The Best Laid Plans

by Gannet

Lucius and Narcissa host a dinner party that has a murder. Severus is a guest. Hermione is the Auror in charge of the investigation.

The Best Laid Plans

Narcissa Black Malfoy prided herself in the meticulousness of her appearance, speech, and public demeanour. Sixty-four recorded generations of pureblooded ancestors, save for the odd mésalliance of the kind magical tapestries were meant to rectify before it was even noticed, had infused her soul and spine with the all the force of fashion imperatives, rigorous snobbism, and impeccable etiquette. From the day when, aged one, she made her first public appearance in the arms of her proud father, all clad in the finest white lace magical seamstresses could produce, to the last of her discreet shopping spree at the better shoe-shops, everything about her had been beyond reproof.

Sure enough, a vile and partial commentator to her life and works might cast a disparaging remark on her unfortunate choice of husband – twelve generations only of pure blood, and no family tapestry to fill in the blanks – or to said husband's ill-fated choice of associates. A spectator better versed in the mores of the upper class will, however, recognise the power of the Galleon, both in creating power and influence where there had been none in centuries past, and in regaining that same power and influence where it had been lost. Lucius had both a never-ending abundance of Galleons and a deep-seated devotion to his wife: Narcissa did not need to look further, nor did she want to, and it is with the boundless confidence of those graced with everything elegance, wealth, and superior birthrights can offer that she decided to ignore the less pleasant events of recent history and grace the wizarding world, or at least the parts of it that counted, with an exclusive dinner party over at the Manor. It was, she wrote on the pristine beige, tastefully understated invitation cards, the perfect opportunity to celebrate peace in the wizarding world, to bring both sides together, and to latch on the acquaintances and relationships that would promote a prosperous future for all those involved. That she and her husband had almost given their lives to promoting the exact opposite of this grand reconciliation was neither here nor there: everyone that was anyone could read between the lines and understand it as another trade of Galleons for power; the others were not invited.

Guest-lists were agonised over, menus were discussed, and Squiggy, Narcissa's right-hand Elf, personally ensured that the right morsels were readied in the appropriate manner. Eager missives of acceptation, prompted by expectations of free champagne and networking opportunities, headed back with gratifying speed; the three top wizarding caterers rivalled with creativity, leaving her free to choose the most expensive of all their proposals. Artfully coloured flower bouquets were imported from exotic countries to grace the dining tables with a touch of feminine elegance; carnivorous plants were purchased to adorn several strategic corners of the mansion with no less feminine reminders that the Malfoy-cum-Black household was not without bite. In one word as in a thousand, all was prepared well in advance, no detail was left unattended, and no one but the most gifted of Seers would have guessed what an unmitigated disaster the party would ultimately turn into.

The evening had started cosily enough.

Everyone showed up. Minister Shacklebolt was there with his lady wife, as was the Minister's second-in-command, Mathilda Marchfields, accompanied by her own demure husband. All four of them stopped for a chat with Head Auror Potter, whose own red-haired wife was deep in conversation with the very young and very Muggle, female companion of the very old, very respectable Head of Goblin-Wizard relations. "And do these Muggle fertility treatments really work?" Narcissa heard the former asking the latter as she passed them by to greet, albeit reluctantly, the infamous Severus Snape, whose present usefulness as provider of specialised potions for the very wealthy eclipsed, but only just, his less than savoury wartime past.

"What is he doing here?" Andromeda whispered in her sister's ear, her eyes on the man's dark back. "You should have warned me, I'd have made other plans…"

Narcissa pursed her lips in a thin caricature of a smile, much like she did when confronted with unpalatable conversational topics. Some things she knew better than to discuss with her sister.

Ever the perfect hostess, she showed her guests into the dining-room as soon as the cocktails were finished. Squiggy had taken his task as seriously as always, and the first course arrived at the table at the perfect moment, just like it was meant to be served, leaving her free to ensure that the conversation remained both polite and lively in the entire assembly.

The discussion was, in fact, going so well that it took everyone several minutes to notice that the Head of Goblin-Wizard relations had ceased to participate and was, on the contrary, emitting intermittent, strangled sounds of agony. No one could miss, however, the distinct noise he made when plunging head first into his plate of assorted seafood. To be fair, the fact that he failed to sit up even after the conversation had dwindled down to stunned expressions of surprise was something of a giveaway that something was amiss. It was therefore only to be expected that, even as his pretty Muggle companion rushed in a flurry to his side, an anxious murmur should rise all around the table as the other guests began to speculate on what, or who, had killed their commensal.

Head Auror Potter, who was seated two chairs from the now late Head of Goblin-Wizard relations, made good his years of law enforcement training and rushed to the crime scene. Not that it needed that much analysis: the thin line of white spittle dribbling down the deceased's chin was a tell-tale sign.

"It's poison," he announced to the guests after a few diagnosing spells. "Probably arsenic…"

All faces turned from the morbid spectacle to the guest sitting right opposite to the victim. One Severus Snape, professional Potions Master, former turncoat, hated by each and every participant in the war, and of Muggle extraction to boot, which never boded well for one's social standing.

And then the major disruption of the evening occurred. No one would dispute that the collapse of one of the dinner guests right before the fish course did count as a disruption, but several family enemies had died at that very same table in the last few centuries, and by the same method too. As with many a fine English tradition, precedent makes law; the fact that neither of the day's hosts were prepared to admit having had anything to do with this peculiar murder, a true deviation from the way things were usually done under their roof, did not suffice to shake their spirits. On the other hand, nothing at all in either of their families' long and eventful history had prepared them from the foulness that was to follow. No, the disruption was much more disturbing than a murder, for never before had a guest desecrated the Malfoy dinner-table with such foul language.

"Oh bloody buggering damn and hell," Severus burst out, "you're going to blame that son of a bitch on me, aren't you?"

This kind of language was unprecedented at the dinner table. Morgana Malfoy, upon feeding her gathered in-laws a potent cyanide soup, was recorded to have pronounced a few wise, lady-like words on the disadvantages of thorough self-immunisation before violently stabbing the last, best-prepared survivor in the heart with a hexed butter knife. Even the ill-mannered Cyrenaeus Black, when invited to supper at wand-point by his worst enemy, had limited himself to a few expressive grunts when presented with the severed head of his first-born on a platter amidst a mouth-watering array of roasted vegetables, thus conveying his lack of appetite without unnecessary profanity.

Narcissa blanched, and it took all her might not to react more strongly. But Lucius placed his own carefully manicured hand on hers, as if infusing her with his own strength, and she found unsuspected courage in this simple gesture.

Minister Shacklebolt recovered mastery of the situation with his usual gusto.

"Potter," he announced loudly enough to be heard by all, "you and I were present at the moment of the crime. We can't be in charge of the investigation. Call in your second-in-command right now."

Harry nodded curtly and headed to the nearest Floo.

"The rest of us cannot remain here – this is a crime scene. I would hate to lay even more responsibility at the feet of our dear hostess, but perhaps you could arrange it for us to finish the meal elsewhere…?"

Narcissa had a millisecond of hesitation. Some women are born ready for all situations; some grow ready for all situations; she, on the other hand, had just had a most inconvenient situation thrust upon her, and she'd be damned if she dealt with it in anything less than a graceful manner.

"I am sure my Elves have already started to attend to it," she replied, and within a few minutes she was entering the south ballroom at the Minister's arm, followed by the rest of the guests, save for Severus, the prime suspect, and Harry, the sole Auror of the party, to meet with the slightly delayed fish course that had been hastily laid out on improvised tables.

Such are Destiny's unfathomable paradoxes that, at the very moment when the Head of Goblin-Wizard relations drew his last breath before flying away to meet the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster, Hermione should have been in the middle of one of her most vivid sex-dreams. Coincidence! Say the infidels, but the learned reader will know better and recognise in such fortuitous circumstances the unmistakable imprint of His Mighty Noodleness, blessed be His Meatballs.

