Author's note: This chapter contains Severus' long inner monologue, many key ideas and Severus and Hermione's first explosive encounter, so beware…

Thank you for your support, guys, I really appreciate it. Please, keep on inspiring me.

Enjoy!

Hermione stared at the door unimpressed. Then she turned on her heels and approached the tower entrance on the opposite side of the room; the thick wooden door turned out to be locked, which really shouldn't be a problem for a competent witch, but after the customary Alohomora didn't yield any fruitful results she began to doubt that she fell into that category. All that the spell did was warm the door handle slightly. She sighed deeply. Apparently not only the dust was going to be a problem, unless it was Snape himself who locked this door securely in the first place, in which case she shouldn't try harder to unlock it.

Intensifying hunger finally persuaded her to descend to the ground floor. She turned left and found herself in what appeared to be a big dining room, judging by a long table in the middle surrounded by many chairs; there was a sofa in the corner. Every piece of furniture was covered by some semi-transparent yellowish cloth to protect it from dust and dirt; however, nothing protected the cloth itself, which bore the abundance of both. Hermione gritted her teeth and walked to the smaller door on the other side of the room, that thankfully was unlocked.

Finally, the kitchen, which was as old-fashioned as the rest of the house with no electric stove or a fridge in sight. It resembled the Victorian kitchen she had seen in history books, with an exception of a gas stove which was the height of technology in this place. So where is the food? She opened a tall cupboard feeling her face washed with cool air; it appeared that Snape put a cooling charm on it, thus effectively creating a fridge without electricity. She stared at it nonplussed, only now realizing that she could have saved some money using such a technique in her apartment. However, she was satisfied to find what she was looking for. A little more rummaging produced a plate and a fork.

Hermione boldly sat on a chair without uncovering it hoping that a cleaning charm would at least clean her backside properly. The food was quite tasty, rather better than what she usually managed to cook for herself; the crazy idea crossed her mind of her asking Snape for some cooking advice, at least in order to see his reaction.

She had spent the rest of the day trying to sort out the existing records, and Snape seriously understated when he said they were a disaster; he could not have made it more chaotic on purpose. It was painfully obvious that bureaucracy was not his strong suit. The only consolation was that there were no ink smears, although in one place he still managed to spill the ball pen ink; her lips twisting up in disgust she lifted the offending piece of paper with her thumb and forefinger and put it aside. There were two notebooks with many loose pieces in no evident order: one with the list of clients, the other with the orders; the first one was the least disorderly. The date of the order as well as the name of the client were written in barely distinguishable handwriting, while the name of the potion was as legible as he could make it almost in capital letters; probably showing that Snape got far more respect for his craft than for his clients. The dates went two years back. The clients ranged from some random people to well-known institutions such as St Mungo's Hospital and its French opposite number, Vincent Duc Hôpital; the potions ranged from advanced to very advanced, where the Wolfsbane potion was not the most difficult one, she didn't even recognize some of the names. Overall, it was impressive.

At 5 p.m. Hermione decided that it was enough for one day. When she went upstairs to inform Snape that she had finished for the day, he was just as curt as before and just as rudely shut the door in front of her nose. She rolled her eyes and went outside. The weather was perfect, warm but not hot; so, she decided not to apparate home right away but go outside Snape's protective border and walk some distance along the road that could only dream of asphalt. She breathed deeply listening to the sounds of nature, her eyes rested looking at the buoyant summer colours. Only then did she fully realize how tired she was from the big crowded London and the oppressive Ministry. She walked faster feeling her muscles being pleasantly exerted. She ran. She stretched her arms smiling. At some point a white-haired man behind an easel stared at her in puzzlement as she galloped past him, she turned around briefly and waved at him; his puzzlement morphed into bewilderment.

I should get outside more…

Severus was comfortably seated in an armchair on veranda gazing thoughtfully into the distance. Technically this was outside, right? His right hand was idly playing with the glass of ice whisky. His thoughts were agreeably slow.

Unknowingly she was dead right about his intentions: in truth he did not want to hire anyone at all; but he hadn't realized it until she said it in jest. Consciously he knew that he needed to hire someone to manage organizational aspects of his business, especially paperwork, because since he ceased being a Professor at last, his involvement with that beast became minimal. However, his subconsciousness was rebelling against the idea of communicating with the employee. He shuddered.

