A/N: This chapter took forever because real life is terrible and Severus Snape is stubborn. I'm so sorry for the wait.


Chapter Three

A Discussion

"- and Voldemort can't just take over the Ministry directly, so he appointed you."

Hermione sat back in her chair, mind spinning, ignoring the agitated look on Snape's face at her interjection; the better part of three hours had seen him pacing in front of the fire and talking, interrupted occasionally by an outburst from Hermione.

Snape had spent most of their conversation explaining the night that Dumbledore had been killed and Harry had been captured, and Hermione believed that he was completely telling the truth when he said that he was deeply sorry for what had transpired. From his accounts, Dumbledore had given instructions for Snape to kill him in such a situation, Harry was not supposed to be taken prisoner, and Voldemort was not supposed to win the war that was never really begun.

Everything had turned out wrong.

"I don't understand, though, why did you say yes? Power?"

Snape laughed a cruel laugh. "Use your brain, Miss Granger. I accepted because there is no saying 'no' to Lord Voldemort." When she tilted her head at him, he strode over to her chair and reached into the pocket of his robes, pulling out an aged copy of The Daily Prophet. She took it tentatively. The headline on the front read 'Minister of Magic, or Misuse of Authority?' "I'm not exactly a popular Minister, what with all the abductions and deaths, and I knew from the start that I never would be. I'm nothing more than a face for the population to hate while Voldemort pulls all the strings. No intelligent person would want my power right now. "

"Why hasn't the Ministry squashed these stories? You would think-"

"Why even bother? It's well known that if you have something in the paper accusatory enough for the Ministry to care about that you'll turn up dead by morning. We let them have their objective journalism, because it's all the same now anyway."

Hermione ran her finger along the page as she read, cringing inwardly as she came across the quote 'Tyrannical authority will attempt to crush dissent in the usual time-honored fashion: by brutality, intimidation and fear'. She recognized it as a line from David Cromwell.

A column along the edge of the paper gave a list of people recently deceased; she only vaguely recognized a few names from the listing, thankfully, and no one she knew that well. The date on the paper told her that this was from over a year ago. "Who else has died?"

"Hundreds. Anyone who doesn't support the Ministry is killed, in front of family and coworkers, and I can do nothing about it." Her hands shook as she remembered his words earlier. Your friend Ron has been dead for years now. "And all of the Muggle-borns are believed to be dead as well, at least to those who aren't… resourceful enough to own one."

Her face flushed hot and her eyes snapped to his face. "How many Muggle-borns are… are owned like me?"

"Twelve, or, really, thirteen, as I did not have you on record."

She sputtered again. "No one knows where I am?"

"Lucius Malfoy is very skilled at keeping hidden what he wants hidden. Your presence in the Malfoy Manor, while startling, was not entirely unexpected."

"But then there could be more Muggle-borns out there than you know! If he can hide me, what would stop-" Snape held up his hand and she bit her tongue.

"No. Voldemort is selective about the recipients of the Muggle-borns taken by the Committee. Only his finest are deserving; basically, you are a reward for good service. To Draco, correct?" Hermione nodded, turning her gaze to the fireplace to try and hide the tears welling hot and angry in her eyes. We're nothing more than trophies for monsters! "I should have thought to send someone sooner, as it was not likely that Lucius would stand to be left out."

Snape returned to his chair on the other side of the table, and they sat in silence. Hermione played with the newspaper in her lap as the tears quietly ran down her cheeks; Snape pretended not to notice. A thought came to her, and she quietly asked, "Are you… uh… in a position of ownership, then?"

There was hesitation in his voice, but he answered her firmly. "Of course. Justin Finch-Fletchley is extremely lucky that he was given to me, as opposed to the Lestrange family, or Rockwood. You should consider yourself lucky as well, as-"

Hermione had not laughed as hard as she did then in a long time. The hateful emotions she had been pushing away bubbled up in her stomach and she threw the rolled-up newspaper at his head, missing by a hair. "Lucky? Lucky!? How can you sit there, after what I've been through the last three years - at your hands! - and tell me that I'm lucky?"

"You're alive, Miss Granger. There were sixteen Muggle-borns at various loyalist estates at the start of the year, three dozen the year before."