As it were, dream-Hermione was then floating in the middle of a gigantic bathtub in the company of several tanned replicas of the Grecian Adonis, only with more muscles on them, and a distinct turgidity in the cock department, of the kind that is so often sadly lacking in statues of the same. She sighed as they drew languidly closer to her, caressing her naked skin with the taut expanse of their firm bodies. It had to be a dream, she realised as the bathtub vanished, suddenly replaced by an equally gigantic bed – she hadn't felt the familiar tug of Apparation, and yet there she was, still surrounded by her harem…

Somewhere in the back of Hermione's mind (for a neat and well-organised mind it was) the realisation that all this was not for real made its way upwards, but the equally logical part of her crushed it right back down. Its not being real she thought, with the kind of lopsided reasoning that belongs to the twilight regions between sleep and wakefulness, its not being real shouldn't prevent her from enjoying it. And so she forcefully pushed her dream self against the nearest dream creature of heaven, licking the side of his shoulder as he pushed his pelvis hard against hers, grinding slightly. She felt herself throbbing with need, with the kind of dripping desire that calls for something, anything, to be brought to her crotch and pressed hard against her clitoris… her dream self angled her hips against her partner, opening her legs, eager for more contact, when another one of the dream personas materialised against her back, caressing her hips from behind, inching his hands under her breasts, and then upwards, to her nipples…

She was torn between the need to push forward, onto the first one's cock, and the equally overwhelming desire to press her bottom backwards, against the firm body of the second dream prompt. She was aching, breathing hard, and unaware of anything but the strong pulsating demands of her loins. Somewhere, far, far away, rational Hermione reared her head to explain that she wouldn't be able to come, not in the dream, she needed to wake up for that, but waking up would interrupt the fantasy, and right now she couldn't possibly think of anything but rocking to and fro, from cock to cock, mounting steadily towards the final climax she wanted so badly… Wake up, rational Hermione went on, wake up, wake up…

"WAKE UP, HERMIONE! Merlin, did you take some dreamless sleep or what, HERMIONE! WAKE UP!"

Hermione sat up with a start. Was that Harry's voice? She kicked the heavy coverlet away and something fell onto the floor with a dull thud. Hogwarts, a History? What that what she'd been humping during her dream?

"Hermione, are you awake?"

Well, there were worse lovers, she decided, hurrying to the fireplace, her mind still half-wrapped in her dream.

"Ah, here you are," Harry went on. "You're to come right now to Malfoy Manor – there's been a murder – I'm a witness so I can't investigate myself. The Minister says you're to hurry!"

"Ah," Hermione answered without much enthusiasm as his head disappeared from the grate. Translated from bureaucracy-speech, 'the Minister wants you to hurry' meant 'there is no time for a wank, not even a quick one' and this was not the kind of order a witch in her present state of arousal would take kindly.

But duty was duty and she never had been one to shirk it. One flick of her wand to spell on her Auror's uniform, a pinch of Floo powder, and off she was.

One single look around the huge dining-room was all she needed to see.

"Poison?"

Harry nodded in confirmation.

"And Professor – no, that would be Mister Snape, was sitting right in front of the victim?"

The prime suspect pursed his lips.

"Well, then, I suppose I don't have a choice. Mister Snape, you have a right to remain silent, though I do need to specify that telling us everything really is in your best interest at this point, everything you tell us can and will be tested afterwards with the help of Veritaserum and, well, that's it I suppose. Please present your wrists – don't worry, the handcuffing charm will wear off on its own once you're in your cell… Do you have his wand, Harry?"

She walked right to Severus, eager to get all this done. The sooner she was through, the earlier she would be able to go back to her bed and to her trusted vibrating charms, after all. He sat sullenly on the very same spot, as if he were hesitating between fighting them and the circumstances with the last of his strength and just giving up. Fight, she wanted to tell him, you and I can have a bit of sport yet… her still aroused brain conjured up an image of him tied up, half-naked, submitting to a lengthy interrogation but still standing, tall and proud, refusing to concede anything to her… she shivered, half surprised by her own subconscious, her body entranced by the mere suggestion.

He jerked backwards with surprising violence, as if to evade her grasp, and she realised that he'd been inside her mind. Fuck! That was the stuff sexual harassment suits were made of! Would the Wizengamot accept Pensieve evidence…

Severus' eyes were still deep into her own, and it dawned on her that he was still spying inside her mind. It should have been disturbing, verging on the repulsive, to be scrutinised in that way, but such was her state of sexual excitement that she felt nothing but lust, knowing that he was, in a way, inside her, mingling his thoughts deep into her own. She tried to forget the aching, wet, throbbing feeling from her nether regions and concentrated on the task at hand. Sexual harassment. Threats. Abuse of power. Well, Severus, she thought loudly, the Wizengamot might listen to all that, coming from anyone else, but you're not anyone, are you? You're a war criminal who got out of a prison sentence on the strength of your connexions alone. I am a war hero. I helped save the world from the likes of you. And that means you don't have an ounce of power against me….

On that thought, she started Occluding, pushing him out until she felt a physical barrier between her own mind and her surroundings, a border that left him out, shivering in cold sweat, alone and forsaken on his chair.

She took a deep breath. She couldn't allow this incident to happen again. From now on, cool, aloof and professional were the words she'd stick to as far as this investigation was concerned. Never mind the effect this suspect was having on her.

"Your wrists, Mister Snape," she said.

Wordlessly, his shoulders drooping slightly in a gesture that said more about his dejected state of mind than any conscious verbal signal ever could, he complied, and she bound him efficiently.

Unaware of the unspoken exchange, Harry handed her the prisoner's wand.

"You don't mind taking care of this, do you? Ginny's with the rest of the guests, I'd like to go back to her…"

"I have things well in hand, thank you."

Without touching Severus, she gestured for him to stand up and Floo to the Ministry with her. A lesser ranking Auror then escorted him to a holding cell and she rushed off to her office. A few discreet inquiries, and she dispatched a flurry of equally insignificant underlings on a variety of errands. Finally, satisfied that she had done everything she could for the night, and secure in the knowledge that she'd be back at work far before the Minister's and Harry's respective hangovers had cleared on the next morning, she headed for home.

Back in her comfortable bed, scented candle duly lighted and illustrated Kama-Sutra on the bed stand for emergency flashes of inspiration, she tried to reconnect with her earlier fantasy. There had been one tanned Mediterranean man kissing her, she recalled, and another behind her…

It was no good. The mood for that peculiar scenario had passed and, try as she might, she couldn't conjure it back.

She let her mind drift back to her new case, one hand still on her mount. Oddly enough, as crimes were not really her wanking material of choice, she found the idea – or rather, the suspect – rather evocative. I shouldn't be doing this, was her last thought before she abandoned logical reasoning for the day. And yet she didn't stop: the fantasy man she imagined herself with that night as she frigged herself off was none else than her former professor, the very one that she'd locked up earlier on a murder charge.

Back at the Ministry, Severus was pacing his exceedingly small cell in the vain hope of outrunning the stench of piss that infected the whole place.

He'd been there before – twice – but he'd somehow forgotten the foul smell of the place.

Of course, he'd been fearing for his life those two times. That put details like the décor back in perspective.

Should he be fearing for his life now?

Well, this time he actually was innocent. If he'd placed any trust in justice, he'd rely on it to make the Truth come out. But he'd been arrested in a rather cavalier fashion, and he had no doubt that the trial would prove to be equally expedite, ending with… what? His execution? That wasn't likely. Nor was a lifetime term in Azkaban, they'd never come up with sufficient proof for that. Hell, they hadn't even condemned Bellatrix to a life sentence after the first war, and she had attempted murder the old-fashioned, Muggle, boxing ring way on the Chief Warlock on the first day of her trial.

No, he was looking at a medium term. Twenty to, well, fifty years, considering how public opinion still was against him. He might live to breathe free once again someday.

Fucking shit, who was he kidding. The prospect of coming out of prison as an old, old man was no preferable to a swift Dementor's Kiss. No, he had no more choice in the matter than he'd had on the two previous occasions. He had to appeal to Someone's sense of duty to protect his own miserable arse.

Dumbledore had done that the first time. Potter – Potter, of all people – had stepped in the second time. Now he was one knight in a shining armour short.