Who in their right mind would see a weird advertisement with some weird number in the Daily Prophet and decide to apply, because it was questionably curious? And who would go through a tedious, intentionally confusing test just to encounter arguably the least likable Hogwarts Professor (except that dammed toad, of course)? And then still take an offer? Well, now he knew of the existence of at least two such persons. He expected nobody at all, but instead he got that scholar who became aggravated just after a couple of snide comments. Severus sneered, no sport. And obviously the most persistent of all i.e. Miss Granger. Initially he intended to dispense with her as with his first applicant, and she required no getting rid of as she headed straight for the exit at the sight of him. Well, he couldn't judge her for her reaction since it was the most common one. But then he luckily realized that she was the best employee he was ever going to get, she was organized, almost trustworthy, possessed the sense of responsibility. Maybe she was only a typical bookworm, only capable of ingesting and using someone else's ideas without creating anything truly original, but why he should care about that if he only asked for good organizational skills.

Thus, he made his best attempt to be polite and agreeable with a relative success, but his strategy seemed to be working so far. He grimaced.

At least not all hope was lost for her, considering the fact that she didn't marry the Weasley boy after all; evidently, she woke up in time to realize that playing chess well made a person neither intelligent nor a suitable husband material, or she just didn't want to become a rabbit breeder going for quantity instead of quality.

Severus slowly took a sip of his beverage feeling the warmth flowing down his throat.

He was immensely frustrated with her during her school career. To have everything, intelligence, studiousness, patience, self-organization, and yet achieve nothing. She just followed these two idiots baby-sitting them all the time, wrote enormously long essays full of information she had excavated from various books without presenting her own ideas; without understanding that reading many books made sense only when they helped you create something of your very own, served as a channel for your creations. Yet without her no way in hell these two morons would have survived more than a day, she had made his job a tiny bit easier without even realizing her own importance. He should be grateful, he supposed. He sighed.

It was strange that she hadn't employed her persistence and Gryffindorish mulishness, two things she had in abundance, to find herself a real job, because whatever she had at the Ministry certainly didn't count. He could see eagerness shining in her eyes. Eagerness for what exactly? For the cheerful prospect of working for him? The one would get more eager from looking at a dead snail surely. It was unnerving that he could not tell her intentions. What gain is it to her? What goal is she secretly pursuing?

The only thing he was certain of was that she was dead bored at her job, desperate even. Oppressed?

Oh, he knew everything there is to know about such a job. Severus shuddered thinking of the hours of his life lost to the job he hated; all those hours that effortlessly added up to days spent telling stupid children things they wouldn't remember anyway, correcting their worthless scribbles, planning lessons for them. And not a speck of gratitude received back from them. But gratitude for what exactly? For berating them in class, for taking points, for appointing detention? He knew damn well that he was a bad teacher, but the job was thrusted upon him, no fucking choice was given to him.

No, of course it was. Great, arguing with yourself is probably a sign of looming madness. He rubbed his temple with his free hand. Anyway, choice is always given. He could have resigned, nothing kept him by Dumbledore's side except for his promise, for his word... And not the promise to the old man, but the promise to himself to see the Dark Lord truly dead, destroyed. After the first War he could feel it in his very bones that the madman hadn't disappeared completely from the face of the Earth; when the time came, he had wanted to be useful knowing perfectly well he was the most useful being a spy. It was a dirty job no one else but him was capable of doing, the very job that made you untrustworthy by definition for a spy can never be fully excepted by either side, which put you permanently in the light of suspicious eyes. You betrayed one side, surely you would be able to do it again.

But a mere spy has to pretend to be on one side covertly leaking information to the other. However, an already complicated job could not be made even a bit easier for Severus since he had to play a double agent pretending to spy on his side of so-called 'light' for the Death Eaters or even something more, because in all honesty he wasn't sure how many sides there were by the end of the War.

He could feel himself slipping into the dark thoughts, well, darker than usual; and the headache was building behind his eyes. Was it some sort of protective mechanism, heh? He hoped it was.

Severus abandoned his glass and went inside to get a cigarette.

Anyway, let's wait and see what happens.