"Then why haven't you stepped in?" Hermione rose to her feet. "Why are you letting people die at your hands? These were your students, Snape, and they were innocent people, don't you-"

"You don't know what it's like out there, now!" She was surprised at the sudden rage in his voice, at the way he managed to tower over her in one movement, his chair tipping from the sudden forceful exit; throughout their entire conversation he had been civil and calm, maybe even verging on cheerful, but now she remembered all the reasons why she had been afraid of him as a child. Very seldom had she ever seen him break his cool demeanor to this extent. "I have blood on my hands that will never wash away, and I have seen things that you could never even imagine, all while parading around as something I'll never fully be, and you have the nerve to tell me that I'm to blame? Who are you to judge me?"

They stood, toe-to-toe, eyes locked, until she realized what she was doing. This was a man whom she had always held, sometimes grudgingly, respect for, and she was no longer in a position to pick fights with the one person who had in any way acknowledged the she was human in years. She was out of line, and he didn't deserve this misguided anger. Her eyes drooped in defeat. "I'm not judging you, Professor."

"Minister."

"Sir."

"Thank you." Neither of them had shifted position, bodies taut. "I'm sorry that you've lost loved ones, Miss Granger, and I'm sorry that you're in this position of servitude, but I can't amend the laws that Lord Voldemort tells me to enforce. I treasure my life above anyone else's, and that's not going to change."

A very small cough made them both turn their heads to the door. Bunker stood there with a tray in her tiny hands, her eyes wide. Both Hermione and Snape took a step away from each other as the House Elf came into the room and set the tray down. "A late repast for my master's most honored of guests, as requested." Hermione noted that Bunker had not addressed her, which was strange for the elderly elf, but she said nothing.

"This shall be all." Snape gave a slight nod of his head to Bunker, who returned his gesture with a grand bow, and then she turned and left. "Are you hungry?" He removed the cover from the tray, revealing an array of food that Hermione had not seen since her time at Hogwarts on feast days.

"Yes, thank you." While she was not starved, thanks to Bunker's generosity, she had definitely lost her curvy figure of younger years that had set in after years of living with well-to-do parents. Bones now protruded and her face was sharper, more defined. She hated looking in mirrors, now.

"It's not much, mostly sweets, as I ate supper with Lucius."

Her eyes roamed over the selection, and thought of Ron's reaction to so many saccharine treats, which brought a pang to her heart. "You didn't answer my question, earlier, about who else had died. Who that I would know?"

"The majority of your class was targeted; a better question would be who survived, really. The Weasley twins were running a resistance operation out of the basement of their joke of a shop, and caught the wrong end of a wand when the Ministry found out, though you might personally be pleased to know that they did literally go out with a bang and took some of my good men with them. Mad-Eye was labeled as a Mudbl… Muggle-born sympathizer a little under a year ago and was executed. Neville Longbottom is as good as dead, filling a bed across from his parents in St. Mungo's." His brow was furrowed, and he ticked off his fingers as names came to him. She sat and listened, each additional death another hole in heart, until he practically whispered, "Remus Lupin."

They both sat and ate in silence, Hermione as a sign of morning and Snape caught up in his memories.

It wasn't until after the clock over the fireplace struck midnight that Hermione realized how worn she was. It had been hours since she the encounter earlier in the day and while the remedies Snape had given her helped to mask the pain, her whole body still ached.

"Thank you, Minister, for the food and the news from outside, but I should be returning to my quarters. I have to be awake in a few hours to start my morning chores, and-"

"You are not going anywhere, Miss Granger. I told you, I purchased your company for the night. If I know Lucius Malfoy, he has a tracking charm on you, and if you aren't very close to me tonight," Snape paused, and she swore that she saw the slightest blush creep across his cheeks, "He'll be quite suspicious. It's in your best interests."

"But where will I sleep then?" She knew what the likely answer was, but she refused to believe that he could really be implying that she… she…

"The bed in my guestroom is large enough that I'm not entirely sure that both sides rest in Wiltshire proper. You'll never know I'm there, and more importantly, I'll never know that you're there." He folded the napkin over the tray, stood up, and that was the end of conversation. "Upstairs and to the left, first door. I'll be along in a moment."