Or was he? The Granger woman was responsible for the investigation. If only he could convince her of his innocence…

He shivered as he remembered their earlier encounter. She'd been halfway decent to him, and his only response had been to enter her thoughts without permission. What had he been thinking? This was the one witch he needed at his side if he wanted his freedom, and he'd violated her mind at the very beginning?

Never mind what he'd seen there, disturbing as it was, never mind that she'd swiftly and effortlessly put him back in his place. The trust she might've had for him prior to the episode, the professional detachment she must've felt for him, all of it had to be gone now. Now she'd have nothing but contempt for him, and he knew he deserved every bit of it. She'd have him tried and condemned on the circumstantial evidence and her own intimate conviction of his evilness – and he was the only one to blame for it.

It wasn't the stench of piss that kept him awake that night, curled up on the holding cell's narrow bench. It was the hard, cold knowledge that he'd fucked everything up once again.

A refreshed, relaxed Hermione came in to work the following morning. She pored over the minions' reports over her morning coffee. They'd searched Snape's house and lab; there was nothing out of the ordinary in the house, but the potions supplies room had obviously been wrecked recently by a few ill-applied Accios, and the arsenic compounds – which, Hermione knew that much, should have been a standard part of the lab's equipment – were all missing.

Well, well, well. It looked like she needed to interview the prisoner in private. The interrogation cells were out – too many passers-by – as was her own office, for that matter. Only one solution, then…

She went to the coffee machine, waited for two fresh cups to dance into appearance, and headed for the holding cells.

Snape looked like shit warmed over. As a matter of fact, the whole place reeked of unpleasant bodily excretions.

"Great Flying Spaghetti Monster," she said, handing him one of the cups, "is something wrong with the toilet?"

He looked rather surprised. "Yes, the drain seems to be blocked-"

"Wouldn't surprise me, the Ministry always seems to lack the funds for this or that, it figures that the cells should be down on the priority list. I'm sorry that you should have to endure that, I'll see about getting it fixed – or I might be able to arrange your transfer somewhere else, I don't think there are many suspects here right now…"

There was an awkward silence as she tried to balance her own coffee in one hand and conjure a chair in the other while Snape attempted to help her whilst conspicuously avoiding her eyes. Then they both took a sip of the brew as a means to delay further interaction.

"Look here-" she started.

"I'm sorry-" he interrupted at the very same time.

"Let me begin," she said. "About last night…"

"I'm so sorry about that," he cut again. "There is something you need to know, Miss – Auror Granger: no matter what I did to you, I am innocent of that murder, I swear to you-"

"Oh, I know that. I've known it since I arrived at the Manor," she said.

He looked up, astonished. "How…?"

"Well, arsenic? I mean, arsenic? When there are so many other poisons available, some of them almost undetectable, some of them that need hours to take effect, thus leaving you free to get yourself an alibi? No, arsenic is an unsubtle way to go around things. Even a Muggle would have found something better – some prescription drug, maybe. Arsenic is something a wizard or witch whose only contact to Muggleness would have been old detective stories would have used, and your own experience with the Muggle world is a lot more extensive."

Severus was impressed. He'd had a whole night to try to think of ways to exonerate himself, and that hadn't even occurred to him, while she'd only needed a few seconds to figure it all out. He must've been blinded by his feelings of self-pity…

"Unless…" she went on. "Unless you are one step ahead of me. A rare poison, a lesser-known one, or even a straightforwardly modern Muggle substance, could have been traced back to you in some way or other. Whereas you're such an obvious suspect here that you must have known I'd doubt your guilt. You're a Slytherin, you're used to twisted thinking…"

That made a rather convincing case, he realised. If he'd indeed planned to kill that pompous arse, he probably wouldn't have done it much differently. "I swear to you," he said in a strangled voice, "I had nothing to do with this, nothing at all, I can repeat this under Veritaserum…"

"I wouldn't trust your word under Veritaserum any more than I trust it now. You probably have several years' worth of antidote running in your veins," she answered, her voice devoid of the bite it could have had. "The point is, whether you are guilty or not is irrelevant to what I should do next, which is, to find more about this murder. Either way – whether you committed this crime or not – it is your best interest to cooperate with me."

"I will," he said almost at once. "Anything I can do-"

"My instinct tells my that you're innocent. With this much evidence against you, the only reasonable conclusion is that someone is trying to frame you. I need a list of who you've antagonised recently, and perhaps not so recently, with emphasis on those who have the means to get back to you in this rather unfortunate fashion. Also, if there is anything you know that you think might help the inquiry…"

He tried to think, but came up with nothing. "If something occurs to me, I'll be sure you let you know."

"Good. I'll leave you to your introspection – and I'll arrange for more sanitary conditions in the meanwhile."

Mathilda Jeanne Marchfields, née Forthingay-Phipps, of the Shropshire Forthingay-Phipps, was one of the wizarding world's most prominent public figures. "The exceptionally beautiful face of wizarding conservatism", as the Prophet had dubbed her, had a perfect family, consisting of a photogenic husband and three poster-children for "today's world", i.e., of the post-Voldemort era. This included their squib infant son, whom she and her husband had pledged to raise "as a Muggle, but in accordance with the wizarding world's values".

After the war, when the wizarding world had been struggling to find itself a new moral compass that would include both the Muggleborns and the finer traditions of the century-old wizarding ways, Mathilda Marchfields' sympathetic face, cunning political sense, flawless Pureblooded heritage and enlightened conservative views had acted like a powerful panacea. Within two years, she rose from a minor administrative role to Senior political advisor, to Vice-Minister of Magic, second in command to Shacklebolt himself. The laudatory Prophet articles never failed to underline how she never let her career interfere with her devotion to her husband and children; how her perfect manners never failed, be it with wizard, Goblin or troll; and everywhere, radiant pictures of her smiling and waving confirmed to the all and sundry that the wizarding world did have a paragon at its head.

What the Prophet did not know was that Madam Marchfields, née Forthingay-Phipps, was exceedingly unhappy with her inadequate lover of a husband and insufficient near-Muggle infant son. Public service and Prophet articles did help maintain the happy, serene exterior, but she couldn't do it all without some additional stimulation, and that she found at the Farrington Inn, London's most exclusive (and most discreet) male brothel. She would go there every once in a while, under a heavy cloaking spell, and demand the largest cock of the establishment. She paid in unmarked Galleons and tipped generously: if anyone there suspected her real identity, no one breathed a word of it to the outside world.

On that peculiar day, the largest available cock of the establishment happened to be one of Mathilda's favourite boy-toys, a tall, athletic wizard of Italian extraction.

"Fuck me long and hard," she said, flopping herself backwards on the bed. What a nice change it was not to have to do all the work, for once, she thought as she closed her eyes and prepared to think of anything but the fate of wizarding England.

Little did she know that this was to be her last conscious thought.

Gianni, proud owner of the sizeable penis many witches and not a few wizards paid good gold to feel up close, knew when to seduce a client and when to get going without unnecessary foreplay. With the expert eye of a seasoned professional, he recognised this to be one of he latter situations, and thus proceeded to sheath his cock in the extra-large condom he'd discreetly removed from its envelope, and got down to business. The client started moaning in a fashion he felt should bode well for the size of the post-shag tip, her voice quickly ratcheting up in a gratifying crescendo. Feeling rather pleased with himself and the world, Gianni accelerated his pelvic motions until the client started screaming in earnest. She suddenly fell limp in his arms, and Gianni allowed himself to come inside her cunt – there was only so much Erectus potion a bloke could gulp down without feeling the call of nature – in a few last, deep strokes.

Only then, when the client failed to regain consciousness, did he realise that he had been fucking a dead body.

It was a good thing the Farrington Inn's walls were all soundproof. His roar of revulsion might have scared several prized customers away from the establishment.

"This a catastrophe," a distraught Kingsley told the two Aurors in front of him, "an unmitigated catastrophe. I can't possibly get re-elected without her. She brought in all the conservative votes – now the Purebloods won't want to touch me with a stick, and I can't even appeal to them without losing the Muggleborn electorate!"

"Minister," Harry intervened, "surely there are more pressing concerns…"

Kingsley gave him a blank stare.

"This is the second assassination of a public persona," Hermione added.

"We don't think it will be the last," Harry went on.

"And you are the most prominent of all public personas," Hermione finished.

