felt nonchalance was best.

"Let her buy off a couple of witnesses then," he said as he buried his nose in her fragrant curls; he wondered if Granger heard. This was the perfume of the immortals. When he was free, he would douse himself with this scent every day.

"Yes, well," Granger said in a tone that suggested Narcissa's own solution was something to that effect. "That makes three, which means we need four more," she said, and Severus was delighted by the wetness that met his forefinger's exploration.

"My cousin Sophronia?" he muttered absently, tsking at himself a bit; he really did need to remember his diction, as he circled Granger's clitoris with the tip of his forefinger. He noted Granger's knees shook in response. He decided he could well take up residence under Granger's robes.

"I asked," Granger answered, her voice strained but distant. "She said 'no'."

It was dark and warm under Granger's robes, like a womb. They were going to have to kill him to get him out. He buried his lips between the labia majora and licked like the dog he was. The taste of her set all the hairs on his arms on end. Long upward strokes with the flat of his tongue, he lapped up the moisture that flowed like sap from a fragrant tree. He wasn't sure if it made him less drunk or more. The little bite of flesh practically pulsed on his tongue. If he was a dog like Black, so be it, as long as he was Granger's dog. It was an established fact she was unusually kind to dumb beasts.

He was dimly aware that Granger was speaking, but he'd be buggered if he knew what she was saying. All he could do was growl in response in any event.

It was a wild cur of a thought, but he wondered if he was doing it properly; he wondered how it felt to be Granger at that moment. He wondered if he could...

"Legilimens," he slurred against her labia, clutching her buttocks.

Bulstrode. He'd completely failed to notice that Bulstrode had come along with Granger but he could see her quite clearly through Granger's eyes now. He closed his own eyes and sought out Granger's clitoris, the size of single sweet from Honeydukes. He rested his weight on her. He had no choice; he could balance no longer.

Bulstrode and Malfoy were standing, side by side at the far side of the cell, holding hands and taking furtive glances at Granger.

Severus resisted the urge to stop what he was doing and go wave his cock at them. But he settled for smiling as he licked Granger. Good god that felt sublime. Her pleasure sent quakes from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. So he did it again. Three more times. Lessening the pressure made him shudder at every stroke; Granger staggered backwards until she hit the stone wall.

He sucked at her in earnest now, her right leg wrapped round his back.

He knew the moment when her orgasm began because he spent himself against the rough cloth of his prison uniform.


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Hermione, her head swimming, watched Severus emerge from under her heavy winter robes.

His face was glistening wet, and there was a dark spot on the front of his striped prison gear. Even later she wasn't sure how a small show of affection had gotten so out of hand so quickly. Still she smelled the telltale stench of alcohol as soon as she entered the cell, and she had her suspicions.

It confused her a bit that she had just experienced one of the most intense orgasms of her life. Some things were easier to control than others. Sex was definitely an "other".

Severus never had stopped clinging drunkenly to her leg. His eyes were closed and his hands shaking almost imperceptibly. Despite the filth and the stench, his expression was nearly beatific.

She'd have felt better to see him swearing and swaggering rather than clutching at her robes, mouthing her surname like a prayer. On his knees, as if the act of cunnilingus was incidental to his supplication.

She tried to comfort herself that drink played some large part in his current state. Still he could ill afford even that weakness.

"Severus?" she called down to him. "Severus?"

"Granger," Severus said in a way that teetered between a purr and a gurgle.

"Severus," Draco said nervously.

That seemed to break Severus out of his haze; he turned round and squinted in Draco's general direction, a sneer rising to his lips. "Buzzoffyaknob."

Hermione felt compelled to ask Draco the obvious question. "How did he manage to get liquor?"

"He didn't get it; he made it," Draco said, shrugging helplessly.

Potions master indeed. She reached down to stroke Severus' head; his hair was so greasy it was becoming stiff in spots. He was falling apart, and it was up to her to save him. He was not going to last much longer at this rate.


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Half a world away Toby Snape met the end of his life at wandpoint. Upon hearing the news, Severus' only regret was that he wasn't there to see it first hand.

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Author's Note: Special Thanks to Shiv for fabulous Beta as well as her friendship, to Scattered Logic for giving this story a forum, and to all the readers who haven't given up yet. Sometimes real life is very demanding.