She knew exactly the room that he was referring to. It was the largest of the extra bedrooms in the manor, and the only that had a full connecting bathroom. There was a small bookcase on one wall that, judging from the lighthearted fiction on its shelves, was Narcissa's, a gorgeous writing desk made of solid red cherry, and the bed was made from diricawl feathers. It was a beautiful room.

Hermione was terrified.

She stepped lightly, almost silently, on her way up the stairs, hoping that she would not run into any of the residents of the manor, lest they asked difficult questions or administered unwelcomed punishments. If Lucius did actually have a tracking charm in place, she was safest with Snape, but even as she made her way up to his room, she wanted to be as far from him as possible.

This was ludicrous. She was a former student, and he was the Minister of Magic, and she wasn't sure that she completely trusted him, and nothing about this situation seemed right to her, but there she was, slipping into the guestroom and shutting the door behind her. Three lamps hung high on the walls, casting a shadowy light throughout the room, illuminating the green and silver trim, and she walked over to the bookcase for lack of anything else to do as she waited.

Hermione picked out a manuscript, but she found that she couldn't focus on anything she read.

The news of the deaths of all her friends was devastating. She had known that things were not right and that people had died from the whispers of conversation she overheard between Narcissa and Lucius, but there was no way that she could have even started to imagine that it was as broad as it was: over half of her class at Hogwarts was dead or missing, there was a large hole in the Weasley family, poor Professor Lupin was gone, and the persecution of the government was horrifying.

She was quite certain that things would only continue to get worse.

It sounded as if Snape was doing everything he could to not get involved with the policies and laws branded with his name. He didn't want this power, which was completely understandable under the circumstances, but yet Wizarding England was the one suffering for it, which was unreasonable and petty; it was a delicate line that Severus Snape was walking, and Hermione wasn't sure if she wanted him to fall or not.

"You could have retired to bed, if you had wanted." She closed the book and whirled on her feet to find him in the doorway, a large bag in his right hand. The material was metallic and yet looked fluid, and she knew that it was dragon skin. He set it on the writing desk and said, "Potion ingredients. Lucius wants a draught to brighten his peacocks up, and while I think it maddening that he is focused on something so trivial, it's an easy enough brew that Longbottom could have…" He trailed off and turned away, obviously catching the look on her face at Neville's last name.

Silence again as he unpacked the ingredients and she slid the book back into place.

Eventually, with nothing to do but wring her hands, Hermione realized that it was now or never, and since never didn't seem to be an option... "M… Minister, I'm afraid that this is a little, uh, awkward for me, and I… well…" She knew that her face was Gryffindor scarlet as she looked over at the broad bed against the far wall. "I don't have anything to sleep in, and-"

Snape walked over to the large wardrobe and pulled out a long green set of robes. He pulled out his wand and muttered, and suddenly the robes became a modest sleeping shirt. It hurt to watch him use his wand so easily, and she wished more than anything that she had use of her wand again. He handed it to her, and turned his back and strode over to the desk once more to continue his examination of the many vials.

And she realized that he wasn't going to leave the room while she changed.

Very quickly Hermione shed her crude robes and pulled the long shirt over her head. It was soft and warm and came down over her knees, and she decided that it was acceptable, given the circumstances. Her robes she folded as neatly as possible and set on a chair before slinking to the bed and dragging the bedspread back. She crawled under the covers and pulled them up to her chin. "Thank you."

Snape continued about his business while she watched him, and it was almost –almost!- comforting to watch the methodical way he conducted himself. He seemed to be working off a list, and would occasionally scrawl something onto a parchment she couldn't see from the bed.

"Will you be unable to sleep while I work? I can leave the draught until morning, as I'm sure the peacocks will survive." He turned then, for the first time, and he looked at her as if there was nothing strange about the situation. When she didn't answer he pulled a book from the bag and walked over to the far side of the bed. "I'll read, then, if that's alright."

It was Hermione's turn to face away as he stripped down, and she was almost embarrassed to think about the fact that he was probably doing it more rapidly than normal as well.

Hermione felt the weight on the bed before she dared turn back. Severus Snape was five hand spans away in the same bed as she was. The man that had terrorized her childhood was opening his book to the spot that a ribbon had been placed in nothing but an undershirt, seemingly not affected by having her there.

She pulled the covers up as far as they would go, and tried to will herself to sleep.