The Minister for Magic blanched.

"I have already doubled your personal guard," Harry said. "but you'd better be careful about where you choose to go for the time being…"

"But I… but… the two murders aren't related! Snape killed the Head of Goblin-Wizard relations, and he's behind bars right now – he can't have murdered Marchfields too!"

"Ah," Hermione intervened, "we don't really know that. The victim died of arsenic poisoning, just like the Head of Goblin-Wizard relations; since the preparation was similar, we have strong cause to think both crimes were perpetrated by the same person, or persons. Now the arsenic was administered by way of being spread on a condom; as the Farrington Inn is a large establishment, they buy their supplies in large quantities, and they transit via a great number of people – witches, wizards, Elves, Goblins, and even the odd troll is involved in the shipment. Add to this the fact that the condom may have been prepared well in advance and then handed to an accomplice… We're still investigating, but the odds that we should find the person responsible for bringing the right condom to the right person at the right moment are slim – let alone the chances of finding the person who actually planned all this."

"The, erm, gentleman who was sharing the Vice Minister's company at the moment of her untimely demise has been exonerated," Harry wend on. "His own, er, certain parts of his anatomy also suffered from side-effects commonly associated to arsenic poisoning. While his general health is intact, he will not be able to pursue a career in the same line of work. That alone might've sufficed to establish his innocence, but we have carried out an official interrogation, under Veritaserum. He had no part in the assassination, none that he was aware of, anyway, and did not notice anything was amiss until it was far too late."

"Fuck," said the Minister, whose reputation for concision was well-deserved.

"Of course, Snape could have planned this before we arrested him, and delegated the implementation to someone else," Hermione added. "It could be a clever diversionary tactic to make us believe someone else's responsible for the two murders – something along the lines of, it was the very same, very unusual poison, he was behind bars for the second, so he couldn't have done it, so he didn't do the first one either. On the other hand, someone else could have done it, and taken pains to make the second murder look like it had been planned in advance and carried out by minions while the mastermind was away just to frame Snape."

Kingsley's brows furrowed, and even Harry, who'd had the benefit of these complex conclusions in advance, looked a little confused.

"This is preposterous," the Minister answered. "Who would want to frame Snape?"

"Lots of people, actually. I had him list his known enemies for me, and it is quite a long enumeration – alienated former NEWT students who felt his preparation was inadequate to prepare them for the exam; alienated OWL students who felt they should have made it to his NEWT class; alienated former students who resented their having had to stay in his class until the OWLs; oh, and of course, the former Death Eaters he betrayed, their friends, families and sympathisers, and then everyone that suffered by the hand of a Death Eater, who feels that he should have betrayed them more efficiently or earlier and thus spared them or their loved ones. When you tally it up, you have about 90% of the wizarding world. And then we can't dismiss the other 10% that easily – he's known for his Potions expertise, for his Muggle origins and for the fact that everybody hates him. He's the ideal scapegoat: a prospective murderer would have been certain that the Ministry – that we – wouldn't be too keen on proving him innocent."

"If he's that hated, why was he invited at that blasted party in the first place?"

"He says – and so far, the Malfoys' testimonies confirm it – that Lucius feels obligated to him for having helped his family while he was in prison. He's the one that insisted on inviting him – Narcissa thought he wouldn't blend it that well with the other guests."

"Can't blame her," Harry muttered. "One of them didn't survive the social faux pas, after all!"

Hermione cast him one of her darker 'shut it now or you'll regret it later' looks, and they both turned expectantly to the Minister.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was an excellent leader. He had a political flair for detecting the whims and fancy of the electorate, and enough charm, wit and social savvy to cater to them without losing his soul in the process. But his main quality, the one thing that had made him what he was today, was an unerring ability to discern the strengths and weaknesses of others. The weaknesses, he passed over, in the benevolent manner of a person whose own natural superiority immunes them to the fallibility of the others, who can indeed go as far as to protect them from themselves and from others, in a magnanimous, big brotherly fashion. The strengths, he ruthlessly exploited. He called it delegating: it was effortless, efficient and had a knack of making his subordinates feel important and devoted to his person.

"I can't live under Auror guard forever," he answered. "What measures will you be taking to find out whether Snape did it or not, and if not, to find out who the real culprit is?"

Hermione hardly let him finish his sentence. "As a matter of fact, I did come up with a cunning plan…"

Kingsley's smile grew larger and larger as she exposed the details, and he mentally patted himself on the shoulder. This had not only been splendid delegating: circumstances were also proving that he had chosen the right woman for this job. Too many incompetent Ministers had surrounded themselves with fools; he was clearly one cut above them, and meant to remain in office for a long, long time. He'd suffer from Marchfields' absence, but it wouldn't finish him.

"You go right ahead," he said at the end of Hermione's presentation. "You have my full backing."

Snape was sitting at his small desk, cradling one of the books Hermione had brought him in his hands. He'd started calling her Hermione in his mind. After all, the witch was the only visitor he'd had since the beginning, and, what's more, she kept being nice to him. She'd had him transferred to a less appalling place of residence, one with a working toilet, functional bed and brighter light. She visited him everyday, officially to check on his progress with the "who hates Severus most" list of doom, but she never failed to enquire after his general state of health and well-being. What's more – and this, as far as Severus was concerned, was the real clincher – she actually listened. When he told her he was bored, she brought him books. Non fiction mostly, which she preferred, but she added the odd piece of Muggle literature every now and then. "You'll enjoy the irony in this one…" she'd say, or "I'm sure the hero will remind you of someone…"

In her company, he was the very picture of a well-bred wizard of the world. He said thank you Auror Granger, he stood up whenever she entered or departed, and he always kept on a blank, polite demeanour.

Inside, however, he was a wild sea of unbridled emotion. See, she could be seeking his company strictly for professional reasons. Her smiles might be sheer politeness. Even that semi-formed thought he'd discovered in her mind that first day could have been a mistake, a misunderstanding on his part, or an error of judgement on hers. But her bringing him books, now that was another matter. It was unwarranted by anything in their formal, official relationship to each other. It couldn't possibly be interpreted as anything else than her having a certain fondness for him. And people in general, or witches in particular, very seldom were fond of him. The feeling was new to him, and he cherished and treasured it all the more because it was one of the very few good things that had happened to him in the recent past.

He caressed the book's spine. It was a pocket book, he had to be careful not to break it in two while reading. Not that he currently was doing any reading. He was thinking of Hermione again – she was constantly at the centre of his thoughts, these days. He didn't know what had come first, his being interested in her or her showing signs of concern for him. Of course, it could be a chicken and egg question – her attentions made him hyper-aware of her presence, of the intonation of her voice, of the soft round contours of her body one could imagine behind the strict law enforcement uniform. And his being so sensitive to her presence at his side in this hour of need might have awakened some mothering instinct in her. Witches were sometimes like that, in his limited experience.

But overanalysing the situation was beside the point. The fact remained that he should be very concerned about his life and liberty, and all he could think of was his growing lust for his de facto gaoler.

He hadn't yet masturbated with the image of her before his closed eyes. Wanking didn't come easily to him – it was all about the atmosphere, and the privacy, both of which were sadly lacking in the tight confines of his holding cell. And, even if he'd had the opportunity, he was strangely reluctant to involve Hermione – the idea he had of Hermione – in his own sordid little gratification. He had no compunction about using other witches, or moving, smiling pictures of other naked witches, to satisfy his imagination, but Hermione had another dimension, one he was reluctant to tarnish with the sticky implications of self-gratification. The Hermione of his imagination was all soft, round, very sexualised flesh, but he couldn't quite bring himself to separate her from the other Hermione, the real one, who smiled at him and touched his elbow in concern when she asked how well he was bearing up. That Hermione was a whole other human being, who had rather heterodox views on the use of Ashwinder powder in arsenic-based potions, who twisted a curly strand of hair, frowning, when given a list of two thousand, six hundred and forty-three potential Severus-haters that included her own name and those of her two closest friends, and who ultimately held his fate in her hands.