The Ministry technically opened at 8 a.m., so Hermione arrived there at 9 a.m. dressed appropriately in her blue robes without the badge because she was supposedly on holiday. Oh, Ministry sweet Ministry, a place where you can breathe magic in, kinda. For some reason they never saw fit to change the grand and spectacular toilet entrance because of the archaic tradition, even though there was a number of complaints from people who almost drowned in them. But someone, maybe even Ministry official, put a helpful sign admonishing caution in the form of holding one's breath while underwater; at least some improvement, Hermione supposed.

Another major improvement, allegedly, was a new policy called Equality for all. Except Muggles, beasts like werewolves (even though they were demoted to this category only once a month), merpeople, centaurs, and other miscellaneous beings. At least now your eyes could enjoy a kaleidoscope of skin colours, social and blood statuses.

She felt her shoulders slumping forward on their own accord in a defensive gesture as she stepped into the big vestibule. She had to make a conscious effort to straighten her back, though nothing could be done with the tension gathered at the base of her neck; she discreetly rubbed her damp palms on the sides of her robes. It was her typical reaction to this place, which initially started from the flashbacks of that infamous locket-search episode, then with time they modified into the unpleasant anticipation of another workday. She took a deep breath and strode to the lift in a carefully controlled pace.

Obliviator. Just the right job for her because she was always good with spells, mental charms in particular. You're good at mental charms, Hermione, you should do it, her kind friends told her. Simple logic, nothing more. That's how the world works, right, my dear friends, she thought bitterly. Now she took people's, Muggles', memories on a regular basis for a living, it had gradually become a routine for her; she didn't think about it anymore, not the way she did before.

What an irony. She could easily erase other person's memories, but putting them back, restoring them was impossible, lest the one was willing to torture the victim to near insanity; her parents were a living proof of that, still in Australia, perhaps blissfully, unaware of her existence. She did her comprehensive research and found no answer; in the end she got the impression that the wizarding community in general did not really care about reversing this particular spell since it was mostly Muggles who suffered from its effects. The wizards got this funny notion about Muggles whom they consider to be permanently children or some humanized animals; using Obliviate on Muggles was a widely accepted norm, using it on a wizard or a witch was a serious crime. Even without Voldemort to impose his radical views the notion of superiority was still there, only subtler, disguised, lurking there in the shadows waiting for the next dark overlord to bring it back to the light. The Devil was in the details.

"Hey, 'Mione, I haven't expected to see you here," the overly-cheerful voice broke her contemplation. For the countless time she wondered how hard it must be to pronounce her full name, just three extra letters. She tugged her lips in what she hoped was a smile and turned to find herself face-to-face with one of her coworkers.

"Hello, Nat," she returned the greeting as always being careful not to pronounce it as 'Nut'. We're all Nuts here, she refrained from a mad cackle. That pet name was not Hermione's idea. The woman's real name was Natalie, but for some inexplicable reason she loathed it, thus she had everyone calling her Nat. She was taller than Hermione, she had short blond hair and constantly laughing blue eyes. Hermione usually went with her on raids, unless the need for more people arose due to some emergency.

Hermione reluctantly elaborated, "Yes, I'm on holiday. But it's a private business." She stressed the word 'private'. "You see, I'm helping out, ah, a friend." Technically you could call your employer a friend, even though some people might find it to be a contradiction in terms.

"What kind of friend?" Nat eyed her slyly.

"The usual kind of friend," Hermione answered firmly.

"Good for you, then. Well, you can stop by for a chat later, if you want. Don't forget to enjoy your holiday." And she positively bounced off, while Hermione breathed a sigh of profound relief. This woman clearly had no scruples regarding the very essence of her job. Lucky her.

Later she stood in front of the door, the slightly askew nameplate read Department of Registration, then below someone helpfully scribbled Do not confuse with Administrative Registration Department, totally different thing, guys. Of course, she vaguely knew about this place but had never imagined she would visit it one day. She knocked on the door and entered.

The small office was occupied by two people and two desks. A middle-aged man of rather small height and unattractive appearance was standing near his desk, which was cluttered to the excess, and staring thoughtfully at his fingernails. He was smoking a pipe in some perverse semblance of Sherlock Holmes. Another occupant was a young man with light brown hair and pleasant grey eyes alight with humour, sitting behind his own desk, which was clean and orderly.