What it came down to was that he didn't want to conjure up a dream Hermione to coax his cock to orgasm in the narrow confines of a wet fantasy. He wanted the real Hermione, to hold and to cherish, to defend him before the rest of the world, to smile at him and laugh with him for all eternity and beyond. That he couldn't have; he was not fool enough to even hope for it. But, un-Slytherin of him as it was, he didn't want the crumbs if he couldn't have the bread. He'd rather die of hunger – and the sooner, the better.

Perhaps it would be best if she handed him right over to the Wizengamot with a slew of evidence for the prosecution. That way the betrayal would be quick, and the pain, sharp enough to kill his feelings. It had been that way with Lily, and in his heart of hearts he knew it was the best he could hope for with Hermione.

He slowly closed the book, running his fingers on the cover.

If he was lucky, they'd allow him to keep it in Azkaban.

The very object of his thoughts interrupted his dark meanderings as she entered without knocking.

"Severus," she said outright, "I have a proposal for you. It is highly unorthodox, but I do have the Minister's approval. Now if you could just hear me through – with your agreement on this, I may have found a way to solve this case."

She always had his undivided attention, and this time was no exception.

"There are two possibilities: either you did it or you didn't. If you did, we can't release you out of custody, public safety is at stake. If you didn't, then someone else is framing you, and we won't learn anything more about the someone else if they stop trying. Incidentally, the best way to have them keep trying is to make them believe that you're free, and thus devoid of a steadfast alibi for their next attempt, which, I hasten to add, we'll be doing our best to thwart anyway. So I thought this up. We'll say you've been released – Harry can issue a press statement to that means – and you'll need to leave the Ministry premises. But, and it's a big but, as I said before, we aren't prepared to let you go unsupervised. So we'll need you to agree to remaining in custody, in another, secret location."

"What location would that be?"

"I was thinking of my flat. With me as your personal guardian. Now don't get me wrong – you won't be getting your wand back, the apartment will be warded both ways – you won't be able to go out or communicate with the exterior, and the outside world won't be able to get to you either. I don't have any guarantee about how long that'll last either. It could be a day, it could be half a year… this is a high-profile case, about as high profile as it gets, we're prepared to go to great lengths to solve it, and if that involves keeping you locked up, well…"

She looked apologetic.

"Anyway, Severus, it's all up to you. Of course, agreeing to my plan has every chance of having us find the culprit so if you are indeed innocent, it would of course be in your best interests to cooperate fully…"

If Hermione had been able – and willing – to plunge into her prisoner's dark eyes and read his mind – if Severus had abandoned a lifetime's habit of Occluding – she'd have known that there was no great need to convince him. He was being given the chance to enter her living quarters, to share her company! His only issue was his reluctance to sound too eager. Desiring her put him in the weaker position, he was very much aware of that, and would rather rot in his putrid little Ministry cell than to share that information with her.

"I suppose I should better sign these papers, then," he conceded after having pretended to consider things over. "I wouldn't want to have you believe I'm guilty…"

From then on, it went quickly. Harry gave a short press conference to announce Snape's release from custody; everyone present at the Ministry Atrium could witness the suspect step into the Floo; and no one bar the Minister, his two top Aurors and the suspect himself were privy to the fact that he remained very much a prisoner, a Tracking Charm attached to his every move, and his wand securely held within the Minister's private vault.

Said suspect stepped out of Hermione's hearth and took in his new surroundings.

Everything was neat and orderly. Clean was not the word he would have chosen: a thin film of dust sheathed the lesser used bookcases, and, from the glimpse of kitchen he could catch, there was a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, under a strong Stasis spell. This was not obsessive-compulsiveness: it was the well-organised place of someone who knew Where Things Belonged, even if she showed few signs of familiarity with the less used household spells.

Were it not for the fact that it was airy, well-lit, and situated in a trendy urban area, this could have been Severus' own home.

His hostess stepped into the Floo a few seconds after himself.

"Oh, here you are! I trust you didn't meet any reporters on the way?"

Suddenly feeling a little intimidated – he was, after all, right in the lioness' lair – he shook his head. "They were all listening to Potter, I suppose."

"Ah, well, there will be no shortage of Ministry employees ready to testify to the press that you are indeed out of gaol." She wrinkled her nose almost imperceptibly. "Do you want me to show you the place? My bedroom's here… you'll be staying in the guest bedroom, over there… and, of course, here is the bathroom. Would you like some time to refresh yourself? You could shower, there are fresh towels here…"

Severus tried not to blush as he realised that he stank like a barrel of rotting fish. Being the Ministry's guest did that to you…

"I'll leave you to it, then, shall I?"

Severus showered with relish – twice, to make perfectly sure the grime was really gone – and stepped onto the plush shower mat, only to face one of the great dilemmas of existence.

His clothes smelled almost as bad as he'd had a few moments ago. He was wandless, and thus unable to cast the necessary emergency laundering spells himself. Appearing in front of Hermione in this state was, to put matters frankly, quite out of the question. He'd rather walk in the chock-full great hall of Hogwarts in drag: the students' good opinion didn't matter much to him, but Hermione's did.

On the other hand, he currently was as naked as one could possibly get. If he were to walk out like this, would she enjoy the show, he wondered? He stared as his own reflection in the tall bathroom mirror. Feet – average, he supposed. He'd never paid much attention to other people's feet, so he was in no position to judge whether they were actually similar to the median, idealised foot of an average wizard, but there was nothing immediately repulsive about them. Fairness compelled him to add to himself that they didn't look particularly enticing either. He couldn't count solely on them to seduce the witch of his dreams. Legs – skinny. A bit on the hairy side. Definitely not the legs of a sex god. Would Hermione consider shagging those legs?

He stopped himself mid-consideration and stared at his face. Who was he kidding? He was ugly. As ugly as a very ugly duckling. And he should give up thinking about having Hermione shag him. It was just too awkward, what with the witch in residence a few scant yards from him.

He picked up his discarded towel and wrapped it around his waist. There. Decency was satisfied – if Auror Granger didn't like what she saw, at least she wouldn't have any cause for outrage.

As things turned out, Auror Granger did like what she saw. Liked it a lot, in fact. So much so that she forgot she was heading for her own bedroom and stepped right into him.

There were halted breaths, and awkward stepping sideway, and awkward stepping sideway in the same direction, mirror-like, and before they knew it, the ground rose towards them at an alarming speed. They fell in an undignified heap right there, on the living room floor.

Providence, as the Flying Spaghetti Monster sometimes fancies calling Itself, acts in mysterious ways. Why it should grant some of Its subjects special favours, and disregard the other worshippers, is a mystery to most of us, if not all; most reputed theologians however agree that, instead of questioning the Whys, we common mortals should merely stand back and enjoy the wonders It brings us.

This day, at that peculiar instant, Providence chose to manifest Itself by reaching to Severus's towel. One of Its Mysterious Noodly Appendages undid the knot, another seized the makeshift garment and tore it away, stealing it to the remote lands where socks go to dwell once they've disappeared in the wash. Asking why is not relevant, little do we know about the workings of supernatural forces; all we need to concern ourselves with are the consequences it may have on our two heroes.

Now the more sceptical of my readers will doubt this miracle, and insinuate that, since the two protagonists had strong feelings of desire for each other, manifesting themselves, in Hermione's case, by a wish to see Severus naked and, in Severus' case, by an equally strong wish to have Hermione admire his nakedness, it is not outside the realm of possibility that both their wandless magics should have kicked in and acted as a powerful vanishing charm on the towel. I shall not lose precious paragraphs to expound on this obvious heresy, and shall instead point back to a part of Severus' anatomy that was beginning to point upwards, for a nice, tantalising spectacle that was.

Hermione shared this peculiar opinion. She was lying on top of him, one hand on his chest and the other on his hips, quite close to the centre of her attention, but still not quite close enough for a casual feel, or so Severus felt.

He thus took her hand, if not in matrimony, at least in the kind of unholy fondling that usually follows the aforementioned ceremony. His nether regions were just rising fully unto the tender attentions of this wandering hand when Hermione retreated suddenly.

"I can't – it would be an abuse of power-"

"Abusing your power on me," Severus replied in a low, husky tone whose sexiness surprised all the involved, not least himself, "abusing your power on me would be leaving me here like this right now…"

And he seized Hermione's hand and brought it right back where he thought in belonged, so as to offer tactile confirmation of his assertions.