Hermione turned her attention to the latter one smiling and was going to introduce herself when the older man said abandoning his pipe, "Well, hello, my dear girl. Who are you anyway?" Her sinking feeling of anticipation increased.

"My name is Hermione Granger and I would like to register a new business. Mr. –?" she began politely.

"Mr. Tobbinz with a 'z', the Head of this Department at your service. My mother had a problem with spelling, you see," he explained and then added happily, "And with grammar too." (Later Hermione found out that his first name was Stefffen with a triple 'f'.) The smile clearly didn't suit this man's face, maybe because he lacked some crucial facial features like front teeth. Before she could do anything, he crossed the room and put an arm around her waist. Her smile slipped, and body instantly became rigid; she caught her breath, then slowly let it out trying to keep her hand from her wand. Hexing Ministry official would not be good for her reputation, especially since she suspected it was not her only venture to this so-called department.

"Why do you concern yourself with this difficult stuff, sweetheart? Why don't you just go home and make a nice soup for your husband, hah?" he asked grinning, his breath smelled vile.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I do not have a husband," was her stiff reply.

"Then find one!" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I'll help you!" She cringed wondering what genius decided to hire this miracle of the earth. It was diversity all right. We have everything you need, sexists, racists, chauvinists, your pick!

Her lips already shaped around the first word of her reply informing him what she could help him do with some of his parts, when the young man said weakly, "Sir, sorry to interrupt, but you have a meeting with the Minister in ten minutes."

"Crikey, I almost forgot," he exclaimed abruptly releasing his firm grip of her robes. "Thanks, my friend. Do I look all right?"

"Perfectly, sir," his employee assured him nodding encouragingly.

"Perfect!" Mr. Tobbinz clapped his hands. "See you later, my fair maiden." He winked at her and was gone.

For the second time today Hermione breathed a sigh of profound relief smoothing her poor robes; with disgust she noticed a couple of oily stains and considered simply incinerating them all afterwards.

"That's an interesting persona you got there," she observed mildly.

"I'm terribly sorry for this performance, Miss Granger. He is usually more, how do I put it, subdued. It's his new acromantula pills, you see."

"I see," she replied not sure if that was true. "Does he really have a meeting with the Minister?"

"No, but it'll give us enough time to discuss your business. He will wait there for some time, flirt with a coupe of people, then go to eat something, wander around. All in all, we got plenty of time," he explained with an air of vast experience.

"Interesting tactic." She looked doubtfully at him. "And you are –?"

"David Bowman, Assistant," he said proudly. He stood up and extended his hand smiling; his handshake was pleasant, his hands were pleasantly warm. Hermione peered at him. David seemed to be around her age, maybe slightly taller than her; his face was quite bland and forgettable, he was dressed in the usual Ministry robes.

"So, only Mr. Tobbinz and you work here?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Yes," he nodded. Hermione arrived here with fairly low expectations, now she had to calibrate them meaning lower them; then she thought over it again and lowered them even more. "I'll explain you everything" David continued enthusiastically. "Please, take a seat, Miss Granger."

And he really did explain everything, very concisely. There were two options: limited company or partnership, the only apparent difference was that a partnership was owned by at least two people. The company should have its separate finances, list of rules and regulations, payroll, registered address and name; the financial and accounting records as well as record of the company itself should be kept in order. He promptly supplied her with registration papers (well, parchments) and forms which the owner should fill in and put his magical signature imprinting his magic's unique trace.

"You should also carefully consider the company's name and trademark. Note that Latin names are on the peak of popularity now, so I wouldn't recommend using Latin words in the name since virtually everything you'd think of would be unoriginal," David finished.

Hermione had a sinking feeling of lead being dropped at the bottom of her stomach.

"What about Ignis Avis, Mr. Bowman?" she inquired hesitantly, then bit into her lower lip.

"It sounds vaguely familiar," he replied rubbing his nose. "I'll check." He went to the large cabinet in the corner of the room and started thumbing the pieces of parchments neatly stacked in there. After a minute he informed her, "We already have three small businesses with the name like that. Ah, and look at that," he pointed something at the parchment he was holding, "they all have some form of the phoenix as a trademark. So unoriginal. How little imagination people have these days. But I suppose they believe the creature will bring them good luck, another ludicrous superstition of uneducated folks." David shook his head in contempt, then looked at her and smiled slightly laughter dancing in his pleasant grey eyes.

"Don't look so scared, Miss Granger. You didn't seriously consider a phoenix reference, did you?" he asked incredulously.

She cleared her throat looking away.

"No, but my, amm, my friend did."

"Then tell your friend that even a rock can think of something better." His smile grew smug.

Hermione fingered her collar anxiously thinking, I certainly won't recite that to, amm, my friend.

"Anyway, what about taxes?" she asked changing the unnerving topic.

"Taxes?" he repeated rubbing his nose again. "Oh, you mean the gold the one, who produces goods and services in our country, pays to the Ministry to tirelessly organize and develop our wonderful society?" She couldn't tell if he was being ironic.

"Yes, along these lines."

"Then you probably mean a tribute," David said pointedly. Synonym, almost but not quite.

"Probably."

"I'll explain everything." He clapped his hands in the excitement of another explanation, though there was really not a lot of it. The company just paid a set percentage of the income. It turned out, surprisingly, that there was a special Tribute Department that managed the 'tribute', but it was just the Department of Registration under a different name. It was a wonder that the Ministry didn't have a continuous problem with financing, one of its few merits; no doubt because of the hard and unrecognized work of David Bowman.

"What about VAT?"

"The what?" Nose rub.

"Never mind."

On her way out the least desirable event took place: Mr. Tobbinz returned.

"Crikey, are you leaving already, my fair maiden?" Hermione did not dignify this with an answer.

"But I didn't have a chance to talk with you! Don't forget to find a husband, you don't wanna end up becoming a spinster!" he continued to say to her retreating back. As she was approaching the lift, she heard the final accord, "Your clock is ticking! Tick, tick!"

Acromantula pills, indeed, she though in exasperation, her nails digging into her palms. I should get a compensation for this obnoxiousness.

As the lift doors were closing she saw a red-faced David ushering the Head of the Department inside the Office.

On her arrival to the house Hermione immediately went up to Snape's lab, assuming by default that he was there, to relate him everything she had found out from her exploratory trip to the Ministry. Naturally he was there and without further preamble they descended to the Library and took seats at now impeccably immaculate table. He listened attentively; the 'tribute' caused him to raise an eyebrow but to her disappointment he didn't comment, merely shook his head in a resigned fashion. As he was going through the forms Hermione observed him covertly trying to read his mood with no apparent success; his impassive face was unobscured by his hair gathered back with a simple black hair tie, he was dressed as casually as before, his left forearm was still wrapped in silky black band.

Snape finished reading and finally glanced up at three brand new notebooks lying in the centre of the table. Slowly he took the first one, Slytherin green in colour it was. He looked up at her with an arched eyebrow, she kept her face perfectly blank. He took the second one which was the same as the first one, and the third one at last. Hermione held her breath for his unpredicted reaction. This notebook was custom made; she had spent time and effort and extra money to persuade the designer to make it in less than a week. She wasn't sure why she did it especially not knowing the outcome, but when the idea sprang to her mind she just couldn't dispense with it. On the dark green leather cover the yellow gleaming words A satisfied customer — we should have him stuffed! were engraved and below the Fawlty towers in darker yellow. There was what seemed like an overly extended silence during which she tried not to squirm in her chair.

He looked up, his eyes crinkled as he spoke, "I must say, Miss Granger, this is very spot on. This show was my first interaction with the television and I remember it vividly. Although I didn't know you had an interest in such trivial things." His eyes were glinting.

She smiled hesitantly surprised at his knowledge of the old Muggle TV programme. "I can say the same about you, Mr. Snape. But the quote seemed oddly suitable."

"Indeed," he agreed bushing the cover with his fingertips. As a child she used to watch it with her parents, it was the time spent peacefully together, though there were some jokes the meaning of which she got only years later. The familiar feelings of sorrow and guilt rose in her chest as she thought about her childhood; she suppressed them firmly as she usually did.

Thus encouraged, Hermione cleared her throat deciding it was a high time to start with the most difficult part. "Now there is a matter with the name of your company," she began in the same business-like tone she used before.

His posture remained absolutely the same, but something in his eyes abruptly shut down and once again they were as expressionless as ever. Dear me, that's how Occlumency looks from the outside, she thought inanely.