Hermione was a strong witch by all possible reckonings. She had faced dark witches and wizards, and came out victorious. She had even been known to cohabit with chocolate biscuits for hours at a time without giving it to temptation. And yet this one wizard, she came to discover, was her one major weakness.

With a silent mental note to take all the necessary precautions to prevent this momentary lapse in professional ethics from coming to the attention of her hierarchical superiors, she straddled the object of her desires, voicing loudly and clearly her intention of riding him like a pony.

Severus gurgled. It was one thing to seduce wandering hands into caressing certain parts of his anatomy. (And a nice thing that was too.) But to have one's fantasies fulfilled before he'd had a chance to wank to them in the privacy of his quarters, now that was a whole new experience. And a rather overwhelming one. He couldn't take it – her sudden willingness, her thighs around his naked body, and her voice! Her voice – bringing promises of pleasure like he had never known before…

To his great humiliation, he came violently before her wet curls even touched the tip of his erect cock.

"Ooops," she said as he tried to scramble out from under her, blushing more furiously than he ever had, anxious to escape to somewhere private. Preferably a desert island. "Wait, where do you think you're going?"

He turned his face away from her. He couldn't, he just couldn't –

"Don't even think of going anywhere before I've come," Hermione ordered with grim determination. "If I'm going to abuse my power I may at least do it properly." And she seized a handful of his hair and guided him none too gently to the part of her that had been so abruptly deprived of its undeserved ride. Too dazed to argue, Severus obeyed, and soon found himself facing the most perfect set of gently rounded, soft, red lips ever to grace his line of vision.

"Now lick me," Hermione went on, her hand still holding his hair. "Gently at first – there – and go all the way up, that's it, don't stop, do that again, more forcefully now, not too hard! And again- yes, you can use your hands too, no, one finger at a time-"

Lesser men, when placed in the same situation, tended to whinge. Ron had complained at length – he couldn't concentrate with the noise, and it wasn't a Quidditch match, was it, so why should there be a running commentary on his technique?

But Severus was no lesser man. He was a Slytherin through and through, and couldn't pass on an opportunity to take advantage. This, he realised with no little trepidation, was like taking the Potions Mastery examination whilst armed with the examiner's notes. He took heed of her instructions, and applied his consequent manual and lingual abilities at best he could, until the instructions gave place to moans of pleasure, invocations of minor deities, and, he noted with no little pride, concluded on a charming crescendo involving his own given name and enthusiastic, if slightly incoherent, encouragements to keep going, just harder!

He was so absorbed by the task at hand – and at tongue – that he only noticed the burning feeling on his scalp when she let go of the responsible strand of hair. He rubbed his head, eyes fixed on a now very contented Hermione. It had been worth it, he concluded, hereby noting – with some surprise – that his nether regions had taken renewed interest in the proceedings.

"That was good," Hermione said. "Come lie with me…"

He lowered himself at her side, sliding into her arms as if he belonged there.

She noticed his erection and shifted sideways, swinging one of her legs over his.

"You up to another round?"

"I am if you are," Severus mumbled.

He pushed forward, in her direction, and their embrace tightened as they joined. Like a ship to port, he thought, this time he was home. They rocked together, without haste, as they completed that second journey together, secured in the knowledge that they would reach the same goal.

They came within seconds of each others, with muffled moans and muted groans of satisfaction.

Hermione shifted her body, close to his, and nested her head squarely on his chest, an arm flung over his hip in an oddly territorial gesture, and started snoring before he even had time to wish her good night.

He craned his neck to see her face and watched her, still entranced, as a tiny blob of spittle gathered at the corner of her mouth.

He gathered her tighter in his arms. She was perfect. All round curves and perfect skin, only marred with a minor curse scar on the forearm she's left on his flank. Probably a duelling wound. Had it occurred during Auror training? Or during a real-life crisis? Either way, he was glad he wasn't the unfortunate caster of that hex. There must've been hell to pay… He traced the length of the scar with his forefinger, from the dip of her thumb, where the wrist started, to the soft inside of her arm, right up to the elbow, and then trailed back again, laying his hand over hers.

That Hermione - his Hermione, he added to himself, his for the night at least, that his Hermione should have been caught unawares, brought him a perverse kind of pleasure. This scar of hers was the chink in the armour, the tiny crack in the otherwise flawless china teacup, that made the whole unique and beyond perfection.

He breathed in the shampoo-y smell of her hair and rested his head back on the pillow.

So was this moment. It had been perfect, wonderful, glorious sex. He had made her come – twice! – he noted smugly. And now he had an equally perfect, untarnished, private opportunity to take it all in and imprint it on all the available layers of his psyche for future reference and enjoyment, via a Pensieve no doubt.

The catch was that it would all be over in the morning.

He wanted to stay awake all through the night, to listen to her respiration, to her heartbeart, to feel the sweet pressure of her twin breasts on his skin, the tickly prickle of her hair on his shoulders. Sleep, treacherous sleep, took him by surprise, and yet, for once, there was no difference between his dreams and reality.

They both woke up at the same time, late the following morning, to Harry barging out of the Floo and right into Hermione's bedroom, carrying a child.

"What the hell- Hermione! What's Snape doing there!"

The object of the imprecations started and, upon realising that he'd fallen asleep in the same garb Mother Nature had presented him with at birth, launched a frantic search for a pillow to place over the strategic area.

"What are you doing here, may I ask?" replied a very grumpy Hermione.

"I don't have time – and neither have you! Ginny's been poisoned, at Fortescue's. I need you there to investigate, I need to go back to her at St Mungo's, and I wanted to ask, can Teddy stay here?"

The child started wriggling, and young Theodore Henry Lupin was brought back onto the ground.

"I, er, is Ginny all right?"

She didn't need an answer. Harry's distorted features were all she needed to know. "Go back to her, we'll take care of everything."

He quickly patted the child on the head and hastened back to the Floo. Hermione had reached for her wand and, before either of the two witnesses had time to realise she had been stark naked a few short minutes ago, she was fully dressed in her mighty Auror regalia.

"I need to go while the crime scene is still fresh, Severus, do you mind watching Teddy?"

It wasn't like he had much of a choice, Severus thought with more that a hint of sourness as he nodded mutely. No, he had to cut short a splendid opportunity for a morning shag to play babysitters while she went and caught the murderer, and then her brilliant plan would have worked, and he'd be kicked out of her flat without further ceremony. He could see it all happening right there and then.

"See you later, then!"

She had an odd gesture – she brought two fingers to her lips as if to kiss them and waved them in his general direction with a wink. He didn't know how to respond, so he merely clutched his pillow with both hands.

And then she was gone.

And he was alone with a pair of huge, curious eyes belonging to the son of that hated werewolf.

"Why don't you have any pyjamas?" the child asked in the persistent, nagging voices children had before they learned how easily that could get you two hours' worth of detention under Mr. Filch's supervision.

"I forgot them at home," he answered curtly.

"But Hermione didn't have any either," the child went on, "and she lives here, Uncle Harry said so!"

"Look, why don't you go to the living-room for a while? Don't break anything, don't touch anything, don't look too hard at anything, and I'll be right there."

Severus noted with pride that he hadn't quite lost his touch: the child obeyed with even wider eyes and just a hint of the abject terror he was best known for in educational circles.

That left him with a few minutes to search for suitable attire. His clothes were just as smelly as they'd been the day before, and so, he realised with no little amount of trepidation, he had a perfectly valid excuse to go about rummaging in Hermione's closet. He started, methodically, with the chest of drawers. The very first try turned out to be the jackpot: she had a drawer full of underthings. He caressed the little bit of red lace held by elastic bands that looked like it might serve as a pair of knickers, if one decided to go for the minimalist style, and ran both his hands all over the matching bra. Now, that one did look like what a bra ought to look like. One could almost feel the breasts inside the cups when one held it just so… He tried to picture what Hermione would look like in these, and succeeded only too easily, which reminded him that he was not likely to ever see her modelling her underthings for his sake. That in turn robbed him of most of his interest for the drawer, and he closed it with the heart pinch one feels when a world of fascinating possibilities is wrenched away from one's reach.