"What about the name?" Snape asked calmly, but she could already sense the warning in his voice. He put the notebooks at their initial position. "It's Ignis Avis, the end of story."

"I don't think it's that easy." Her cautious reply caused him to raise an eyebrow in suspicion.

"You see, I was informed that there are already three companies with this name and they also have a phoenix for a trademark," she elaborated with the volume of her voice gradually decreasing and his expression becoming grimmer. "Some say it's for luck, but I'm sure you don't believe in that," she added trying to remedy the situation. It hadn't worked.

"Well, in that case, I really don't care," he drawled, his eyes turned to slits for a moment.

"But the name has to be original. It's the face of the company, its very first representation; the first line of attack so to speak," she insisted gathering up her courage. "If the name isn't unique, clients might confuse it, worse than that the Ministry itself might confuse it too. And don't tell me it's the subtle reference for phoenix."

"What it's the reference to is not your business, and I don't recall the part in the contract saying that your exceedingly wise opinion counted here," he replied.

"It's also not desirable to have the word 'fire', doesn't matter in what language, in the name of the company which deals mainly with potions. People might get the wrong idea about, ah, the quality of the products," she insisted trying to present reasonable arguments.

"You overestimate the average person's knowledge of Latin, Granger, to whom it would be just two nice sounding words," Snape huffed scowling at her.

"People are no logs either, Snape, they can easily look it up in the dictionary. Also, you don't want a name they would forget after two seconds because it's too foreign. I never thought you're the one to choose sublimity over efficiency anyway."

"Tell me about sublimity, you Gryffindors must know all about it," he bit back finally losing the remains of his patience, his words clad in sarcasm. "What with killing basilisks with ancient swords and witlessly, and of course selflessly, charging to save some useless criminal endangering the security of the whole organization which was just trying to get you safely through puberty." His voice was becoming quieter and quieter until she had to strain her ears to hear him. She stared at him with her mouth slightly open at that 180 degrees change of the argument. Was he attempting to distract her? Well, she refused to be distracted.

"Why is that name so important to you, Snape, that you'd rather see your own business suffer than think of another one? Problem with imagination?" She regretted the rash words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

His lips thinned, his eyes became slits, and he hissed, "I assure you, Granger, I'm not the one with impaired imagination here. So, do not presume to understand everything, insufferable know-it-all." Her eyes widened, she was stunned into silence but not for long. At one time that remark would have made her cry, now she was just angry. It was far from the most insulting thing she had been called; in fact, it seemed ridiculously childish compared to Mudblood or some explicitly inventive terms Muggles, distressed with close touch of magic, could use freely.

"Oh, so we're back to basics, aren't we? Name calling. Well, I'm not going to participate in that. By the way it's quite unfair of you to accuse me of that. You're no worse a bookworm than I am, and don't even try to deny it."

"Yes, but I use that knowledge I receive differently. You just pile it up in your mind with no apparent purpose," he sneered.

"Sorry, I am unable do the brilliant things you do, genius. In fact, why are you even arguing with me about the name of your company?" she asked indignantly. "By Jove you could just write it down right now. Go on, do it, don't be shy," she recklessly baited. His teeth bared in the expression that had nothing to do with a smile. Amazing whiteness, she wondered absurdly, he must have visited some talented American dentist.

Strangely they were still seated at the table, nobody attempted to stand up and gesticulate to emphasize the point; and the volume of the argument only decreased with time. Her hands were clasped on her lap, her back rigid.

Snape lifted his right hand to reach for the forms but was unable to because it tremored, he looked at the offending limb apparently like her only now noticing the problem. He clenched and unclenched his hand forcibly; however, it didn't remedy the situation, the tremors continued. He lifted his other hand which also tremored. His jaw worked, he glared at her accusingly as it was her fault. She just stared at him with her hand over her mouth not knowing how to react.

"We'll talk later," he muttered through gritted teeth, then stood up abruptly and strode away with his hands clenched.

In the reassuring silence she breathed deeply trying to calm down. Slowly she put her elbows on the table and put her forehead in her cupped hands. Well, that was one piece of honest conversation that went… precisely as expected, was her last thought before she attempted to empty her mind.

Author's note: Well, I hope you enjoyed it.