The second drawer contained an array of neatly folded blouses. He selected what looked like a stretchy one and passed in on. It was a little tight around the shoulders, flapped down around the chest since he lacked the necessary appendages, and the sleeves weren't much longer than the elbow, but it was decent. The last drawer was for nightclothes, apparently, and he found a loose pair of trousers. They were too short and exposed a good expanse of hairy calves, but it was still preferable to the dress robes he'd worn at that ill-fated reception and then through prison.

If he had had a wand, and had these clothes belonged to anyone else, he'd have had no compunction about transfiguring them into something more appropriate. As it was… all he could think of was how she had worn these same bits of fabric, how they had touched her skin before being wrapped around his own. He wouldn't have changed a thing about them even if he'd had the possibility to do so.

He marched into the room. His young charge had apparently disregarded his orders – not that he ought to be surprised, his long years as a professor had taught him to see the lack of discipline as a rampaging plague of the kind that proves nigh-impossible to eradicate – and was currently perched on top of a chair, in front of the sink, trying to pour himself a glass of water.

"What did I-"

Teddy started as he realised he'd been caught red-handed at doing something Forbidden. The glass slipped out of his grasp and shattered in the sink.

"I didn't mean to! I'm sorry! I…"

The child seemed to be hovering on the brink of tears, and Severus had to force himself not to smile. This reminded him so of the good old times…

He walked to the child and brought him back to the ground without a word. He was picking the shards of glass as carefully as possibly, to avoid further damage, when he noticed the child was indeed crying. Damn. Even first years showed more resistance than that. But then this one was significantly smaller than a first year. He did the math – the final battle had been a bit more than four years ago. He cursed himself. He'd been giving the silent treatment to a five-year-old. Not wonder it was getting hysterical – from his experience, children were not unlike plants in that they needed a lot of tender nurturing for a longish period of time before they were fit to be cut off, shredded, and turned into potions ingredients. Not that he'd ever turned a student into potions ingredients… he was dithering.

He took another glass, filled it with water, and handed it to the sobbing brat. "There, there," he said in an awkward attempt to comfort it, "why don't you drink. It's all right, Hermione will repair the first one when she gets home…"

"She… she can't repair the first one!" was his snivelling reply. "Grandma said it couldn't be repaired, that some of it was lost forever, and it was all my fault because I shouldn't have been snooping around, and that I was too clumsy for words anyway!"

Severus blinked. He must be imagining things… this was a far cry, but… acting on a hunch, he kneeled down in front of the child and put an hand on its shoulder. "I'm not angry, Teddy, don't worry. Could you just tell me what the first glass looked like?"

His young charge seemed to hover between hysterics and rational thought for a long moment, and then settled on compromise. He answered, but with abundant sniffles. "Not like this one."

"Can you tell me what the… stuff… inside looked like? This is important, Teddy, try to remember…"

"It didn't have a colour!" Sniffle. "I didn't see anything inside!" He wiped his nose on his sleeve, as if trying to regain control of his speech patterns. "but Grandma told me it was important…."

The following sniffle was of unprecedented magnitude, and Severus thought it wise to change the subject. "Did any of it get on you?"

"Grandma changed all my clothes, and she put me in the bath!" was the outraged answer. "In the middle of the day!"

Severus took long breaths, careful to control his outward reactions, and looked around for writing material. Fortunately for him, Hermione's flat was well-stocked with all kinds of writing paraphernalia, including blank sheets of paper and plain pencils, which should be easier to handle for a young child than the usual quill and parchment.

He gathered said young child under one arm, the necessary instruments in the other, and settled the former at the table, in front of the latter.

"Listen to me, Teddy," he said in the sweetest voice he could conjure. "I want you to draw me a picture of that first glass you let slip. Please, as a favour to me…"

The object of his sudden attentions looked at him through his tears, then at the sheet of paper, and nodded mutely.

He started drawing.

Severus watched over him, his heart racing. The arsenic preparation he kept in his lab was transparent, just like the liquid the child had described. It was also highly corrosive, the merest contact to it could be, if not lethal, at least highly dangerous; and the only immediate antidote for mild outward exposure was to immerse the spot in water. Could it be that…?

Under his very eyes, the child finished drawing what looked precisely like the kind of closed vials he used to store poisonous preparations.

"You, young man," he said, planting an entirely out of character kiss on the top of the child's skull, "are a hero. Can you give me that piece of paper?"

He penned a short note to Hermione, explaining the whys and hows, sealed it together with Teddy's drawing, and sent it to her via the Floo. With any chance, she'd go investigate Mrs. Andromeda Tonks' residence right away, and get her before she'd had the time to eliminate the incriminating evidence.

He ought to be annoyed that his house arrest in Hermione's lair should come to an end so soon, and he was, to a degree, but he was also more relieved than he'd expected to have the real culprit arrested. His name and good reputation had never meant much to anyone else, but they were still something to him.

The child was still sitting expectantly at the table, looking like he was trapped in an uncomfortable nightmare. Feeling the need to share his relief and exhilaration, Severus took him in his arms in an awkward hug. He walked them to the couch, and sat down, his burden still across his lap.

"I wasn't joking, you know. You really are a hero."

"Uncle Harry says my Mum and Dad were heroes too," was the dejected answer.

"Of course they were. Don't you know about them?"

The child shook his head.

"Well, dropping that glass was something your mother could have done. She was always letting things slip out of her hands… you'd never have guessed how tough she was with Dark wizards!"

Teddy was looking up at him, surprised. "Did she fight Dark wizards?"

Severus lifted an eyebrow. Did no one ever talk with that child? "Of course she did. She was an Auror, like Hermione and Harry here…"

He could remember a few anecdotes from their Order years. Unless he was grossly mistaken, and he seldom was, this was the perfect opportunity to reminisce… his voice drifted on, and Teddy listened without a noise, mouth half-open, fascinated by the tales of his heroic mother and by the strangely clad, oddly reassuring wizard that retold it all for his benefit.

When Hermione came back from having arrested Andromeda Tonks, née Black, she felt oddly empty inside.

Maybe it was due to her busy morning. She'd investigated at Fortescue's, and carefully removed what evidence there was to find for further magical testing. Then she'd got Severus' letter: a short trip to the Minister's private residence later, she had entered the Tonks premises, armed with a search warrant and a squadron of law enforcement agents. The evidence there had been very incriminating indeed. The stolen arsenic had been poured in a new receptacle, for some reason, and Andromeda's magical wandprint was all over it all. It would have been more than enough to convince a jury even before their new prime suspect started screaming her full confession at the Aurors at the top of her voice, reminding a startled assembly of how alike she and Bellatrix really were.

Maybe it was because she'd had to listen to the witch's crazed ramblings about how foul the wizarding world had become, post-war, how unfair it was that she, Hermione Granger, should have survived and prospered, when so many others, with purer blood, had not. How the only way to make things better was to expunge the most putrid elements of society, and how the entire Ministry, Aurory included, herself included, belonged to said sordid mass of rot.

Maybe it was because she felt guilty for not having recognised the early signs of madness in someone she saw on a semi-regular basis, due to the Harry-Teddy connexion.

And maybe it was because there was a certain wizard waiting for her at home.

Not that she disliked the idea – it elicited in her all kinds of cosy feelings she hadn't known she was capable of experiencing. Having Ron wait up for her certainly hadn't turned her on, ever. No, it was the certain knowledge that the case was closed, that she'd have to release the former prime suspect, and that the opportunities for mad lovemaking on the living room floor would thus decrease from "very unprofessional, to be avoided" to "absolutely nil".

Perhaps it was for the best, she thought. It had been extremely unprofessional of her to take advantage of him like that. He would be well entitled to press charges. Not that he was likely to, she didn't think so. But still. She didn't need any more temptation, is was all too foreseeable that she should succumb again should it ever occur.

In an attempt to delay the inevitable, she turned around and went to Saint-Mungo's before heading for home.

A slightly less distraught Harry greeted her at the door of Ginny's private ward.

"How is she?"

"Asleep, and well… it was a miracle, Hermione, a miracle twice over…"

"What do you mean?"

"She ate my pancake at breakfast. The poison was meant for me, Hermione! And it would have killed me too. And you know how come she'd not dead?" he laughed, and it was just on this side of hysteria. Hermione patted him on the back in what she hoped could pass as a comforting gesture, and tried to manoeuvre him into one of the chairs in the corridor. "She's pregnant, Hermione! Pregnant!"

He laughed again, and this time it was a frank, happy laugh. "Can you believe that? We've been trying for ages, and nothing, until now, when we hadn't even realised we were expecting!"

"But how did it save her from the poisoning?"

"The baby's magic kicked in – the Mediwitch explained it to us. Ginny's going to rest for a while because all her energy's drained – as mine, as anyone else's would have been too, of course, but she had the baby's too! And that saved their lives, both of them! They'll be all right, both of them…"

"Congratulations, Harry, truly. I'm so happy for you! I know how you and Ginny wanted a child…"

"Ah, about that. We were thinking about you and Ron as godparents. Now normally I'd ask you if you were OK with being in the same room with him, but considering what I saw this morning, I gather you're over him?"

"I've been over him for a long time, Harry, it's just… we didn't seem to be able to revert to friendship. But we'll try – at least I'll try. For the sake of your child if nothing else. I promise."

There was a moment of companionable silence.

"So, did you find any leads at Fortescue's?"

"Oh. That. I arrested the culprit – she confessed everything."

"She- who?"

"You're not going to like that. Andromeda. I don't think she ever got over Tonks', I mean Nymphadora's, death. She thinks the wizarding world is in far worse shape now than it used to be before the war, so she was trying to destroy all the authority figures of the day in hopes of getting anarchy first, and a new world order after that. Or something along those lines…"

Harry was a picture of conflicting emotions. "She used to tell me things… but I thought they were general complaints, you know? As in, I hate all politicians… and then anyway she stopped, a few months back… Oh Merlin. How could I have been so blind? And how could she… She's the one who poisoned my pancake, isn't she?"

"Perhaps not directly. We suspect Elven complicity – after all, the House of Black had many House-Elves, and they probably were all devoted to her… but, from the look of things, she masterminded everything, yes."

Harry seemed to be speechless.

"I can take care of Teddy until Ginny's back home, if you want. I'll let you break the news to him, shall I? I take it he'll be living with you now?"

Harry nodded mutely, and there was another silence.

"I have another favour to ask of you, Hermione."

"Anything, Harry, you know that."

"That poison was meant for me, there is no doubt about that. I can't risk my life just like that any more, nor Ginny's, for that matter. Not now that I'm going to be a father – twice! All in one go!"

Hermione braced herself for what she guessed was coming.

"I'm resigning from the Aurory first thing after Ginny wakes up," he said.

"Are you sure you don't want to think things over?"

"I've already thought them over. Ginny doesn't want to give up her career at Gringotts, and it does pay well enough to raise a family, so I'll be staying at home with the baby. And Teddy. We decided on that out ages ago. That's why I accepted the promotion to Head Auror right away, even though I wasn't that qualified, never have been, in fact. You've been doing most of my work all along. But I thought I'd give it a go while it lasted, you know. So, are you ready to step in and take over for me?"

He looked at her squarely and she found herself squirming before his unusually piercing eyes.

"You mean that thing with Snape."

"I do mean that thing with Snape. Hermione, it's not something a Head Auror can do. Ever."

"I know, I, I guess I'm a bit ashamed of myself, but…"

"But you don't regret it." His voice was still firm, and had an edge to it, something she wasn't accustomed to, coming from him. Oncoming paternity seemed to have matured him more than a half a decade's worth of fighting dark wizards had.

"I don't- it's Snape, you see, I'm, er, never quite myself with him…"

"Does he reciprocate that peculiar expression of emotion?"

She thought for a while. "I can't be sure, but I think so. He doesn't act like himself either."

Harry smiled. "You should go to him and square things up, then. I promise I'll behave myself with him, too, if you turn out to make a regular arrangement out of it…"

They both stood up, and, without premeditation, Hermione flung herself in his arms. He was the brother she'd never had; his blessing meant more than she'd care to admit to anyone, least of all herself.

"Now go!"

Hermione didn't need to be told twice. She headed straight for the nearest Floo, eager to get home, to her wizard. Well, he'd become her wizard soon enough – she'd see to that!

Narcissa Black Malfoy held her second great post-war dinner reception six months, to the day, after the first one. This time, she was welcoming Draco's new bride into the family, and everyone that was anyone in the wizarding world was invited. Once again, the power of the mighty Galleon was palpable. RSVP owls flew back to the Manor with gratifying celerity as the many guests salivated in advance at the prospect of free champagne and good networking opportunities – either of which would have been enough to forget the unfortunate incidents of the last dinner reception.

Minister Shacklebolt was there with his lady wife, as was the Minister's new running mate, Mr. Marchfields. Mathilda's widower was of course new to politics, which made him a lot easier to manipulate, and his unique combination of widowhood, cheated-on spousehood, and of course status as parent of a newly orphaned Squib son, made him all the more electable to voters who could be depended on to react emotionally to the very public and very scandalous murder of the late Vice-Minister. Minister Shacklebolt never lost an opportunity to pat himself on the shoulder for the stroke of genius that had led him to approach Marchfields, whom he could thank for his latest landslide electoral victory.

The former Head of the Aurory, Harry Potter himself, was there with his very obviously pregnant wife. He was a big disappointment to the select few journalists invited as he politely declined interview requests, declaring to the all and sundry that his public life now belonged to the past.

To Narcissa's relief, the two people she had been most reluctant to invite had politely declined. They were on their honeymoon, they explained, and as the duties of the new Head Auror were many and her holidays counted, surely she would understand their preferring to spend them on a remote Caribbean island? Lucius had showed some regret, he would have liked to make amends for the way his old friend had been treated at their last reception, but Narcissa reminded him, gently yet firmly, that newlyweds should be left alone. Fond recollections of their own early days of matrimony were at the front of their mind these days as they watched Draco and Asteria go through the same motions, and Lucius did not argue.

The dinner itself went without a hitch. The food courses arrived and left without the barest hint of murder, and before she knew it, it was past midnight, and all her guests had left. Her son and daughter-in-law departed for their own quarters, and she was left alone in the winter reception room, supervising the Elves as they tidied up.

"Mistress should have poisoned another dirty Muggle-lover this time," Squiggy, her right-hand Elf, said as he passed by her, a discreet air of genteel reproach about him. "It was a perfect opportunity, Mistress's blood traitor of a sister could be Imperio'ed into confessing that one too. Mistress may not have another self-designated culprit again before long--"

"It is not that simple," she interrupted. "You merely carry out orders, you don't realise how long these things need to be planned in advance. Last time took me several years, and still there were things I didn't foresee… the sprog, for one, and that those fools should shackle up… I should have considered the possibility – I'll need to put more thought into this next time…"

Squiggy had a gesture that may or may not have been a discontented shrug, and carried on with the cleaning.

Lucius walked into the room, clad solely in his dressing-gown, eager to get his wife to their bed. He paused as he caught sight of her. She had not had time to change clothes, and her evening gown looked as perfect as it had earlier that night, when he had watched her put it on. His heart beat a little faster – his wife. His perfect wife. Sixty-four generations of pure blood, and not a hint of her sisters' shared madness. A perfect, immaculate appearance and demeanour, even when marrying away her only son, even when waving her last relative away to a lifetime in Azkaban. Nothing could unhinge her, he thought, she was living proof that old blood was better, that they were superior to the crowd that had invaded the Manor tonight. She was a rock, a finely blown crystal rock that bore no defects, and she was his.

He knelt in front of her, as he had all those years ago, when she first said yes. Her blond hair made a halo around her head, and he stared at the picture she made, standing there, a Madonna in candlelight.

"You are perfect," he whispered aloud.

"Don't be silly… nobody's perfect," she answered, caressing his cheek. "I make mistakes too…"

"Let me be judge of that," her husband replied. "I have yet to find the slightest fault in you..."

Narcissa twisted her lips in a thin smile without answering.

He stood up and they headed for their bedchamber, hand in hand.